“What do you mean?” I asked.

He sat on the ground beside me and crossed his legs. “Oh, it’s story time,” he said. Then he sat without talking for a long time.

“Yes?” I said.

“You aren’t ready to hear this story,” he said. “So I’m trying to make up another one. But it isn’t working. So let me just say this.” He looked at me, and his face and body were suddenly very serious. “Death is sacred. It is a change . . . and I am the spirit of change. So death is sacred, specifically to me. The Hardesty witches are blood-tied, by bone, by breeding, and by choice, to death magics.” He paused to give greater weight to his words, then said, “Zombies are anathema.”

“I agree,” I said. “I noticed. A lot of the things those witches were doing are anathema. Especially if you consider death sacred. I ask you again, why the Hardesty witches? Why not Elizaveta?”

He snorted. “Can’t get one by you, can I? Let’s just say that they are particularly stupid about the way they have gone about things.” His face twisted and I saw, to my surprise, honest grief. “They have taken something that was pure and holy and besmirched it with their filthy magic.”

“Why don’t you kill them?” I asked.

“I can’t do that,” he said regretfully. “This isn’t like the river monster. These are once-mortal witches whose flesh originated in a different land. They are in your realm of influence, not mine.”

“I don’t understand,” I told him. Unhappy about the “once-mortal.” “Once-mortal” is a bad thing when dealing with a witch, for whom learning is one of the keys of power. Old things have an opportunity to learn a lot.

He patted me on the head. “That’s all right. You just need to kill them. I’ll do the understanding for both of us.”

“Mercy,” Adam’s voice said urgently. “Mercy, wake up.”

9

“You were crying,” Adam said, his voice soft with sleep. He brushed a finger over my cheekbone.

We were both familiar with each other’s nightmares. I couldn’t recall what I’d dreamed about, but sadness still clogged my chest.

I rubbed my head against his hand for comfort, like a cat. A cat.

“It was something about cats,” I told him. “Sherwood’s cat, I think. But I don’t remember it anymore.”

“Okay.” He tucked me against him. “Go back to sleep.”

I glanced at the clock and saw that I’d been sleeping less than an hour. No wonder I felt so tired.

“We need to find those witches,” I said.

Adam nodded. “I hate fighting a defensive battle. All you can do is react, react, react. And you find yourself running around like Chicken Little, never knowing where the next rock will fall from.”

“Adam,” I said slowly, “if you hate being on the defensive—why are you running a security firm? Isn’t security, by definition, always on defense?”

“I hear your logic,” he said. “But I’m not listening.”

“Ethically,” I said, “defense is easier to defend than, say, assassinations or attacking people because they irritate you.”

He growled, then laughed. “Defense is easier to defend.”

“Hey,” I told him, “it’s two in the morning. I’m not responsible for anything I say after midnight.” I frowned. “I have this weird feeling that we need to hunt down those witches really soon.”

He kissed me long and sweet, then pulled me against him and said, again, “Go to sleep, Mercy.” He rolled until I was on top of him, then rumbled, “We need all the sleep we can get if we are going to hunt witches in the morning.”

“Oh goody,” I said.

* * *

? ? ?

We were on our third day of a full house. Werewolves who had human families were still on virtual house arrest for their own protection. That meant breakfast was a big deal and both the kitchen and the dining room table were full.

Adam had intended to work from home this morning. But when Jesse asked him what he wanted for breakfast when he came downstairs from his shower, he said, “No time for breakfast.”

That was a little unusual. Werewolves have to eat a lot. And “hangry” just doesn’t describe what happens to a werewolf when he is hungry.

He saw my look and grinned at me.

“You’re in a good mood today,” I told him.

“You need to eat,” said Jesse. “There is always time for a good breakfast.”

He breezed through the kitchen, kissing her on her cheek and me, lightly, on the mouth. Aiden got a fist bump. Aiden wasn’t big on touch—so we let him decide when he needed a hug.

“I got called in,” Adam told us. “No rest for the wicked. Jesse, there’ll be food where I’m going.”

He glanced around the room and called all the werewolves to him with nothing more than a glance. After a moment, a few other werewolves appeared from other places, so Adam must have used pack bonds.

“Dress up for an official workday,” he told them. “Meet me at the office. ASAP. Food will be served.”

They scattered. No mistaking the rising energy of “something to do at last” that rose from them.

“No hunting witches?” I asked.

“No witch hunts today,” he told me. “I expect to be late.”

“Where at?” Jesse asked.

“Sorry, I can’t tell you.” He paused. Kissed me again. Then said, “Don’t go hunting without me.”

And then he was gone.

“Huh,” said Jesse. “He seems awfully excited.”

We exchanged mutual raised eyebrows.

“Grrr,” said Kelly’s wife, Hannah. “I hate secrets.” She looked at me with lowered brow. “Do you know how much longer we are all stuck here?”

“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I told Adam we had to go witch hunting today.” I waved a hand at all the werewolves bounding out the door wearing Hauptman Security shirts. “You see the result.”

“Just how dangerous are these witches, really?” she asked.

A cold chill ran down my spine—and for a moment I had a glimpse of the dream I’d had last night.

“Very,” I said. “You all stay inside this house today. If we don’t get the situation taken care of in the next few days, maybe we should see about a camping trip or something for everyone until this all blows over.”

I grabbed a piece of toast and a slice of bacon and slunk out. They all knew that my garage had just reopened and I needed to go to work. They would be safe with Joel—and Aiden for that matter—but they weren’t happy.

* * *

? ? ?

Zee and I spent the morning detailing the cars that had gotten soaked the day before yesterday, using my new steam cleaner and the old Shop-Vac I’d brought over from home. For the heck of it, I detailed Stefan’s van, too. It needed it. I tried the steam cleaner on Stuffed Scooby. The best that could be said about that attempt was that he didn’t look any worse. I managed to reattach the spot that had fallen off his back with a little hot glue.

Tad’s hands were still in rough shape, so I’d sent him home to heal up.

“It’s a good thing,” said Zee, cleaning the outside of the driver’s-side window of the car we were working on, “that it’s high summer. These should finish drying out in the sun this afternoon.”

“I’ll remember to thank the witches for picking this time of year when we finally catch up to them,” I said.

I was working on the interior. The car was a couple of decades old, and I might have been the first person to clean the dash. I hoped that the plastic didn’t dissolve in panic at the touch of my cleaner, but I wouldn’t detail a car and send it out with a gunk-covered dash.

Zee paused. “Liebling, this might not be a battle for a little coyote. Black witches are an ugly thing. Maybe leave it for the ugly thing that your pack’s witch has become.”

I shook my head. “No. Adam has promised to protect the government people—and the witches have made it pretty obvious that they intend harm. And they attacked us—here and at my home. We can’t just stand back and hope that Elizaveta takes them out.”

I quit scrubbing for a moment so I could look him in the face. “And what if Elizaveta joins with them like some of her family did?”

“The Gray Lords tell us that no one is to interfere with the witches,” he said.

“They know about them?” I asked.

He nodded. “I told them about the attack here, Mercy, but they already knew that the black witches had attacked Elizaveta.” He scrubbed with a little more emphasis, then said reluctantly, “They are right to tell us not to interfere. These talks are important and it would be too easy to make ourselves look bad if we take on the witches. I may be an outcast—”

“I’m not sure you can be an outcast by choice,” I told him. “They’d take you back in a moment if you wanted to go.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes the English language confuses me.”

“Sure it does,” I said. I took out a Q-tip and started on the vent covers. “Outcast. Cast. Out. That means someone kicked you out. If you leave—then you can be something less pathetic and more adventurous-sounding. Like a rogue.”