Joel had packed up his wife and Aiden and moved out. That reduced the people living in our home to Adam, me, and Adam’s daughter, Jesse. I was pretty sure Wulfe viewed Jesse as a noncombatant in our current weird stalker dance, leaving only Adam and me as targets.
But I wasn’t going to tell Marsilia all of that. Primarily because if Wulfe could waltz in and out of our home, I wasn’t going to advertise it to the enemy. Ally. Frenemy.
“You have seen him,” she said to me. “All know that Wulfe hunts the Columbia Basin Pack Alpha’s mate.”
Her words were formal, almost stylized. This was the Mistress of the seethe speaking, and it sounded like a threat to me. I just wasn’t sure what kind of threat.
Marsilia’s attention lingered on me a moment, but I wasn’t going to say anything until we knew more about what was going on. This time I was sure that it was a red glint I saw behind the black smokey lace. I’d seen vampires with eyes that glowed like that—they’d been very hungry. It made me glad she was all the way on the other side of the room.
I wondered if she was wearing the veil to hide her eyes or to protect us from her gaze. I was （mostly） immune to vampire magics, but Adam and Zack were not. I didn’t know about Sherwood. Marsilia had captured Samuel with her gaze once, so I didn’t assume Sherwood was safe.
Marsilia took a step closer to us, the smoke following her like a black wedding train. “There has been peace between us,” she said.
“Yes,” Adam agreed, his stance changing a little, Alpha werewolf speaking to the Mistress of the seethe.
“We have come together to keep this territory safe from other predators,” she said.
“Yes,” Adam agreed.
Supernatural beings in confrontational, or semi-confrontational, interactions tended to restate the obvious. I thought it was to make everything absolutely clear so that if death resulted, it would not be by misunderstanding.
“All know my Wulfe has been oft at your door of late,” she said. The archaic wording was unusual. Marsilia, like my friend Stefan （who was also an old Italian vampire）， had mostly kept her Italian accent, but otherwise she spoke colloquial American English.
“He’s been stalking me, yes,” I agreed dryly.
“And now he is gone,” she said. “Others say that he is dead and your pack at fault. Adam Hauptman, if you would keep our alliance, you will find my Wulfe, prove he is not dead.” She might have invoked Adam’s name, but the hairs on the back of my neck were certain that she was still looking at me, no matter how much that veil hid.
“Wulfe’s a vampire,” said Sherwood, speaking for the first time. “He’s already dead.”
Sherwood distracted her from me. She looked at him, tipping her head sideways in a motion more wolf than vampire. I wasn’t sure how to read that. Maybe without the subtle disguise Bran had given Sherwood, she, too, recognized him.
But it was a brief pause. She looked squarely at Adam, and he tensed under her regard, even though her veil was now almost opaque.
I gripped Adam’s wrist, leaving my gun in my left hand. I could shoot left-handed, though not as well as with my right or in a proper two-handed grip. Sometimes I could extend my limited immunity to vampire magic to someone by touching them. And keeping Adam free of Marsilia’s influence was more important than whether or not I could hit the side of a barn.
Adam growled, a low rumbling in his chest. He twisted his hand until it closed over mine, so we stood hand in hand.
Marsilia didn’t seem to notice.
“If you do not find Wulfe, all will know what happened to him,” she said, sounding suddenly tired. Her next words were rushed, a little more like her usual self, though the word choice was still off. “All will know that you prey upon your allies. Upon those who count upon your support. There will be war between your pack and the vampires.”
She disappeared, smoke and all, with the suddenness that I was more used to from her. Almost in the same breath, Uncle Mike opened the door, taking three quick steps into the room with the attitude of a sheepdog scenting wolves. I thought I caught a glimpse of a blade in his right hand, but his body blocked my line of sight. When he turned to us, there was no sword in sight except for the cutlass hanging from my belt.
“My apologies, Adam,” Uncle Mike said. “I’d not have thought any enemy could have trespassed my wards here in the heart of my home.”
“Marsilia isn’t our enemy,” said Adam in a thoughtful voice, holstering his gun. “Not yet, anyway.”