Book 1 - Page 29 (1/2)

He gave me a small smile when I didn't step away from the door right away. ”Charles told me that Adam is going to be fine, and Samuel made a fool of himself.”

”Samuel apologized,” I told him, stepping back and letting him into the room.

The kitchenette had a two-burner stove, six-pack-sized fridge, and a small, Formica-covered table with two chairs. After tossing the coat on the bed, Bran set the tray on the table and rearranged the contents until there was a sandwich and cup on each side.

”Charles told me that you didn't have a coat, so I brought one. I also thought you might like something to eat,” he said. ”Then we can discuss what we're to do with your Alpha and his missing daughter.”

He sat down on one side and gestured for me to take the other seat. I sat and realized I hadn't eaten anything all day-I hadn't been hungry. I still wasn't.

True to his word, he didn't talk while he ate and I picked. The sandwich tasted of refrigerator, but the cocoa was rich with marshmallows and real vanilla.

He ate faster than I did, but waited patiently for me to finish. The sandwich was one of those huge subs, built to feed you for a week. I ate part of it and wrapped the rest in the plastic it had come in. Bran had eaten all of his, but werewolves need a lot of food.

My foster mother had liked to say, ”Never starve a werewolf, or he might ask you to join him for lunch.” She'd always pat her husband on the head afterward, even if he was in human form.

I don't know why I thought of that right then, or why the thought tried to bring tears to my eyes. My foster parents were both of them almost seventeen years dead. She died trying to become a werewolf because, she'd told me, every year she got older and he didn't. There are a lot fewer women who are moon called, because they just don't survive the Change as well. My foster father died from grief a month later. I'd been fourteen.

I took a sip of cocoa and waited for Bran to talk.

He sighed heavily and leaned back in the chair, balancing it on two legs, his own legs dangling in the air.

”People don't do that,” I told him.

He raised an eyebrow. ”Do what?”

”Balance like that-not unless they're teenage boys showing off for their girlfriends.”

He brought all four legs back on the flour abruptly. ”Thank you.” Bran liked to appear as human as possible, but his grat.i.tude was a little sharp. I took a hasty sip of cocoa so he wouldn't see my amus.e.m.e.nt.

He put his elbows on the table and folded his hands. ”What are your intentions now, Mercy?”