Blood Bound

Book 2: Mercy Thompson

by Patricia Briggs

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Action & Adventure; Shifters

Synopsis

The second novel in the #1 New York Times bestselling series.

A demon-riding vampire has gone on a killing spree unlike any the Tri- Cities has ever seen-and the undead and werewolves sent to stop him haven't returned. A coyote is no match for a demon, but shapeshifting mechanic Mercy Thompson is immune to many vampiric powers-and those are her friends who are missing, including the two werewolves circling around her heart. Game on...

Release date: January 30, 2007

Publisher: Ace

Print pages: 304

Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (1) terrific writing (1)

Sample

Praise for

MOON CALLED

“An excellent read with plenty of twists and turns. Her strong and complex characters kept me entertained from its deceptively innocent beginning to its can’t-put-it-down end. Thoroughly satisfying, it left me wanting more.”

—Kim Harrison, New York Times bestselling
author of A Fistful of Charms

“Patricia Briggs always enchants her readers. With Moon Called she weaves her magic on every page to take us into a new and dazzling world of werewolves, shape-shifters, witches, and vampires. Expect to be spellbound.”

—Lynn Viehl, USA Today bestselling
author of the Darkyn series

“A suspenseful read that will have you on the edge of your seat as you burn through the pages. Ms. Briggs weaves paranormal and mystery together so deftly you can’t put the book down. The cast of characters is wonderfully entertaining, and Mercy’s emotional struggles will pull on your heart-strings. For lovers of the paranormal, this is a must-read.”

—Romance Junkies

“A strong story with multidimensional characters…Mercy is, at heart, someone we can relate to.”

—SFRevu

“I’ve never been disappointed by one of [Patricia Briggs’s] books and this one is no exception. Mercy’s world is an alternate universe much like Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake books…or the Buffyverse or more recently the Kim Harrison books…Moon Called ends on a high note and leaves you wanting more. Like a good book should.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Fans of Kim Harrison’s Dead Witch Walking are sure to enjoy this fast paced, creature-feature-packed suspense story. Mercy’s no-nonsense approach and quick wit coupled with a strong story line and interesting subplots make for a thoroughly entertaining read.”

—Monsters and Critics

“Mercy’s a compelling protagonist…The story hums along like a well-tuned engine, keeping the reader engaged through the tumultuous climax.”

—Romantic Times

“A really good story…exciting, interesting, and not always predictable…a fun read for a lazy afternoon.”

—Italics

“Authors the likes of Tanya Huff, Laurell K. Hamilton, and Charlaine Harris have successfully peopled our modern world with vampires, lycanthropes, and other supernatural beings who, to some extent, coexist politely among us mere mortals, living within complex hierarchies, bureaucracies, and clan protocols. Add Patricia Briggs to the list…Moon Called is an exciting new entry in the field of dark urban fantasy…I will be watching for Mercy Thompson’s next adventure with great anticipation.”

—Rambles

“Inventive and fast-paced…Mercy’s first-person narrative voice is a treat throughout…an entertaining book from start to end.”

—Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction

Praise for the novels of Patricia Briggs

RAVEN’S SHADOW

“Patricia Briggs is a talented storyteller who enchants her audience with a spellbinding tale.”

—The Best Reviews

“A great novel for grown-ups. I look forward to the next installment in the series.”

—Crescent Blues

DRAGON BLOOD

“[Patricia Briggs] is an inventive, engaging writer, whose talent for combining magic of all kinds—from spells to love—with fantastic characters should certainly win her a huge following, and a place on many bookshelves.”

—SF Site

“Briggs writes in a fantasy setting, but deals with abuse and love and delivers action and romance.”

—The Alien Online

DRAGON BONES

“Tightly written with fully developed characters and a lavish backdrop, Ms. Briggs’s latest fantasy delivers a thrilling coming-of-age story.”

—Romantic Times

“[Briggs] possesses the all too rare ability to make you fall hopelessly in love with her characters, including the utterly, delightfully inhuman ones.”

—Crescent Blues

“Patricia Briggs is a natural-born storyteller.”

—Midwest Book Review

THE HOB’S BARGAIN

“It is easy to like Patricia Briggs’s novels…Her books are clever, engaging, [and] fast-moving.”

—Romantic Science Fiction & Fantasy

“Briggs has a good ear for dialogue and pace and a marked talent for drawing complex characterizations…This is a love story on many levels, all of which are satisfyingly resolved.”

—Rambles

Ace Books by Patricia Briggs

STEAL THE DRAGON

WHEN DEMONS WALK

THE HOB’S BARGAIN

DRAGON BONES

DRAGON BLOOD

RAVEN’S SHADOW

RAVEN’S STRIKE

MOON CALLED

BLOOD BOUND

blood bound

PATRICIA BRIGGS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With thanks to Barry Bolstad, who let me pick his brain about police work in the Tri-Cities—and to his wife, Susan, who was patient with us while we talked business at lunch. Thanks also to my sister, Jean Matteucci, who double-checked my German. This book wouldn’t be what it is without the contributions over the years of our VWs, VW mechanics, and the folks at opelgt.com. Also a hearty thanks to the usual suspects for service above and beyond the call of duty: Collin and Mike Briggs, Michael and Dee Enzweiler, Ann Peters, Kaye and Kyle Roberson, and John Wilson—and my editor, Anne Sowards. They read it when it was rough, so you don’t have to. Special thanks to my terrific agent, Linn Prentis, who takes care of business so I can write. Most of all I’d like to thank my family, who is getting used to “make your own dinners” and “go away—I have to finish this three weeks ago last Tuesday.” Without these folks this book would never have been written.

As always, all mistakes are the fault of the author.

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

Like most people who own their own businesses, I work long hours that start early in the morning. So when someone calls me in the middle of the night, they’d better be dying.

“Hello, Mercy,” said Stefan’s amiable voice in my ear. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

Stefan had done his dying a long time ago, so I saw no reason to be nice. “I answered the phone at”—I peered blearily at the red numbers on my bedside clock—“three o’clock in the morning.”

Okay, that’s not exactly what I said. I may have added a few of those words a mechanic picks up to use at recalcitrant bolts and alternators that land on her toes.

“I suppose you could go for a second favor,” I continued, “but I’d prefer you hang up and call me back at a more civilized hour.”

He laughed. Maybe he thought I was trying to be funny. “I have a job to do, and I believe your particular talents would be a great asset in assuring the success of the venture.”

Old creatures, at least in my experience, like to be a little vague when they’re asking you to do something. I’m a businesswoman, and I believe in getting to the specifics as quickly as possible.

“At three in the morning you need a mechanic?”

“I’m a vampire, Mercedes,” he said gently. “Three in the morning is still prime time. But I don’t need a mechanic, I need you. You owe me a favor.”

He was right, darn him. He’d helped me when the local Alpha werewolf’s daughter was kidnapped. He had warned me that he’d be collecting in return.

I yawned and sat up, giving up all hope of going back to sleep. “All right. What am I doing for you?”

“I’m supposed to be delivering a message to a vampire who is here without my mistress’s permission,” he said, getting to the point. “I need a witness he won’t notice.”

He hung up without getting an answer, or even telling me when he was coming to pick me up. It would serve him right if I just went back to sleep.

Muttering to myself, I threw on clothing: jeans, yesterday’s T-shirt complete with mustard stain, and two socks with only one hole between them. Once I was more or less dressed, I shuffled off to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of cranberry juice.

It was a full moon, and my roommate, the werewolf, was out running with the local pack, so I didn’t have to explain to him why I was going out with Stefan. Which was just as well.

Samuel wasn’t a bad roommate as such things go, but he had a tendency to get possessive and dictatorial. Not that I let him get away with it, but arguing with werewolves requires a certain subtlety I was lacking at—I checked my wristwatch—3:15 in the morning.

For all that I was raised by them, I’m not a werewolf, not a were-anything. I’m not a servant of the moon’s phases, and in the coyote shape that is my second form, I look like any other canis latrans: I have the buckshot scars on my backside to prove it.

Werewolves cannot be mistaken for wolves: weres are much bigger than their non-preternatural counterparts—and a lot scarier.

What I am is a walker, though I’m sure there once was another name for it—an Indian name lost when the Europeans devoured the New World. Maybe my father could have told me what it was if he hadn’t died in a car wreck before he knew my mother was pregnant. So all I know is what the werewolves could tell me, which wasn’t much.

The “walker” comes from the Skinwalkers of the Southwest Indian tribes, but I have less in common with a Skin-walker, at least from what I’ve read, than I do with the werewolves. I don’t do magic, I don’t need a coyote skin to change shape—and I’m not evil.

I sipped my juice and looked out of the kitchen window. I couldn’t see the moon herself, just her silver light that touched the nighttime landscape. Thoughts of evil seemed somehow appropriate while I waited for the vampire to come for me. If nothing else, it would keep me from falling asleep: fear has that effect on me. I’m afraid of evil.

In our modern world, even the word seems…old fashioned. When it comes out of hiding briefly in a Charles Manson or a Jeffrey Dahmer, we try to explain it away with drug abuse, an unhappy childhood, or mental illness.

Americans in particular are oddly innocent in their faith that science holds explanations for everything. When the werewolves finally admitted what they were to the public several months ago, the scientists immediately started looking for a virus or bacteria that could cause the Change—magic being something their laboratories and computers can’t explain. Last I’d heard Johns Hopkins had a whole team devoted to the issue. Doubtless they’d find something, too, but I’m betting they’ll never be able to explain how a 180-pound man turns into a 250-pound werewolf. Science doesn’t allow for magic any more than it allows for evil.

The devout belief that the world is explainable is both a terrible vulnerability and a stout shield. Evil prefers it when people don’t believe. Vampires, as a not-random example, seldom go out and kill people in the street. When they go hunting, they find someone who won’t be missed and bring them home where they are tended and kept comfortable—like a cow in a feedlot.

Under the rule of science, there are no witch burnings allowed, no water trials or public lynchings. In return, the average law-abiding, solid, citizen has little to worry about from the things that go bump in the night. Sometimes I wish I were an average citizen.

Average citizens don’t get visited by vampires.

Nor do they worry about a pack of werewolves—at least not quite the same way as I was.

Coming out in public was a bold step for the werewolves; one that could easily backfire. Staring out at the moonlit night, I fretted about what would happen if people began to be afraid again. Werewolves aren’t evil, but they aren’t exactly the peaceful, law-abiding heroes that they’re trying to represent themselves as either.

Someone tapped on my front door.

Vampires are evil. I knew that—but Stefan was more than just a vampire. Sometimes I was pretty sure he was my friend. So I wasn’t really afraid until I opened the door and saw what waited on my porch.

The vampire’s dark hair was slicked back, leaving his skin very pale in the moon’s light. Dressed in black from head to heels, he ought to have looked like a refugee from a bad Dracula movie, but somehow the whole outfit, from black leather duster to silk gloves, looked more authentic on Stefan than his usual bright-colored T-shirt and grubby jeans. As if he’d removed a costume, rather than put one on.

He looked like someone who could kill as easily as I could change a tire, with as little thought or remorse.

Then his mobile brows climbed his forehead—and he was suddenly the same vampire who’d painted his old VW bus to look like Scooby’s Mystery Machine.

“You don’t look happy to see me,” he said with a quick grin that didn’t show his fangs. In the dark, his eyes looked more black than brown—but then so did mine.

“Come in.” I backed away from the door so he could; then, because he’d scared me I added snappishly, “If you want welcoming, try stopping by at a decent hour.”

He hesitated on the threshold, smiled at me, and said, “By your invitation.” Then he stepped inside my house.

“That threshold thing really works?” I asked.

His smile widened again, this time I saw a glint of white. “Not after you’ve invited me in.”

He walked past me and into the living room and then turned like a model on a runway. The folds of his duster spread out with his turn in an effect nearly cape-like.

“So how do you like me a la Nosferatu?”

I sighed and admitted it. “Scared me. I thought you eschewed all things gothic.” I’d seldom seen him in anything other than jeans and T-shirts.

His smile widened even more. “Usually I do. But the Dracula look does have its place. Oddly enough, used sparingly, it scares other vampires almost as well as it does the odd coyote-girl. Don’t worry, I have a bit of costuming for you, too.”

He reached under his coat and pulled out a silver-studded leather harness.

I stared at it a moment. “Going to an S&M strip club are you? I didn’t realize there was anything like that around here.” There wasn’t, not to my knowledge. Eastern Washington is more prudish than Seattle or Portland.

He laughed. “Not tonight, sweetheart. This is for your other self.” He shook the straps out so I could see that it was a dog harness.

I took it from him. It was good leather, soft and flexible with so much silver that it looked like jewelry. If I’d been strictly human, no doubt I’d have been taken aback at wearing such a thing. But when you spend a good part of your time running around as a coyote, collars and the like are pretty useful.

The Marrok, the leader of the North American werewolves, insists that all of the wolves wear a collar when they run in the cities, with tags that identify them as someone’s pet. He also insists the names on the tags be something innocuous like Fred or Spot, no Killers or Fangs. It’s safer that way—both for the werewolves and the law-enforcement people who might encounter them. Needless to say, it’s as popular with the werewolves as the helmet law was with the motorcyclists when it first went into effect. Not that any of them would dream of disobeying the Marrok.

Not being a werewolf, I’m exempt from the Marrok’s rules. On the other hand, I don’t like running unnecessary risks either. I had a collar in my kitchen junk drawer—but it wasn’t made of nifty black leather.

“So I’m part of your costume?” I asked.

“Let’s just say that I think this vampire might need more intimidation than most,” he answered lightly, though something in his eyes made me think there was something more going on.

Medea wandered out from wherever she’d been sleeping. Probably Samuel’s bed. Purring furiously, she wound her small self around Stefan’s left leg and then rubbed her face against his boot to mark him as hers.

“Cats and ghosts don’t like vampires,” Stefan said staring down at her.

“Medea likes anything that might feed or pet her,” I told him. “She’s not picky.”

He bent down and scooped her up. Being picked up isn’t Medea’s favorite thing, so she yowled at him several times before going back to purring as she sank her claws into his expensive leather sleeve.

“You aren’t cashing in your favor just to appear more intimidating,” I said, looking up from the soft leather harness to meet his eyes. Unwise with vampires, he himself had told me so, but all I saw was opaque darkness. “You said you wanted a witness. A witness to what?”

“No, I don’t need you in order to appear intimidating,” Stefan agreed softly after I’d stared at him for a few seconds. “But he’ll think intimidation is why I have a coyote on my leash.” He hesitated, and then shrugged. “This vampire has been through here before, and I think that he managed to deceive one of our young ones. Because of what you are, you are immune to many vampiric powers, especially if the vampire in question doesn’t know what you are. Thinking you a coyote, he’s probably not going to waste his magic on you at all. It is unlikely, but he might manage to deceive me as well as he did Daniel. I don’t think he’ll be able to deceive you.”

I’d just learned that little tidbit about being resistant to vampiric magic. It wasn’t particularly useful for me since a vampire is strong enough to break my neck with the same effort I’d put into snapping a piece of celery.

“He won’t hurt you,” Stefan said when I was silent for too long. “I give you my word of honor.”

I didn’t know how old Stefan was, but he used that phrase like a man who meant it. Sometimes he made it hard to remember that vampires are evil. It didn’t really matter, though. I owed him.

“All right,” I said.

Looking down at the harness I thought about getting my own collar instead. I could change shape while wearing a collar—my neck wasn’t any bigger around as a human than as a coyote. The harness, suitable for a thirty-pound coyote, would be too tight for me to regain human form while I wore it. The advantage of the harness though, was that I wouldn’t be attached to Stefan by my neck.

My collar was bright purple with pink flowers embroidered on it. Not very Nosferatu.

I handed the harness to Stefan. “You’ll have to put it on me after I change,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.”

I changed shape in my bedroom because I had to take off my clothes to do it. I’m not really all that modest, a shapeshifter gets over that pretty fast, but I try not to get naked in front of someone who might misread my casual nudity for casualness in other areas.

 

Although Stefan had at least three cars that I knew of, he had apparently taken a “faster way,” as he put it, to my house, so we got in my Rabbit to travel to his meeting.

For a few minutes, I wasn’t certain he was going to be able to get it started. The old diesel didn’t like getting up this early in the morning any more than I did. Stefan muttered a few Italian oaths under his breath, and at last it caught and we were off.

Never ride in a car with a vampire who is in a hurry. I didn’t know my Rabbit could peel out like that. We turned onto the highway with the rpms redlined; the car stayed on all four wheels, but only just.

The Rabbit actually seemed to like the drive better than I did; the engine roughness I’d been trying for years to get rid of smoothed out and it purred. I closed my eyes and hoped the wheels stayed on.

When Stefan took us over the river on the cable bridge that dropped us off in the middle of Pasco he was driving forty miles an hour over the speed limit. Not slowing noticeably, he crossed through the heart of the industrial area to a cluster of hotels that sprang up on the far edge of town near the on-ramp to the highway that headed out toward Spokane and other points north. By some miracle—probably aided by the early hour—we weren’t picked up for speeding.

The hotel Stefan took us to was neither the best nor the worst of them. It catered to truckers, though there was only one of the big rigs parked in the lot. Maybe Tuesday nights were slow. Stefan parked the Rabbit next to the only other car in the lot, a black BMW, despite the plethora of empty parking spaces.

I jumped out of the car’s open window into the parking lot and was hit with the smell of vampire and blood. My nose is very good, especially when I’m a coyote, but like anyone else, I don’t always notice what I’m smelling. Most of the time it’s like trying to listen to all of the conversations in a crowded restaurant. But this was impossible to miss.

Maybe it was bad enough to drive off normal humans, and that’s why the parking lot was nearly empty.

I looked at Stefan to see if he smelled it, too, but his attention was focused on the car we’d parked beside. As soon as he’d drawn my attention to it, I realized the smell was coming from the BMW. How was it that the car could smell more like a vampire than Stefan the vampire did?

I caught another, more subtle, scent that caused my lips to draw away from my teeth even though I couldn’t have said what the bitter-dark odor was. As soon as it touched my nose it wrapped itself around me, clouding all the other scents until it was all I could smell.

Stefan came around the car in a rush, snatched up the leash and tugged it hard to quiet my growl. I jerked back and snapped my teeth at him. I wasn’t a damn dog. He could have asked me to be quiet.

“Settle down,” he said, but he wasn’t watching me. He was looking at the hotel. I smelled something else then, a shadow of a scent soon overcome by that other smell. But even that brief whiff was enough to identify the familiar smell of fear, Stefan’s fear. What could scare a vampire?

“Come,” he said turning toward the hotel and tugged me forward, out of my confusion.

Once I’d quit resisting his pull, he spoke to me in a rapid and quiet voice. “I don’t want you to do anything, Mercy, no matter what you see or hear. You aren’t up to a fight with this one. I just need an impartial witness who won’t get herself killed. So play coyote with all your might and if I don’t make it out of here, go tell the Mistress what I asked you to do for me—and what you saw.”

How did he expect me to escape something that could kill him? He hadn’t been talking like this earlier, nor had he been afraid. Maybe he could smell what I was smelling—and he knew what it was. I couldn’t ask him though, because a coyote isn’t equipped for human speech.

He led the way to a smoked glass door. It was locked, but there was a key-card box with a small, red-blinking, LED light. He tapped a finger on the box and the light turned green, just as if he’d swiped a magnetic card through it.

The door opened without protest and closed behind us with a final sounding click. There was nothing creepy about the hallway, but it bothered me anyway. Probably Stefan’s nerves rubbing off on me. What would scare a vampire?

Somewhere, someone slammed a door and I jumped.

Either he knew where the vampire was staying, or his nose wasn’t hampered by the scent of that otherness like mine was. He took me briskly through the long hallway and stopped about halfway down. He tapped on the door with his knuckles, though I, and so presumably Stefan, could hear that whoever awaited us inside the room had started for the door as soon as we stopped in front of it.

After all the build up, the vampire who opened the door was almost anticlimatic, like expecting to hear Pavarotti sing Wagner and getting Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd instead.

The new vampire was clean shaven and his hair was combed and pulled back into a tidy, short, ponytail. His clothes were neat and clean, though a bit wrinkled as if they’d been in a suitcase—but somehow the overall impression I got was disheveled and filthy. He was significantly shorter than Stefan and much less intimidating. First point to Stefan, which was good since he’d put so much effort into his Prince of Darkness garb.

The stranger’s long-sleeved, knit shirt hung on him, as if it rested on skeleton rather than flesh. When he moved, one of his sleeves slid up, revealing an arm so emaciated that the hollow between the bones of his forearm was visible. He stood slightly hunched, as if he didn’t quite have the energy to straighten up.

I’d met vampires other than Stefan before: scary vampires with glowing eyes and fangs. This one looked like an addict so far gone there was nothing left of the person he had once been, as if he might fade away at any moment, leaving only his body behind.

Stefan, though, wasn’t reassured by the other’s apparent frailty—if anything, his tension had increased. Not being able to smell much around that unpleasant, pervasive bitterness was bothering me more than the vampire who didn’t look like much of an opponent at all.

“Word of your coming has reached my mistress,” Stefan said, his voice steady, if a little more clipped than usual. “She is very disappointed that you did not see fit to tell her you would be visiting her territory.”

“Come in, come in,” said the other vampire, stepping back from the door to invite Stefan through. “No need to stand out in the hallway waking up people who are trying to sleep.”

I couldn’t tell if he knew Stefan was afraid or not. I’ve never been quite sure how well vampires can scent things—though they clearly have better noses than humans do. He didn’t seem intimidated by Stefan and his black clothes, though; instead he sounded almost distracted, as if we’d interrupted something important.

The bathroom door was shut as we walked past it. I pricked my ears, but I couldn’t hear anything behind the shut door. My nose was useless. Stefan took us all the way to the far side of the room, near the sliding glass doors that were all but hidden by heavy, floor-to-ceiling, curtains. The room was bare and impersonal except for the suitcase, which lay closed on top of the chest of drawers.

Stefan waited until the other vampire had shut the door before he said in a cold voice, “There is no one trying to sleep tonight in this hotel.”

It seemed an odd remark, but the stranger seemed to know what Stefan meant because he giggled, cupping a hand coyly over his mouth in a manner that seemed more in keeping with a twelve-year-old girl than a man of any age. It was odd enough that it took me a while to assess Stefan’s remark.

Surely he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. No sane vampire would have killed everyone in the hotel. Vampires were as ruthless as the werewolves in enforcing their rules about not drawing unwanted attention to themselves—and wholesale slaughter of humans would draw attention. Even if there weren’t many guests, there would be employees of the hotel.

The vampire dropped his hand from his face leaving behind a face empty of amusement. It didn’t make me feel any better. It was like watching Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the change was so great.

“No one to wake up?” he asked, as if he hadn’t reacted in any other way to Stefan’s comment. “You might be right. It is still poor manners to keep someone waiting at the door, isn’t it? Which one of her minions are you?” He held up a hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

While Stefan wait