"No games between two dominant wolves unless they know each other very well and have established their dominance. There was a very nasty chess match that happened in the Marrok's pack when I was six or seven. Bran put an end to it, but not before one of the wolves ended up with a pickax in his leg." Mercy continued instructing the uninitiated in her Mercy-matter-of-fact fashion. "Adam and Warren could play, for instance, because, though they are both dominant wolves, Adam has firmly established himself as more dominant in both their eyes. One lost game won't make any difference. Darryl and Warren, though, are second and third in the pack hierarchy. They play CAGCTDPBT during pack gaming days, but they play on the same side. Always."
Tad gave Mercy an assessing look. "No poker. No gin rummy, and especially no chess if you don't want to end up pickaxed. And I didn't know you played CAGCTDPBT."
"Werewolf games," Mercy said solemnly, "play for keeps, or go home." She was so cute sometimes it made Adam's heart hurt. She was also a killer CAGCTDPBT player. The pack made Mercy and him play on opposite sides to keep it fair.
"I threw out my Go-Fish cards a long time ago." Tad's voice was dry. "I'm going to play some solitaire and leave the rest of you to twiddle your thumbs."
Exhausted, worried, and unhappy, Adam leaned against the wall and let his eyes half close in an old soldier's trick. He wasn't really asleep but not really awake, either. Any break in the current patterns of sound, sight, or scent would attract his attention.
Tad sat down in front of the mirror and laid out a game of spider solitaire. He played three or four games and lost all of them - no cheating for Tad.
Asil seemed happy to occupy himself studying Zee's little toys as far away as he could get from Adam. The Moor wasn't exactly what Adam had expected. Much less crazy, and also much better at the dance that kept everyone alive in a small room with two dominant wolves who were strangers to each other than a wolf of his reputation ought to be. Bran usually knew what he was doing, and that seemed to be true when he sent Asil as well.
Mercy wasn't sleeping, but she lay quietly in his lap. She liked to cuddle when they were alone. He decided to enjoy it because it settled the beast inside him a little. The wolf was convinced that as long as he held her, nothing could touch her.
Neither could he. Not for long.
Mercy put her hand on Adam's, and he could feel the silver go to work on his skin. He didn't react because he craved her touch more than he minded the burn - and she'd taken it for him, hadn't she? So maybe part of it was guilt, feeling that he deserved to hurt because he'd brought harm to her.
She leaned forward, reading the titles on the books again. He opened his eyes a bit more to make sure she didn't try for that book that called to her again.
Zee had a modern college text on metallurgy right next to a very old book bound in leather with a title that was nearly indecipherable, between the faded gold embossing and the old German script. And just out of easy reach was the little green linen-bound book with the warped cover that had fascinated her earlier. Mercy shifted restlessly then froze, jerking her hands away from him.
"I've burned you," she whispered, horrified.
Tad looked up from dealing another round, and Asil glanced their way - and then returned his attention to the fae weapons on the shelves.
"I'm a werewolf," Adam said softly. "It won't kill me."
She frowned at him, and he closed his eyes again. "It's all right, Mercy. It's already healed." He wanted to tell her not to worry, but then maybe she wouldn't. Not because she chose to follow his advice but because of the damned fae artifact that made her obedient. An obedient Mercy because she had no choice - that was an abomination.
She curled up, tucking her hands in where they couldn't accidentally touch him. She closed her eyes, too - he knew because he had only mostly shut his.
The better to see you with, my dear, said the Big Bad Wolf.
He also saw something else. Adam had a habit of keeping track of things in his environment - situational awareness. It had saved his butt more than once. He was especially aware of things that could be used as weapons.
One of the blades on the shelves was moving. He didn't catch it in actual motion, but when they'd first come into the room, it had been in the back corner of the bottom shelf of the bookcase nearest the mirror. Now it was in the middle of the shelf and had slid nearly off the edge.
He wondered if it might be chasing Asil, if only very slowly.
It was a hunting knife with a dark blade that showed just a touch of rust. The hilt was some sort of antler. When he closed his eyes a little more and turned his gaze so that the knife was in the corner of his vision, he could tell that there was some sort of runic lettering down the blade. But as soon as he looked directly at it again, the runes disappeared.
Because Adam was carefully not-watching the blade, he noticed something was happening to the mirror.
The corners were darkening until, gradually, it quit reflecting the room and looked more like a huge photo of a heavy, gray, silk curtain than a silver-backed glass mirror. Adam lifted his head to see it more clearly. As soon as the whole of it was dark, frost bloomed. It started in the very center of the mirror, as if it were very cold and someone was blowing on it with a warm, wet breath. A fog of ice spiderwebbed out in a crystalline sheet across the glass.
As soon as the ice covered the entire surface, a darker line dripped down the middle of the mirror and dark, callused, long-fingered hands slid out of the glass and pulled the gray aside, sending a light snow to the rug that butted up against that end of the room.
Zee stepped through the mirror. Tad looked up and started gathering his cards together, though his game wasn't half-finished yet. Asil's eyes slitted, and he rolled to the balls of his feet, ready for whatever would come. Mercy turned her head, and said, "Hey, Zee. Long time no see."
The Zee that stepped through the mirror wasn't the one Adam was used to. Gone was the glamour that he'd presented to the world. He was no slender, balding old man - his sharp-featured face was both unaged and ancient, with skin the color of fumed oak. His body showed the musculature of a man who spent his days before a hot fire bending metal to his will - wide shoulders and taut flesh that knew hard work.
"Mercedes," he said. "What have you done to your lips?"
Mercy touched her lips but didn't say anything. Adam found that a hopeful sign.
White-gold hair slicked down over Zee's shoulders like a waterfall of pale wheat. He wore, incongruously, a pair of black jeans and a gray flannel shirt with a motor-oil stain on one cuff. On his feet were his old battered, steel-toed boots.