Patricia Briggs - Mercedes Thompson 1 Moon Called

Moon Called

Mercy Thompson Book 1

by

Patricia Briggs

Product Details

Published: January 2006

Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)

ISBN-13: 9781101208434

ISBN-10: 1101208430

Chapter 1

I didnt realize he was a werewolf at first. My nose isnt at its best when surrounded by axle grease and burnt oiland its not like there are a lot of stray werewolves running around. So when someone made a polite noise near my feet to get my attention I thought he was a customer.

I was burrowed under the engine compartment of a Jetta, settling a rebuilt transmission into its new home. One of the drawbacks in running a one-woman garage was that I had to stop and start every time the phone rang or a customer stopped by. It made me grumpywhich isnt a good way to deal with customers. My faithful office boy and tool rustler had gone off to college, and I hadnt replaced him yetits hard to find someone who will do all the jobs I dont want to.

Be with you in a sec, I said, trying not to sound snappish. I do my best not to scare off my customers if I can help it.

Transmission jacks be damned, the only way to get a transmission into an old Jetta is with muscle. Sometimes being a female is useful in my line of workmy hands are smaller so I can get them places a man cant. However, even weightlifting and karate cant make me as strong as a strong man. Usually leverage can compensate, but sometimes theres no substitute for muscle, and I had just barely enough to get the job done.

Grunting with effort, I held the transmission where it belonged with my knees and one hand. With the other I slipped the first bolt in and tightened it. I wasnt finished, but the transmission would stay where it was while I dealt with my customer.

I took a deep breath and smiled once brightly for practice before I rolled out from under the car. I snagged a rag to wipe the oil off my hands, and said, Can I help you? before I got a good enough look at the boy to see he wasnt a customerthough he certainly looked as though someone ought to help him.

The knees of his jeans were ripped out and stained with old blood and dirt. Over a dirty tee, he wore a too-small flannel shirtinadequate clothing for November in eastern Washington .

He looked gaunt, as though hed been a while without food. My nose told me, even over the smell of gasoline, oil, and antifreeze permeating the garage, that it had been an equally long time since hed seen a shower. And, under the dirt, sweat, and old fear, was the distinctive scent of werewolf.

I was wondering if you had some work I could do? he asked hesitantly. Not a real job, maam. Just a few hours work.

I could smell his anxiety before it was drowned out by a rush of adrenaline when I didnt immediately refuse. His words sped up until they crashed into one another. A job would be okay, too, but I dont have a social security card, so it would have to be cash under the table.

Most of the people who come around looking for cash work are illegals trying to tide themselves over between harvest and planting season. This boy was white-bread Americanexcept the part about being a werewolfwith chestnut hair and brown eyes. He was tall enough to be eighteen, I supposed, but my instincts, which are pretty good, pinned his age closer to fifteen. His shoulders were wide but bony, and his hands were a little large, as if he still had some growing to do before he grew into the man he would be.

Im strong, he said. I dont know a lot about fixing cars, but I used to help my uncle keep his Bug running.

I believed he was strong: werewolves are. As soon as I had picked up the distinctive musk-and-mint scent, Id had a nervous urge to drive him out of my territory. However, not being a werewolf, I control my instinctsIm not controlled by them. Then, too, the boy, shivering slightly in the damp November weather, roused other, stronger instincts.

It is my own private policy not to break the law. I drive the speed limit, keep my cars insured, pay a little more tax to the feds than I have to. Ive given away a twenty or two to people whod asked, but never hired someone who couldnt appear on my payroll. There was also the problem of his being a werewolf, and a new one at that, if I was any judge. The young ones have less control of their wolves than others.

He hadnt commented on how odd it was to see a woman mechanic. Sure, hed probably been watching me for a while, long enough to get used to the ideabut, still, he hadnt said anything, and that won him points. But not enough points for what I was about to do.

He rubbed his hands together and blew on them to warm up his fingers, which were red with chill.

All right, I said, slowly. It was not the wisest answer, but, watching his slow shivers, it was the only one I could give. Well see how it works.

Theres a laundry room and a shower back through that door. I pointed to the door at the back of the shop. My last assistant left some of his old work coveralls. Youll find them hanging on the hooks in the laundry room. If you want to shower and put those on, you can run the clothes youre wearing through the washer. Theres a fridge in the laundry room with a ham sandwich and some pop. Eat, then come back out when youre ready.

I put a little force behind the eat: I wasnt going to work with a hungry werewolf, not even almost two weeks from full moon. Some people will tell you werewolves can only shapechange under a full moon, but people also say theres no such things as ghosts. He heard the command and stiffened, raising his eyes to meet mine.

After a moment he mumbled a thank-you and walked through the door, shutting it gently behind him. I let out the breath Id been holding. I knew better than to give orders to a werewolfits that whole dominance reflex thing.

Werewolves instincts are inconvenientthats why they dont tend to live long. Those same instincts are the reason their wild brothers lost to civilization while the coyotes were thriving, even in urban areas like Los Angeles .

The coyotes are my brothers. Oh, Im not a werecoyoteif there even is such a thing. I am a walker.

The term is derived from skinwalker, a witch of the Southwest Indian tribes who uses a skin to turn into a coyote or some other animal and goes around causing disease and death. The white settlers incorrectly used the term for all the native shapechangers and the name stuck. We are hardly in a position to objecteven if we came out in public like the lesser of the fae did, there arent enough of us to be worth a fuss.

I didnt think the boy had known what I was, or hed never have been able to turn his back on me, another predator, and go through the door to shower and change. Wolves may have a very good sense of smell, but the garage was full of odd odors, and I doubted hed ever smelled someone like me in his life.