Elizaveta had come through for him again, as she always had.
So now he knew that Mercy was alive.
Eyes closed, heart pounding, Adam pressed his body back into the leather chair. Mercy had even rescued herself from the monsters. But now she was lost and alone somewhere in Europe. Both he and his wolf found that unacceptable—but much, much better than knowing that she was bleeding and taken by vampires, which was all he’d had before.
The monster inside him didn’t want to fly to Italy and treat with a vampire. It wanted to go to Italy and kill all the vampires. All of them everywhere. Then find Mercy, take her home, and barricade her in their home so that no one else could take her from them. Part of Adam’s trouble in bringing the wolf under control was that he pretty much felt the same way. Only his intellect could see how disastrous that might be. Still, his heart fought on the side of the monster.
Elizaveta—he knew because he could smell the faint whiff of her scent, a blend of tea-tree oil and herbs—kissed his forehead. Then she stood up and said, “I am an old woman, and this has tired me.”
“And hurt you,” he said, opening his eyes to look up at her.
Witchcraft was powered by pain, the witch’s or someone else’s. She had dug a knife into her scarred forearm and cut a slice of skin. When she’d burned it in the incense, she’d had to grit her teeth—as if burning her flesh had done even more damage to her.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
“Don’t fret, Adya,” she said. “A little pain, and it is gone. Pain and I are old friends. I am going to go use one of the back rooms and sleep on the couch.”
Mercy was scared of the old witch—as she should be. Elizaveta was dangerous. Her own family was terrified of her. But she reminded Adam of his mother—her accent, the way she smelled, her turns of phrase—and he couldn’t be afraid of her.
“Sweet dreams,” he said, and she smiled at him with her eyes.
No one spoke until she left the room.
“So what did you learn?” Stefan asked.
“Has Bonarata harmed Mercy?” asked Marsilia.
Adam realized that he didn’t know—and that set the wolf off again. He gritted his teeth and fought for control. If Bonarata had done something to Mercy, he would have known it. She was all right. Tired. Sad. But defiant—even toward him—and funny. She was all right.
“Adam?” asked Marsilia.
“Leave him be,” growled Honey. “He needs a moment.”
—
HONEY HAD NOT BEEN HAPPY THAT ADAM HAD CHOSEN her to travel with vampires. She didn’t have much experience with them—and that’s how she’d preferred it.
He’d explained that he needed her because the Lord of Night was addicted to werewolf blood—and preferred females to a degree that was pretty rare in a creature as old as he was. Most predators became quite practical about their food after a few centuries. Adam intended to use Honey, if he could, to distract Bonarata. He trusted her to be able to defend herself from the Lord of Night if everything went sideways.
To prove that no matter how old Adam got he would never understand women, telling Honey he was using her as bait for the nastiest vampire on the planet made her happier with his decision.
“It really isn’t just Mercy,” she’d said.
“What isn’t just Mercy?”
“The reason that my status in the pack has risen,” she said. “I thought it was just Mercy who was behind the shake-up in the pack organization.”
“No, Honey,” he’d told her. “It is you. It always has been you.”
“Bonarata has a pet werewolf,” Honey said.
“I know.” He waited for her to elaborate, because Honey didn’t do much casual talk.
“Lenka,” she said. “I didn’t know her very well, but she and Peter were lovers before I met him. His first, as human or werewolf. They weren’t in love, either of them, but he liked her, even after she picked her Alpha instead of Peter. It sent him wandering, though, until he found my pack. And me. I always figured I owed her for that.”
Adam put a hand on her shoulder. Werewolves need contact more than humans do. It had taken him a long time to understand how important touch was, but he didn’t forget it now.
“She was strong,” Honey said in a low voice. “Strong and brave and true. She had a moral compass that always pointed north. She was like Mercy in that, but without the sense of humor—Lenka took herself and the world very seriously.”
Honey closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his hand. “When Bonarata took her, we were in Russia. Peter was restless, and he liked to travel.”
Submissive wolves—and their mates—were welcome in any pack they chose to honor with their presence. Alpha werewolves practically needed a treaty drawn up to move around. Only Mercy’s kidnapping meant he didn’t have to bother with the politics that were usually a basic part of any travel plans he made.
“We didn’t hear about it for almost a decade,” Honey said. “How Bonarata killed the whole pack—Peter’s first pack. Most of the pack, anyway. He didn’t kill Zanobi or Lenka, and we heard how that was a lot worse. Peter was wild.” Her breathing was labored, as if it hurt to draw in air and let it out.
But she didn’t say anything about why Peter hadn’t done something—or if he’d tried and what had happened. Knowing Peter as he had, Adam couldn’t believe that Peter hadn’t tried something.
“Will Bonarata know you?” Adam asked.
“No,” she said. “We never met.”
Honey had pulled away from his touch then. She wiped her eyes with her thumbs, and he pretended not to see. She looked away for a moment, then met his eyes. “You think I can do this? I don’t know anything about vampires.”
“I think,” said Adam slowly, “that you’ve never let anyone down in your life. You won’t fail for any reason other than that old vampire is just too powerful or too smart—or because the rest of us fail you. I honestly believe that you are our best hope for winning.”
After a moment, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”
Bonarata had sent the second e-mail by then, the one Marsilia had predicted. It had come very early in the morning, just before the vampires retired for the day. The e-mail had been . . . a real piece of fiction.
Bonarata had been coming to visit Marsilia when he’d happened upon a terrible wreck. The mate of the oh-so-famous Adam Hauptman was dying from a tragic car accident. He had scooped her up and taken her to his home, where the healer in his employ had fixed her up. Having done so, he was concerned lest more harm come her way—as her rescuer he felt some responsibility for her continued safety. He therefore invited both Marsilia and Adam to come to Milan and convince him that Mercedes would be safe in their care. He allowed them two people each as well as the pilot and copilot of the airplane.
Wasn’t that just swell of him? The problem was, the Lord of Night really was powerful enough that it was necessary to play his game as long as he was willing to avoid outright attack. Adam hadn’t just taken Marsilia’s word about that—he’d called Charles. And information wasn’t the only thing he’d called Charles for.
“I need a pilot,” Adam told the Marrok’s son, after absorbing everything that Charles knew about the Master of Milan. They both knew he was asking if Charles would be that pilot.
“Da says I can’t do it.” The edge in his voice told Adam that Charles wasn’t happy about that. Adam didn’t even ask how Bran had found out about Mercy. Adam’s pack knew, and someone would have called the Marrok to keep him informed. The Columbia Basin Pack might no longer be affiliated with the Marrok—but habit was a difficult thing.
Charles continued speaking. “He is keeping his distance from you to save us all, he said. Too many people know me. He is right about that. He said that it’s likely Bonarata expects me to be your pilot; otherwise, he wouldn’t have made such a direct reference to the flight crew. People like him don’t pay any attention to the staff.”