Free Blood Bound by Patricia Briggs Page A

it.
    â€œGood morning, Mercedes,” said a sweet old voice. “Beautiful day.”
    I opened my eyes and smiled. “Yes, Mrs. Hanna, it is.”
    The Tri-Cities, unlike Portland and Seattle, doesn’t have much of a permanent homeless population. Our temperatures get up well over a hundred in the summers and below zero in the winters, so most of our homeless people are only traveling through.
    Mrs. Hanna looked homeless, with her battered shopping cart full of plastic bags of cans and other useful items, but someone once told me she lived in a small trailer in the park by the river and had taught piano lessons until her arthritis made it impossible. After that she walked the streets of downtown Kennewick collecting aluminum cans and selling pictures she colored out of coloring books so she could buy food for her cats.
    Her white-gray hair was braided and tucked under the battered old baseball cap that kept the sun out of her face. She wore a woolen A-line skirt with bobby socks and tennis shoes, a size too large. Her T-shirt celebrated some long past Spokane Lilac Festival, and its lavender color was an interesting contrast to the black and red plaid flannel shirt that hung loosely over her shoulders.
    Age had bent her over until she was barely as tall as the cart she pushed. Her tanned, big-knuckled hands sported chipped red nail polish that matched her lipstick. She smelled of roses and her cats.
    She frowned at me and squinted. “Boys don’t want girls who have more muscles than they do, Mercedes. Boys like girls who can dance and play piano. Mr. Hanna, God rest his soul, used to tell me that I floated over a dance floor.”
    This was an old argument. She’d grown up in a time when the only proper place for a woman was next to her man.
    â€œIt wasn’t the karate this time,” I told her, touching my face lightly.
    â€œPut some frozen peas on that, dear,” she said. “That’ll keep the swelling down.”
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    She nodded her head briskly and set off down the road, her cart squeaking. It was too hot for flannel and wool, but then it had been a cool spring evening when she’d died a few months ago.
    Most ghosts fade after a while, so probably in a few months we wouldn’t be able to converse anymore. I don’t know why she came by to talk to me, maybe she was still worried about my unmarried state.
    I was still smiling when I walked into the office.
    Gabriel, my part-time tool rustler/receptionist was working full time in the summer. He looked up when I walked in and took a startled double take.
    â€œKarate,” I lied, inspired by Mrs. Hanna’s assumption, and saw him relax.
    He was a good kid and as human as it got. He knew that Zee was fae, of course, because Zee had been forced to come out a few years ago by the Gray Lords who rule the fae (like the werewolves, the fae had come out a little at a time to avoid alarming the public).
    Gabriel knew about Adam because that was also a matter of public record. I had no intention of opening his eyes further, though—it was too dangerous. So no stories of vampires or sorcerers for him if I could manage it—especially since there were a few customers around.
    â€œGeez,” he said. “I hope the other guy looks worse.”
    I shook my head. “Stupid white belt.”
    There were a couple of men sitting on the battered-but-comfortable chairs in the corner of the office. At my words, one of them leaned forward and said, “I’d rather fight a dozen black belts at the same time than one white belt.”
    He was so well-groomed that he was handsome, despite a nose that was a little too broad and deep set eyes.
    I brightened my smile like any good businesswomen, and said, “Me, too,” with feeling.
    â€œI’m guessing you’d be Mercedes Thompson?” he asked, coming to his feet and walking up to the counter with his hand