Blood Bound by Patricia Briggs Page A

I told him. “I’ll come. What’s the second favor?”
    â€œIt’s already too light out for me to travel,” he said, waving a vague hand toward my window. “Do you have somewhere dark I might spend the day?”
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    The only place for Stefan to sleep was my closet. The closets in Samuel’s room and the third bedroom had slatted doors that allowed too much light to go through. All of my windows had blinds, but nothing dark enough to keep a vampire safe.
    My bedroom took up one end of the trailer—Samuel’s room was on the opposite end. I opened my door to wave Stefan inside, but Samuel came, too. I sighed and didn’t fuss. Samuel wouldn’t leave me alone with Stefan without a fight I was too battered to enjoy.
    My bedroom was littered with clothing, some dirty, some clean. The clean clothes were folded in stacks I hadn’t gotten around to putting in my drawers. Scattered among the clothes were books, magazines, and mail I hadn’t sorted yet. If I’d known I was going to have a man in my room, I’d have cleaned it.
    I pulled open the closet and pulled out a couple of boxes and two pairs of shoes. That left it empty—except for the four dresses hanging on one side. It was a big closet, long enough for Stefan to lie down comfortably in.
    â€œSamuel can get you a spare pillow and blanket,” I said, gathering clothes as I spoke. My need to be clean had been growing since I woke up, and now it was desperate. I needed to get the smell of the woman’s death off of my skin because I couldn’t get it out of my head.
    â€œMercedes,” said Stefan in a gentle tone. “I don’t need a blanket. I’m not going to be sleeping, I’m going to be dead.”
    I don’t know why that was the final straw. Maybe it was the implication that I didn’t understand what he was—when I’d just had a graphic example of what vampires could do. I’d been halfway to the bathroom, but I turned back and stared at both men.
    â€œSamuel is going to get you a blanket,” I told him firmly. “And a pillow. You are going to sleep for the day in my closet. Dead people don’t get to stay in my bedroom.”
    I shut the bathroom door behind me and dropped the afghan I wore on the floor. I heard Samuel say, “I’ll get some bedding,” before I turned on the shower to let it warm up.
    There’s a full length mirror on the door of my bathroom. One of those cheap ones with the imitation wood frame. When I turned to put my clothes on top of the sink where they wouldn’t get wet, I got a good look at myself.
    At first, all I could see was the dried blood. In my hair, on my face, down my shoulder, arm and hip. On my hands and feet.
    I threw up in the toilet. Twice. Then I washed my hands and face and rinsed my mouth out with water.
    I was not unacquainted with blood. I am sometimes a coyote, after all. I’ve killed my share of rabbits and mice. Last winter I killed two men—werewolves. But this death was different. Evil. He hadn’t killed her for food, revenge, or self-defense. He’d killed her, and four other people, because he liked it. And I hadn’t been able to stop him.
    I looked back at the mirror.
    Bruises bloomed on my ribs and shoulder. Dark purple marks traced the path the harness had run around my chest and ribs. I must have done that while I was struggling against Stefan’s hold on my leash. The bruise on the outside edge of my right shoulder was more black than purple. The left side of my face was swollen cheekbone to jaw and red with the promise of a truly spectacular bruise.
    I leaned forward and touched my puffy eyelid. I looked like a rape victim—except for the two dark marks on my neck.
    They looked sort of like a rattlesnake bite, two dark half-formed scabs surrounded by swollen and reddened skin. I covered them with my hand and wondered how much I trusted Stefan’s