The Mercy Thompson Collection by Patricia Briggs

Author:Patricia Briggs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.

The pizza place was stuffed full of people and musical instrument cases. I took my glass of pop and Samuel’s beer and went looking for two empty seats while he paid for our food.

After Tumbleweed shut down on Sunday night, their last night, all the performers and all the people who’d put it on apparently gathered together for one last hurrah—and they’d invited Samuel, who’d invited me. They made quite an impressive crowd—and didn’t leave very many empty seats.

I had to settle for an already occupied table with two empty chairs. I leaned down and put my lips near the ear of the man sitting with his back to me. It was too intimate for a stranger, but there was no choice. A human ear wouldn’t have picked up my voice in this din from any farther away.

“Are those seats taken?” I asked.

The man looked up and I realized he wasn’t as much of a stranger as I thought…on two levels. First, he was the one who had complained about Samuel’s Welsh, Tim Someone with a last name that was Central European. Second, he had been one of the men in O’Donnell’s house, Cologne Man, in fact.

“No problem,” he said loudly.

It could be coincidence. There could be a thousand people in the Tri-Cities who wore that particular cologne; maybe it didn’t smell as bad to someone who didn’t have my nose.

This was a man who knew Tolkien’s Elvish and Welsh (though not as well as he thought he did, if he was critical of Samuel’s). Hardly qualifications for a fae-hating bigot. He was more likely one of the fae aficionados who made the owner of the little fae bar in Walla Walla so much money, and had turned the reservation in Nevada into another Las Vegas.

I thanked him and took the seat nearest the wall, leaving the outside one for Samuel. Maybe he wasn’t one of O’Donnell’s Bright Future crowd. Maybe he was the killer—or a police officer.

I smiled politely and took a good look at him. He wasn’t in bad shape, but he was certainly human. He couldn’t possibly have beheaded a man without an ax.

So, not a Bright Futurean, nor a killer. He was either just a man who shared poor taste in cologne with someone who was in O’Donnell’s house, or a police officer.

“I’m Tim Milanovich,” he said, all but shouting to get his voice over the sound of all the other people talking, as he extended his arm carefully around his beer and over his pizza. “And this is my friend Austin. Austin Summers.”

“Mercedes Thompson.” I shook his hand—and the other young man’s hand as well. The second man, Austin Summers, was more interesting than Tim Milanovich.

If he’d been a werewolf, he’d have been on the dominant side. He had the same subtle appeal of a really good politician. Not so handsome that people noticed it, but good-looking in a rugged football player way. Medium brown hair, several shades lighter than mine, and root beer brown eyes completed the picture.

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