Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

start up and took my eyes off the werewolf in time to see the black SUV squeal out of the parking lot and turn toward me. The big car wobbled as the driver fought his speed and his turn. His headlights blinded me momentarily—but I’d already seen my escape route and took it blind.
    He slowed a minute, as if he considered stopping by the body on the street, but then the V-8 roared, and the SUV picked up speed.
    He narrowly avoided hitting the lamppost I’d dodged behind. I couldn’t tell if Mac was in the car or not. I watched the SUV’s taillights until it turned onto the highway and blended in with the traffic there.
    I walked to the werewolf just to be certain—but he was well and truly dead.
    I’d never killed anyone before. He shouldn’t have been dead. Werewolves are hard to kill. If he had bothered to stanch the wound, or if he hadn’t chased me, the wound would have healed before he could bleed out.
    The taste of his blood in my mouth made me ill, and I vomited beside the body until the taste of bile overwhelmed anything else. Then I left him lying in the middle of the road and ran back to the garage. I needed to check on Mac before I took on the task of dealing with the dead werewolf.
    To my relief, Mac was leaning on Stefan’s van when I loped into the parking lot. He held a gun loosely in his hand, the barrel bent.
    â€œMercy?” he asked me, when I approached, as if he expected me to talk.
    I ducked my head once, then darted around the front of the garage where I’d left my clothes. He followed me. But when I shifted back, and he saw that I was naked, he turned his back to let me dress.
    I pulled on my clothing quickly—it was cold out. “I’m decent,” I told him, and he faced me again.
    â€œYou have blood on your chin,” he said, in a small voice.
    I wiped it off with the bottom of my T-shirt. I wasn’t going shopping tonight, so it didn’t matter if I got blood on my clothes. Don’t throw up again, I told myself sternly. Pretend it was a rabbit. It hadn’t tasted like rabbit.
    â€œWhat are you?” he asked. “Are you one of theirs? Where is . . . is the wolf?”
    â€œHe’s dead. We need to talk,” I told him, then paused as I collected my scattered thoughts. “But first we need to get the dead werewolf out of the street. And before that, I guess we should call Adam.”
    I led him back to the office—this time turning on the light. Not that either of us needed it for anything other than comfort.
    He put his hand on top of mine when I reached for the phone. “Who is Adam, and why are you calling him?” he asked.
    I didn’t fight his hold. “The local Alpha. We need to get the body out of the road—unless you want both of us disappeared into some federal laboratory for science to pick over for a few years before they decide they can learn more from us dead than alive.”
    â€œAlpha?” he asked. “What’s that?”
    He was new.
    â€œWerewolves live in packs,” I told him. “Each pack has an Alpha—a wolf strong enough to keep the others under control. Adam Hauptman is the local Alpha.”
    â€œWhat does he look like?” he asked.
    â€œFive-ten, a hundred and eighty pounds. Dark hair, dark eyes. I don’t think he has anything to do with your wolves,” I said. “If Adam wanted you, he’d have you—and he’d have found you a lot sooner. He can be a jerk, but competence is his forte.”
    Mac stared at me, his brown eyes looking yellowish in the fluorescent lighting of my office. Truth to tell, I was surprised he was still in human form because watching one wolf change tends to encourage others. I met his gazecalmly, then dropped my eyes until I was looking at his shoulder instead.
    â€œAll right,” he said, slowly removing his hand. “You saved me tonight—and that thing could have torn you apart. I’ve seen them kill.”
    I didn’t ask when or whom. It was important to take action in the right order to avoid worse trouble. Call Adam. Remove body from the middle of the street where anyone could see it. Then talk. I punched Adam’s number from memory.
    â€œHauptman,” he answered, with just a touch of impatience, on the fourth ring.
    â€œI killed a werewolf at my garage,” I said, then hung up. To Mac’s raised eyebrows I said, “That will get a