Blood Bound mt-2 Page 6

  I shook my head. "Stupid white belt."

  There were a couple of men sitting on the battered-but-comfortable chairs in the corner of the office. At my words, one of them leaned forward and said, "I'd rather fight a dozen black belts at the same time than one white belt."

  He was so well-groomed that he was handsome, despite a nose that was a little too broad and deep set eyes.

  I brightened my smile like any good businesswomen, and said, "Me, too," with feeling.

  "I'm guessing you'd be Mercedes Thompson?" he asked, coming to his feet and walking up to the counter with his hand outstretched.

  "That's right," I took his hand, and he shook mine with a firm grip that would have done credit to a politician.

  "Tom Black." He smiled, showing pearly white teeth. "I've heard a lot about you. Mercedes the Volkswagen mechanic."

  Like I hadn't heard that one before. Still, he didn't sound obnoxious, just mildly flirtatious.

  "Nice to meet you." I wasn't interested in flirtation so I turned my attention back to Gabriel. "Any problems this morning?"

  He smiled. "With Zee here? Listen, Mercy, my mother asked me to ask if you want the girls here this weekend to clean again."

  Gabriel had a generous handful of siblings, all girls-the youngest in preschool and the oldest just entering high school-and all supported by their widowed mother who worked as a dispatcher for the Kennewick Police Department, not a high paying career. The two oldest girls had been coming in on a semi-regular basis and cleaning the office.

  They did a good job, too. I hadn't realized that the film on my front window had been grease-I thought Zee had had some sort of treatment done to it to block out the sun.

  "Sounds fine to me," I told him. "If I'm not here, they can use your key."

  "I'll tell her."

  "Good. I'm going to head into the garage and stay out of sight today-don't want to scare away customers."

  I gave Tom Black a brisk nod, that was friendly but aloof. Then stopped to say a few words to the other man who was waiting. He was an old customer who liked to chat. Then I slipped into the garage before someone new could come in.

  I found Zee lying on his back under a car, so all I could see of him was from the belly down.

  Siebold Adelbertsmiter, my former boss, is an old fae, a metalworker, which is unusual for the fae who mostly can't handle cold iron. He calls himself a gremlin, though he is a lot older than the name, coined by flyboys in WWI. I have a degree in history, so I know useless things like that.

  He looked like a fiftyish, thinish (with a little potbelly), grumpy man. Only the grumpy part was true. Thanks to glamour, a fae can look like anyone they want to. Glamour is the thing that makes something a fae — as opposed to, say, a witch or werewolf.

  "Hey, Zee," I said when he showed no sign of noticing my presence. "Thanks for coming out this morning."

  He rolled himself out from under the car and frowned deeply at me. "You need to stay away from the vampires, Mercedes Athena Thompson." Like my mother, he only used my full name when he was angry with me. I'd never tell him, but I've always kind of liked the way it sounds when pronounced with a German accent.

  He took in my face in a single glance and continued. "You should be home sleeping. What is the use of having a man in the house, if he cannot take care of you for a while?"

  " Mmm," I said. "I give up. What's the use of having a man in the house?"

  He didn't smile, but I was used to that.

  "Anyway," I continued briskly, though I kept my voice down so the people in the office couldn't hear anything. "There are two werewolves and a dead vampire in my house and I thought it was full enough to do without me for a while."

  "You killed a vampire?" He gave me a look of respect-which was pretty impressive since he was still lying on his back on the creeper.

  "Nope. The sun did. But Stefan should recover in time to face Marsilia tonight."

  At least I was assuming it would be tonight. I didn't know much about the vampires, but the werewolves' trials tend to convene on the spot rather than six months after a crime. They are also over in a matter of hours, sometimes minutes, rather than months. Can't convince your pack Alpha you are less trouble to him alive than dead? Too bad. Pack law, necessarily brutal, was one of those nasty things that Bran was keeping under wraps for a while.

  "Samuel told me you are going to be at a trial for the vampire."

  "He called you," I said, outraged. "What did he do? Ask you to call him when I got here safely?"

  Zee smiled at me for the first time and got out his cell phone. With oil-stained fingers he punched in my number. "She's here," he said. "Made it fine."

  He hung up without waiting for a reply and widened his smile further as he dialed another number. I knew that one, too. But in case I'd missed it, he used names. "Hello, Adam," he said. "She's here." He listened for a moment; I did too, but he must have had the volume turned down low because all I could hear was the rumble of a male voice. Zee's smile turned into a malevolent grin. He looked at me and said, "Adam wants to know what took you so long?"

  I started to roll my eyes, but it made the sore half of my face hurt worse so I stopped. "Tell him I had wild, passionate sex with a complete stranger."

  I didn't stick around to hear if Zee passed my message on or not. I snatched my coveralls off their hook, and stalked into the bathroom.

  Werewolves are control freaks, I reminded myself as I dressed for work. Being control freaks keeps them in charge of their wolf-which is a good thing. If I didn't like the side effects, I shouldn't hang out with werewolves. Which I wouldn't be doing if I didn't have one living with me and another living on the other side of my back fence.

  Alone in the bathroom though, I could admit to myself that even though I was really, really angry… I'd have been disappointed if they hadn't checked up on me. How's that for illogical?

  When I came out, Zee gave me the next repair job. I may have bought the business from him, but when we worked together, he still gave the orders. Part of it was habit, I suppose, but a larger part of it was that, though I am a good mechanic, Zee is magic. Literally and figuratively.

  If it weren't for his tendency to get bored with easy stuff, he'd never have hired me. Then I'd have had to take my liberal arts degree and gotten a job at McDonald's or Burger King like all the rest of the history majors.

  We worked companionably in silence for a while until I ran into a job that required four hands rather than two.

  While I turned the rachet, Zee, who was holding a part in place for me, said, "I took a peek under that cover"-he nodded toward the corner of the shop where my latest restoration project lay in wait.

  "Pretty, isn't she?" I said. "Or at least she will be when I get her fixed up." She was a 1968 Karmann Ghia in almost pristine condition.

  "Are you going to restore it or make a street rod?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Her paint is still the original and there's only a little cracking on the hood. I hate to mess with it unless I have to. If I can get her running well with original parts and Kim can stitch up the seats, I'll leave it at that."

  There are three groups of old car enthusiasts: people who think a car should be left as much original as possible; the ones who restore it better than factory; and the people who gut them and replace the brakes, engine, and suspension with more modern equipment. Zee is firmly in the latter group.

  He is not sentimental-if something works better, that's what you should use. I suppose forty or fifty years doesn't mean the same thing to him as it does to the rest of us-one person's antique is another's rusting hulk.

  Since a good part of my income comes from restoring rusting hulks, I'm not picky. I have a partnership with an upholstery genius, Kim, and a painter who also likes to drive around and show the cars so we can sell them. After deducting the actual material cost of the restore and the shows, we split the profits according to hours spent on the project.

  "Air-cooled takes a lot of upkeep,
" Zee said.

  "Someone who wants an original condition Ghia won't care about that," I told him. He grunted, unconvinced, and went back to his job.

  Gabriel took my Rabbit out to get sandwiches, then sat in the garage to eat with us. I uncovered the Ghia, and the three of us ate and debated the best thing to do with the car until it was time to go back to work.

  "Zee," I asked as he raised a Passat in the air to take a look at the exhaust.

  He grunted as he tapped with his index finger the exhaust pipe where it was badly dented, just in front of the first muffler.

  "What do you know about sorcerers?"

  He stopped his tapping and sighed. "Old gremlins go out of their way to stay away from demon-hosts, and it's been a while since humans believed enough in the Devil to sell their souls to him."

  I got a little light-headed. It wasn't that I didn't believe in evil-quite the opposite. I've had ample proof of God, so I accepted that His opponent exists, too. I just didn't particularly want to know that someone who made a deal with Satan was lurking ten miles from my home killing hotel maids.

  "I thought it was a just a demon," I said faintly.

  " Ja don't know what this supposed to be, check later," he said; then he turned and saw my face. "Devil, demon-English is an imprecise language in these things. There are things that serve the Great Beast of Christian scripture. Greater and lesser spirits, demons or devils, and they all serve evil. The greater servants are bound away from our world, but can be invited in-just as vampires cannot enter a home without an invitation."

  "All right," I took a deep breath. "What else do you know.»

  Zee reached up and put his hand on the pipe. "Not much, Liebchen. The few men I've encountered who claimed to be sorcerers were nothing but demon-bait when I met them."

  "What's the difference?"

  "The difference is who's holding the reins." The exhaust pipe began glowing a bright cherry red under Zee's hand. "Demons serve only one master well, and those who forget it tend to become enslaved rather quickly. Those who remember might stay in control a while longer."

  I frowned at him. "So all the demon-possessed start out as sorcerers?"

  Zee shook his head. "There are many kinds of invitations, intentional and not. Sorcerer, demon-possessed, it doesn't matter. Eventually the demon is in control."

  The exhaust pipe made a loud noise and popped back out to its proper shape. Zee met my gaze. "This creature is playing with the vampires, Mercy. Stay out of its business. The seethe is better equipped to deal with such than you are."

  By five thirty, I was elbow deep in a Vanagon tune-up so I had Gabriel close up the office and tried to send both him and Zee off. My battered face made them more reluctant than usual to leave me working alone, but I persuaded them to go at last.

  While Zee had been there, I'd kept the big air conditioner running and the garage doors shut, but, unlike the werewolves, I enjoy the summer heat. So once I was alone, I turned off the cool-air and opened up the bay doors.

  "Does that help?"

  I looked up and saw that the customer from earlier in the day was standing in the open bay door.

  "Tom Black," he reminded me.

  "Does what help?" I asked wiping off my hands and taking a sip of water from the bottle balanced precariously on the car's bumper.

  "Humming," he said. "I was wondering if it helped."

  There was something about the way he said it that bothered me-as if he was a good friend of mine instead of someone I'd exchanged a few words with. His earlier remark about white belts didn't make him a martial artist, but his body movement as he walked into my garage did.

  I kept my expression polite, though the coyote in me wanted to lift my lip. He was invading my territory.

  "I hadn't realize I was humming," I told him. "This is the last car I'm working on today." I knew it wasn't his car, because it was one I worked on regularly. "If Gabriel didn't call you, then we probably won't get to your car until tomorrow."

  "How did a pretty woman like you get to be a mechanic?" he asked.

  I tilted my head so I could see him better out of my good eye. Gabriel had told me that if I had kept an ice pack on it longer it wouldn't have swollen up so badly. On good days, my looks were passable, today hideous and awful were more apt.

  If we had been on neutral territory, I'd probably have said something like, "Gee, I don't know. How'd a handsome man like you get to be such a pushy bastard?" But this was my place of work and he was a customer.

  "Same as all the other pretty mechanics, I expect," I said. "Listen, I have to get this finished up. Why don't you call tomorrow morning and Gabriel will have an estimate for when you can expect your car to be done."

  I walked forward as I said it. The motion should have pushed him back, but he held still so I had to stop or get too close to him. He smelled of coconut sunscreen and cigarette smoke.

  "Actually I picked my car up earlier," he said. "I came by tonight to talk to you."

  He was human, but I saw the same predatory look in his eyes that the wolves had when they were off on a hunt. Being in my own garage had made me feel too safe and I'd let myself get too close to him. I had weapons a plenty in the form of wrenches and crowbars, but they were all out of reach.

  "Did you?" I said. "Why?"

  "I wanted to ask you how you liked dating a werewolf. Did you know he was a werewolf when you started dating him? Did you have sex with him?" His voice acquired a sudden razor edge.

  It was such a shift in topic that I blinked stupidly at him for a moment.

  This man didn't smell like a fanatic-hatred has its own scent. When Zee first came out, there was a group of people who'd marched around the shop with placards. Some of them came out one night and spray painted fairyland in angry red letters across my garage doors.

  Tom Black smelled intense-as if the answers to his questions really mattered to him.

  Outside, a small-block Chevy 350 pulled into my lot and I recognized its purr. With the last of my trepidation gone, I realized there was only one reason for the questions he'd asked.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "Hell," I said in disgust. "You're a reporter."

  Some of the werewolves coming out deliberately attracted attention on the Marrok's orders: heroes from the military or police and fire departments and a couple of movie stars. Adam was not one of them. I could see why someone would send a reporter out sniffing around him, though. Not only was he an Alpha, but he was a pretty Alpha. I couldn't wait to hear what Adam would say when he found out someone was poking into his love life.

  "I can make you rich," Black told me, encouraged, I think, by my smile. "When I'm through with you, you'll be as much of a celebrity as he is. You can sell your story to the networks."

  I snorted. "Go away."

  "Problems, Mercy?" The deep, Texas drawl caused the reporter to spin on his heel. I guess he hadn't heard Warren and his companion walk into the garage.

  "No problems," I told Warren. "Mr. Black was just leaving."

  Warren looked like an ad for "Real Western Cowboys," complete with worn boots and battered straw hat. He was entitled: he'd been a real cowboy in the old West when he'd been Changed. He was my favorite of Adam's wolves and beside him was Ben, a recent import from Great Britain — and the leading candidate for my least favorite werewolf. Neither of them had been among the «outed» wolves, not yet. In Ben's case, probably never. He'd narrowly escaped arrest in his native land and had been quietly shipped off to America to disappear.

  The reporter took out his wallet and held out his card. I took it because my mother taught me to be polite.

  "I'll be around," he said. "Call me if you change your mind."

  "I'll do that," I told him.

  Both werewolves turned to watch him leave. Only after his car was well away did they turn their attention back to me.

  "I like what you've done to your face," Ben said, tapping his eye.

  He may have saved my life once and taken a bullet f
or Adam, but that didn't mean I had to like him. It wasn't just that he'd been sent to Adam's pack to keep him from being questioned in connection with a series of violent rapes in London. I believe in innocent until proven guilty. Rather it was the qualities that had caused the London police to look in his direction in the first place: he was a petty, nasty, and violent man. Everything he said came out like a sneer or a threat, all in this nifty British accent. If he were just a hair nicer, I might have talked to him just to hear his voice, like him or not.

  "I wasn't the one who decorated my face, but thanks anyway." I went back to the van to button it up for the night. I'd lost the momentum that was keeping me working, and all I wanted to do was find someplace to sleep. Someplace without a vampire dead in the closet. Damn it. Where was I going to sleep?

  "What are you two doing here?" I asked Warren as I closed the back hatch of the van.

  "Adam said we're to stay with you until you hear from the vampires-he thinks it will be sometime soon after dark. He doesn't want you to face them alone."

  "Don't you have to work tonight?" Warren worked graveyard at an all night gas station/convenience store not too far from my home-he had gotten Samuel a job there when he moved in with me.

  "Nah, quit last week. They had another manager changeover and this one wanted to clean house. So I thought I'd quit before I was fired." He paused then said, "I've been doing some work for Kyle. It pays better part-time than the convenience store did full-time."

  "With Kyle?" I asked hopefully.

  I've known Warren for a long time and had met maybe a dozen of his boyfriends. Most of them hadn't been worth knowing-but I liked Kyle. He was a hotshot lawyer, a terrific dresser, and a lot of fun. They'd been living together for a while when Kyle finally found out Warren was a werewolf. Kyle moved out. I knew they'd dated a few times since, but nothing more serious.

  Warren dropped his eyes. "Mostly just some surveillance and, once, guard duty for a woman who was afraid of her soon-to-be ex-husband."

  "Kyle's afraid of us," said Ben, showing his teeth in a sharp grin.

  Warren looked at him and Ben quit smiling.

  "You've obviously never met Kyle," I told Ben. "Anyone who's been a divorce lawyer as long as Kyle isn't afraid of much."