Moon Called (17 page)

“All right,” agreed Warren. Having heard Adam, his voice relaxed into its usual lovely south Texas drawl. “How are you today, Mercy?” he asked sweetly, but as he continued his voice became gradually sharper. “And have you heard the startling news that our Alpha's house was broken into and he and his daughter disappeared? That the only clue is the phone message left on the
damned
Russian witch's phone? A message that she has refused to let anyone else listen to? Rumor has it that the message is from you, and no one can find you either.”

Samuel leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and said, “Tell him you'll explain when we get there.”

I smiled sweetly. “I'm doing better all the time, Warren. Thank you for asking. Montana is nice, but I don't recommend a November vacation unless you ski.”

“Haven't put on skis for twenty years,” murmured Warren, sounding a little happier. “Has Adam taken up skiing during this jaunt of yours to Montana?”

“He has skis,” I said, “but his health wasn't up to it this time. I brought back a doctor, but the two of us found out that we need to go out tonight and were wondering if you were up for a little nursing.”

“Glad to,” said Warren. “I don't work tonight, anyway. Did you say Jesse's been kidnapped?”

“Yes. And for right now, we need you to keep it under your hat.”

“I drove by your houses on the way back from work this morning,” Warren said slowly. “There's been a lot of activity there. I think it's just the pack watching, but if you want to avoid them, maybe you all ought to spend the night at my place.”

“You
think
it's the pack?” asked Adam.

Warren snorted. “Who'd call and talk to me about it? Darryl? Auriele called to tell me you were missing, but without you, the women are mostly left out of the business, too. The rest of the pack is supposed to be keeping their eyes out for you—all three of you—but that's all I know. How long do you need to keep them in the dark?”

“For a day or two.” Adam's voice was neutral, but the words would tell Warren all he needed to know.

“Come to my house. I don't think that anyone except you and Mercy even know where I live. I've got enough room for all of you—unless there are a couple of people who haven't spoken up.”

 

Each of the Tri-Cities has its own flavor, and it is in Richland that the frenzy of the dawn of the nuclear age has pressed most firmly. When the government decided to build weapons-grade plutonium here, they had to build a town, too. So scattered over the city are twenty-six types of buildings designed to house the workers for the nuclear industry. Each kind of house was given a letter designation beginning with A and ending Z.

I don't recognize them all, but the big duplexes, the A and B houses, are pretty distinctive. The A houses look sort of like Eastern farmhouses—two-story, rectangular, and unadorned. B houses are single-story rectangles. Most of them have been changed a little from what they once were, porches added, converted from duplexes to single-family dwellings—and back again. But no matter how much they are renovated, they all have a sort of sturdy plainness that overcomes brick facades, decks, and cedar siding.

Warren lived in half an A duplex with a big maple tree
taking up most of his part of the front lawn. He was waiting on his porch when I drove up. When I'd met him, he'd had a sort of seedy I've-been-there-and-done-everything kind of look. His current lover had coaxed him into cutting his hair and improving his dress a little. His jeans didn't have holes in them, and his shirt had been ironed sometime in the not-too-distant past.

I was able to park directly in front of his home. As soon as I stopped, he hopped down the stairs and opened the van's sliding door.

He took in Adam's condition in one swift glance.

“You say this happened night before last?” he asked me.

“Yep.” His accent is thick enough that I sometimes found myself falling into it—even though I'd never been to Texas.

Warren stuck his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on the heels of his battered cowboy boots. “Well, boss,” he drawled, “I expect I ought to feel lucky you're alive.”

“I'd feel lucky if you could see your way to helping me up,” Adam growled. “I wasn't feeling too bad this morning, but this thing's springs leave a lot to be desired.”

“We can't all drive a Mercedes,” I said lightly, having gotten out myself. “Warren, this is Bran's son, Dr. Samuel Cornick, who has come down to help.”

Warren and Samuel assessed each other like a pair of cowboys in a fifties movie. Then, in response to some signal invisible to me, Samuel held out a hand and smiled.

“Good to meet you,” he said.

Warren didn't say anything, but he shook Samuel's hand once and looked as if he took pleasure in the other man's greeting.

To Adam, Warren said, “I'm afraid it'll be easier to carry you, boss. There's the front stairs, then the flight up to the bedrooms.”

Adam frowned unhappily, but nodded. “All right.”

Warren looked a little odd carrying Adam because, while not tall, Adam is wide, and Warren is built more along the lines of a marathon runner. It's the kind of thing werewolves have to be careful not to do too often in public.

I opened the door for them but stayed in the living room while Warren continued up the stairs. Samuel waited with me.

Warren's half of the duplex had more square footage than my trailer, but between the small rooms and the stairways, my house always felt bigger to me.

He'd furnished the house comfortably with garage-sale finds and bookcases filled eclectically with everything from scientific texts to worn paperbacks bearing thrift-store price tags on the spines.

Samuel settled on the good side of the plush sofa and stretched out his legs. I turned away from him and thumbed through the nearest bookcase. I could feel his gaze on my back, but I didn't know what he was thinking.

“Oh, Mercy,” sighed a soft voice. “This one is pretty. Why aren't you flirting with him?”

I looked at the kitchen doorway to see Kyle, Warren's current lover, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen in a typical Kyle pose designed to show off the toned body and tailored clothes.

The pose was deceptive; like Kyle's lowered eyelids and pouty, Marilyn Monroe expression, it was designed to hide the intelligence that made him the highest-paid divorce attorney in town. He told me once that being openly gay was as good for his business as his reputation as a shark. Women in the middle of a divorce tended to prefer dealing with him even over female lawyers.

Samuel stiffened and gave me a hard look. I knew what it meant: he didn't want a human involved in werewolf business. I ignored him; unfortunately Kyle didn't—he read the disapproval and mistook its cause.

“Good to see you,” I said. “This is an old friend visiting from Montana.” I didn't want to get too detailed, because I thought it was up to Warren how much he told Kyle. “Samuel, this is Kyle Brooks. Kyle, meet Dr. Samuel Cornick.”

Kyle pushed himself off the doorframe with his shoulders and strolled into the living room. He stopped to kiss
me on the cheek, then sat down on the sofa as close to Samuel as he could get.

It wasn't that he was interested in Samuel. He'd seen Samuel's disapproval and had decided to exact a little revenge. Warren usually retreated from the frowns of others or ignored them. Kyle was a different kettle of fish entirely. He believed in making the bastards squirm.

I'd like to say that he had a chip on his shoulder, but he had no way of knowing that it wasn't his sexual orientation causing Samuel's reaction. Warren hadn't told him he was a werewolf. It was strongly discouraged to discuss the matter with anyone other than permanent mates—and to werewolves that meant male and female pairings—and the punishment for disobedience was harsh. Werewolves don't have jails. The people who break their laws are either punished physically or killed.

To my relief, Samuel seemed more amused than offended by Kyle's blatant come-on. When Warren came down the stairs, he paused a little at the sight of Kyle's hand on Samuel's thigh. When he started down again, his movements were easy and relaxed, but I could smell the tension rising in the air. He was not pleased. I couldn't tell if he was jealous or worried for his lover. He didn't know Samuel, but he knew, better than most, what the reaction of most werewolves would be.

“Kyle, it might be a good idea to take a few days and check out the state of your house.” Warren's tone was even, but his drawl was gone.

Kyle had his own house, an expensive place up on one of the hills in West Richland, but he'd moved in with Warren when Warren had refused to move in with him. At Warren's words, he stilled.

“I'm hiding someone for a few days,” Warren explained. “It's not illegal, but it won't be safe here until he's gone.”

Samuel might have turned invisible for all the attention Kyle paid him. “Darling, if you don't want me around, I'm gone. I suppose I'll accept Geordi's invitation for Thanksgiving, shall I?”

“It's just for a couple of days,” said Warren, his heart in his eyes.

“This have something to do with what you've been so upset about the past couple of days?”

Warren glanced at Samuel, then nodded once, quickly.

Kyle stared at him for a moment, then nodded back. “All right. A couple of days. I'll leave my stuff here.”

“I'll call you.”

“You do that.”

Kyle left, closing the door behind him gently.

“You need to tell him,” I urged. “Tell him the whole thing or you're going to lose him.” I liked Kyle, but more than that, a blind person could have seen that Warren really loved him.

Warren gave a pained half laugh. “You think he'd be overjoyed to hear that he was sleeping with a monster? Do you think that would make everything okay?” He shrugged and tried to pretend it didn't matter. “He'll leave me one way or another anyway, Mercy. He graduated from Cornell and I work nights at a gas station. Hardly a match made in Heaven.”

“I've never seen that it bothered him,” I said. “He bends over backwards to keep you happy. Seems to me that you might give him a little something back.”

“It's forbidden,” Samuel said, but he sounded sad. “He can't tell him.”

“What do you think Kyle'd do,” I said indignantly. “Tell everyone that Warren's a werewolf? Not Kyle. He didn't get where he is by shooting off his mouth—and he's not the kind of person to betray anyone. He's a lawyer; he's good at keeping secrets. Besides, he's got too much pride to allow himself to be just another tabloid headline.”

“It's all right, Mercy.” Warren patted me on my head. “He hasn't left me yet.”

“He will if you have to keep lying to him,” I said.

The two werewolves just looked at me. Warren loved Kyle, and he was going to lose him because someone had
decided you had to be married before you told your spouse what you were—as if that wasn't a recipe for disaster.

I was pretty certain Kyle loved Warren, too. Why else would he live at Warren's when he had a huge, modern, air-conditioned monstrosity with a swimming pool? And Warren was going to throw it all away.

“I'm going for a walk,” I announced, having had enough of werewolves for one day. “I'll come back when Zee calls.”

I wasn't as civilized as Kyle. I slammed the door behind me and started off down the sidewalk. I was so mad, I almost walked right past Kyle who was just sitting in his Jag, staring straight ahead.

Before I could think better of it, I opened the passenger door and slid in.

“Take us to Howard Amon Park,” I said.

Kyle gave me a look, but his lawyer face was on, so I couldn't tell what he thought, though my nose gave me all sorts of information on what he was feeling: angry, hurt, and discouraged.

What I was about to do was dangerous, no question. It wasn't just a werewolf's obligation to obey his Alpha that kept Warren's mouth shut. If Kyle did start telling everyone about werewolves, he would be silenced. And like me or not, if Adam or Bran found out I was the one who told him, they'd silence me, too.

Did I know Kyle well enough to trust him with our lives?

The Jag slid through the sparse Wednesday-after-work traffic like a tiger through the jungle. Neither Kyle's driving, nor his face, gave any sign of the anger that had raised his pulse rate, or the pain that fueled his anger—but I could smell them.

He pulled into Howard Amon near the south end and parked the car in one of the empty spaces. There were a lot of empty parking slots: November is not a time when most people decide to head to a river park.

“It's cold,” he said. “We could talk in the car.”

“No,” I said, and got out. He was right, it was chilly. The wind was mild that day, but the Columbia added moisture to the air. I shivered in my cocoa-stained T-shirt—or maybe with nerves. I was going to do this and hope I wasn't wrong about Kyle.