Free Mercy Thompson 8: Night Broken by Patricia Briggs

don’t know how long Zack had been standing outside his hotel room listening to us, but, from the look on his face, it had been long enough. He saw me watching, and his face went blank.
    “Zack,” I said. “Let me introduce my husband, Adam Hauptman, and his second, Darryl Zao. Gentlemen, this is Zack Drummond.”
    “Hi,” he said warily. He still looked tired and too thin. “Come in. Let’s get this over with.” Enthusiasm was notable by its absence.
    Zack turned and walked through the open door of the motel room. Adam followed Zack, and Darryl gestured for me to go ahead. I stepped in and had to fight not to gag.
    Maybe a human’s nose wouldn’t have picked up the odors in that motel room, or maybe it wouldn’t have picked up
all
the odors. Maybe. But I didn’t think even an asthma patient who hadn’t smelled a scent in months could have stayed in that room for longer than ten minutes without being nauseated.
    Cigar, cigarette, pipe, and every other substance anyone could smoke permeated the room, along with the smell of sex, urine, feces, and old alcohol. I’ve heard people complain that there is nothing worse than the smell of stale beer, but that room proved them wrong. Stale beer was the least unpleasant scent in the room. There was also mold, mildew, and mouse. All it needed was a skunk.
    Neither Adam nor Darryl showed any sign of distress. Zack looked at me and gave me a faint smile. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
    “You can move in with us for a few weeks,” I said. “As it happens, we have a freshly cleaned bedroom suite that no one is using.”
    “No,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather put up with this than … Your house don’t sound like a safe place to be at the moment. I don’t like pack politics—them and me don’t get along.”
    Darryl would have said something—submissive wolves usually do fine in pack politics because, like Christy, no one wants to hurt them—but Adam made a subtle hand gesture that meant “stop.”
    “That’s fine,” said Adam. “Welcome to the Tri-Cities, Zack Drummond. Usually, we would throw a party to welcome you—and we will—but the constraints of your schedule means that cannot happen this week. We have vampires in this town and half fae and a host of other denizens of the Forgotten and Hiding, many of which would love to find an unaffiliated werewolf to hunt.”
    “I understand,” said Zack when Adam stopped speaking.
    “Okay. My full name is Adam Alexander Hauptman. What is yours?”
    “Zachary Edwin Drummond.”
    Adam shut his eyes and took in three deep breaths—under the circumstances in that room, it was a braver act than it usually was. Every time he breathed in, I could feel the pull of pack magic and felt it gather to his need.
    My mate opened his eyes and focused his full attention on Zack. “Look me in the eyes with no offense taken or meant, Zachary Edwin Drummond.”
    Zack raised his chin and met Adam’s gaze. “I see you, Adam Alexander Hauptman, Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack.”
    “Will you join with us, to hunt, to fight, to live and run?”
    “Under the moon,” Zack said. “I will hunt, fight, live and run with you and yours who shall be mine.”
    “We claim you,” Darryl said, and pulled out a pocketknife and opened it one-handed.
    “We claim you,” I said when Adam glanced at me.
    “
I
claim you,” said Adam, and he took Darryl’s knife and cut a chunk of meat the size of the tip of my little finger off his forearm with practiced ease. “Alpha’s flesh and blood you shall be.”
    He offered the bloody bit to Zack, who ate it off his fingers. Blood welled up from the wound on Adam’s arm. Four fat drops fell to the carpet, and then the gouge scabbed over. In less than an hour, there would be no sign of the wound at all. A simple cut would have healed even faster.
    “From this day forward,” Adam said. “Mine to me and mine. Pack.”
    “Yours to you, mine to me,” answered Zack. The