Free Mercy Thompson 8: Night Broken by Patricia Briggs Page B

big enough that if he keeps his door closed, he shouldn’t need to worry about what other folk get up to in their bedrooms.”
    “And Kyle is pretty snitty if he thinks that you disapprove,” I added. “He’ll do his best to embarrass you.”
    “I’ll make sure Kyle knows how much you like him, Mercy,” Warren assured me.
    “He knows I love him,” I told Warren. “But warning the werewolves who go to your house what the situation is so no one gets hurt has been my job from day one.” An uncomfortable werewolf might take a bite that everyone would regret.
    “As long as no one pees in the corners,” said Zack with a wry look at the corner nearest the door, “it has to be better than this. And as long as everyone is above the age of consent and has enough sense to be able to give informed consent, I could care less what anyone does in their own space.”
    “Kyle and I are over the age of consent in all fifty states,” said Warren, then gave in to full-out TV cowboy for the last bit. “And ah reckon ah can refrain from pee’n’ in corners, though ah don’t know if ah can be responsible for any’n’ else.”
    Darryl was still feeling guilty for yelling at me because he volunteered to drive Zack over and introduce him to Kyle. When we got home, Warren was still getting information out of Christy.
    I wanted to go to bed, but if I did that, then Adam would be alone with Christy when Warren left. The minute I figured out that was why I was lingering, I yawned and kissed Adam on the side of his neck.
    “I’ve got to be up at o’dark thirty,” I told them. “I’m going to bed. If some pyro decides to arson my house again, make sure I’m up, would you?”
    “I’ll try my best,” Adam said courteously—and for just a moment I had a flashback to Adam, burned horribly and frantic because he thought I was in my trailer.
    “I know,” I told him, the thought of how badly he’d been hurt momentarily erasing my sleepiness.
    “Mercy’s a coyote, she’ll be okay.” Warren winked at Adam, then he said, “Just make sure you grab the cat on your way out.”
    “What cat?” asked Christy. “I don’t like cats.”
    “Lock your bedroom, then,” I told her. “She can open the doors. If she knows you don’t like her, she’ll try to follow you everywhere.”
    I wiggled my fingers at Adam and trotted up the stairs with a little smile warming my heart. So I’d been spiteful, but the look on Christy’s face had been worth it. Tomorrow, I vowed, I’d be a better person. But tonight, I would enjoy my spite.
    Jesse’s light was on. I almost just went to bed—I was seriously tired, and if I hit the hay right that moment, I’d get five and a half hours of sleep.
    But I knocked lightly at the door.
    “Who is it?” Jesse asked.
    “Me,” I said, and opened the door when she invited me in.
    Jesse was stretched out on her bed with schoolbooks scattered around and her headphones dangling around her neck. One of the earpieces was caught in the patch of purple hair just in front of her left ear. She didn’t look up when I came in.
    “I’m just heading to bed,” I told her. “You might consider going to sleep sometime before you have to get up, too.”
    “Why did you let her do that to you?” Jesse asked tightly, without looking at me. She wrote a few numbers down in the notebook in front of her.
    I shut the door and came farther into the room. I had to pick my path. My nose would have told me if there were any rotting food, but there was sure as heck everything else scattered all over the floor. My room used to look sort of like this before I moved in with Adam. Now I itched to pick up the dirty clothes and throw them in her clothes hamper.
After
I dumped out the eclectic collection of stuff already in it.
    “Do what to me?” I asked absently. She had a cricket bat sticking out the top of the hamper. Why a cricket bat? She didn’t play cricket. Not as far as I knew, anyway.
    “Dinner was my fault,”