Mercy Thompson Book 1 - Page 62

He stood up on the bench seat, and the top of his back brushed the roof of the van. Then he stretched and hopped off the seat and onto the gravel road without touching the floor of the van. He deliberately moved like a big dog, a little clumsy and slow. His thick winter coat and the night provided some camouflage of the differences that no amount of mixed breeding could account for.

Werewolves' front legs are built more like a bear's or a lion's than a timber wolf's. Like the former two, werewolves used their claws to rip and tear flesh, and that means their musculature is different, too.

The policeman whistled and walked around him. He was careful to keep the flashlight out of Samuel's eyes. "Look at you," he murmured. "Not an ounce of fat and every bit of two hundred pounds."

"You think so? I've never weighed him," I said. "I know he's heavier than I am, and that's good enough for me."

The policeman gave me back my license and a.s.sorted papers without actually looking at any of them. "I'd still be happier if you ran in the daylight, ma'am. In any case, this park is closed at night-safer for everyone."

"I appreciate your concern for my safety," I said earnestly, patting the werewolf lightly on the head.

The police officer moved his car, but he waited while I closed Samuel back into the van and followed me out of the park as far as the on-ramp to the highway-so I couldn't stop to put my socks on. I hate going barefoot in leather tennis shoes.

Samuel levered his bulk up on the front pa.s.senger seat and stuck his head out the window, flattening his ears against the tear of the wind.

"Stop that," I chided him. "Keep all your body parts in the van."

He ignored me and opened his mouth, letting his tongue get swept back like his ears. After a while, he pulled his head in and grinned at me.

"I've always wanted to do that," I confessed. "Maybe when this is all over, you can drive, and I'll stick my head out the window."

He turned toward me and let his front paws rest on the floor between our seats. Then he stuck his nose in my midriff and whined.

"Stop that!" I shrieked, and slapped his muzzle. "That's just rude."

He pulled his head back and gave me a quizzical look. I took the opportunity to glance at my speedometer and make sure I wasn't speeding.

"You're going to cause a wreck, Samuel Llewellyn Cornick. Just you keep your nose out of my business."

He snorted and put one paw on my knee, patted it twice-then stuck his nose in my belly b.u.t.ton again. He was quicker than my slap this time, withdrawing all the way back onto his seat.

"My tattoo?" I asked, and he yipped-a very ba.s.sy yip. Just below my naval I had a pawprint. He must have seen it while I was scrambling into my clothes. I have a couple on my arms, too.

"Karen, my college roommate, was an art major. She earned her spending money giving people tattoos. I helped her pa.s.s her chemistry cla.s.s, and she offered to give me one for free."

I'd spent the previous two years living with my mother and pretending to be perfect, afraid that if I weren't, I'd lose my place in my second home as abruptly as I had the first. It would never have occurred to me to do something as outrageous as getting a tattoo.

My mother still blames Karen for my switching my major from engineering to history-which makes her directly responsible for my current occupation, fixing old cars. My mother is probably right, but I am much happier as I am than I would have been as a mechanical engineer.

"She handed me a book of tattoos that she had done and about halfway through was a guy who'd had wolf tracks tattooed across his back from one hip to the opposite shoulder. I wanted something smaller, so we settled on a single pawprint."

My mother and her family had known what I was, but they'd asked no questions, and I'd hidden my coyote self from them, becoming someone who fit their lives better. It had been my own choice. Coyotes are very adaptable.

I remember staring at the man's back and understanding that, although I must hide from everyone else, I could not hide from myself anymore. So I had Karen put the tattoo on the center of my body, where I could protect my secret and it could keep me whole. I'd finally started to enjoy being who I was instead of wis.h.i.+ng that I were a werewolf or human so I'd fit in better.

"It's a coyote pawprint," I said firmly. "Not a wolf's."

He grinned at me and stuck his head out the window again; this time his shoulders followed.

"You're going to fall out," I told him.

Chapter 12

"The pack is coming," I told Samuel, as we cruised slowly by Warren's house for a look-see. "I don't know how much you remember from while you were changing, but Warren called for help. Adam was sleeping and couldn't be woken up-" With Samuel safe, I could worry about Adam. "Is that normal?"

Samuel nodded, and I felt a wave of relief. Clearing my throat, I continued, "Since we can't trust the pack, I think Warren is going to try to keep them away from Adam-which would be fine except that Darryl is Adam's second." Which meant a fight.

Samuel told me once that, despite all the physical benefits they gain, the average life span of a werewolf from his first Change until his death is ten years. People, like my old friend Dr. Wallace, who had to be eliminated within their first year, accounted for some of that. But most werewolves died in dominance fights with other wolves.

I didn't want Warren or even Darryl to die tonight-and if one of them did, it would be my fault. Without my flash of intuition or paranoia that there was something wrong with the pack, Warren wouldn't have been trying to keep Darryl away from Adam.

Richland was quiet, but both sides of the street on Warren's block were solid with parked cars. I recognized Darryl's 67 Mustang as I pa.s.sed it: the pack was already here. I parked a block away and jogged back with Samuel at my side.