Mercy Thompson Audiobooks - Listen to the Full Series | voyancegeni.us
Frost Burned (Paperback) / Author: Patricia Briggs ; ; Fantasy, Genre fiction, Fiction, Books. You can read the full excerpt online HERE. Book Review (& Giveaway): Frost Burned by Patricia Briggs Rachel Caine Genre: Urban Fantasy Publisher: St. Martin's Publication Date: July Paperback: pages Why. Listen to the complete Mercy Thompson book series. My nose isn't at its best when surrounded by axle grease and burnt oil. Patricia Briggs; Narrated by: Lorelei King; Length: 9 hrs and 14 mins; Release date: . Frost Burned cover art .. Pty Ltd Conditions of Use Privacy Notice Cookies & Internet Advertising.
Maybe if Zee were still around to help, he could have done something with the Rabbit. Zee had taught me most of what I know about fixing cars, but there were some things that couldn't be fixed without an iron-kissed fae to put them to rights. And Zee was holed up in the fae reservation in Walla Walla and had been since one of the Gray Lords killed a US senator's son and declared the fae to be a separate and sovereign nation.
Within minutes of the declaration, all of the fae had disappeared—and so had a few of the reservations. The ten-mile loop of road that used to lead to the local reservation near Walla Walla was now eight miles long, and from nowhere along that route could you even see the reservation. I'd heard that one of the reservations had grown a thicket of blackberry bushes and disappeared inside. There was a rumor that the government had tried to bomb a reservation, but the entire flight of planes had disappeared—reappearing minutes later flying over Australia.
Australian bloggers posted photos, and the US president issued a formal apology, so that part of the rumor seemed to be true. For me personally, the whole thing meant I had no one to call on when I needed help in the shop or needed some time off.
voyancegeni.us: Frost Burned (Mercy Thompson) (): Patricia Briggs: Books
I hadn't even gotten a chance to talk to Zee before he was gone. I missed him, and not just because my poor Rabbit looked to be headed to that big VW rally in the sky. The teenager I'd been—the one who had worked fast-food jobs to pay for the car, the insurance, and the fuel and upkeep—would have cried for the poor Rabbit, but that would have made Jesse feel bad, and I wasn't a teenager anymore.
I'd taught her how to change her own oil, and she'd helped out at the shop now and then. Mostly she flirted with Gabriel, my teenager Friday who was back from college for Thanksgiving break, but even a little bit of help was useful now that I was my only employee.
I didn't have enough business to hire another full-time mechanic, and I didn't have time to train another teenager to take Gabriel's place. Especially since I thought it might be a waste of time. I didn't want to think about closing the shop, but I was afraid it might be coming. Losing the Rabbit and lack of sleep were making me melancholy, but I wasn't going to share that with her, so I kept my voice light and cheerful. That's one of the reasons they don't make them anymore.
Neither of us would have walked out of an accident like this in the van—and I am very tired of being in a stupid wheelchair.
I'd also managed to hurt my hands, too, which meant I hadn't been able to push myself around. Yes, I had been pretty crabby about it.
The woman was still arguing with the police, but the driver was walking toward us. He might have been coming over to check that I had proper insurance or something, but I had a little warning zing down my spine. I pulled the ice bag away from my face and stood up just in case.
She didn't react to my change in position; maybe she hadn't noticed. It was my fault we had the wreck. I am so sorry. Jesse's eyes got wide, and she jerked to her feet, stumbling.
I could smell the alcohol wafting from him. I am fully insured. It will be a pain in the neck—for which I apologize—but your car will be fixed or replaced.
I might have been a mere coyote shapeshifter instead of a muscle-bound werewolf, but I had years of full-contact karate under my brown belt. The irate owner of the SUV was a lot bigger than me, but, from the smell and the lack of coordination in his movements, he was also drunk. That negated most of the advantage his size gave him. I let his fist slip by me, took a step that angled my hips into his, grabbed the elbow and hand of his attacking arm, and slammed him face-first into the pavement using, mostly, his own momentum to do it.
Hurt me too, dang it. Twinges of pain slid down my recently abused neck and into a hip that I hadn't thought damaged at all. I stayed balanced and ready for a moment, but the impact with the ground seemed to wipe the fight out of the big man. When he didn't immediately rise swinging, I stepped back and touched my cheekbone, wishing for the ice pack that I'd dropped. The whole fight hadn't taken more than a few seconds.
Before the downed man even twitched, one of the cops was there, putting a knee into the small of the man's back and cuffing him. The motion was smooth and practiced, and I was pretty sure the policeman had had some martial arts training, too. It's off to the pokey to dry out. The other cop, an older, less energetic model sighed. We got him for driving under the influence. Do you want to press charges for assault? We all saw him take the first swing.
Just tell him to have his insurance call mine. A tow truck pulled the SUV away. The Rabbit settled to the ground with a sigh, a gurgle, and a hiss of hot antifreeze hitting cold pavement as the radiator tore open.
Jesse shivered beside me. I needed to get her out of the cold. She'd called him while I'd been caught up talking to officials and people who handed me ice bags. I should have told you earlier. Adam wouldn't be unavailable while we were out shopping among the hordes.
He'd even volunteered to come. That would have been. He couldn't handle Walmart on a quiet day. That Darryl, his second, hadn't answered his phone didn't bother me as much, but it was still weird. I pulled out my cell phone and saw that I had a new text message from Bran—even weirder. The Marrok, ruler of the werewolves, just didn't text. I checked it and got: The Game is Afoot. I tried calling Bran back my fingers were too cold for texting with any speedbut his phone came back disconnected or no longer in service.
I tried Samuel, the Marrok's son, and got his answering service. My panic attack—the cause of the wreck—unsettled me more. I continued with other pack members: Warren, Honey, Mary Jo, and even Ben. Their cells were—in order—off, ring to voice mail, off, ring to voice mail.
I puzzled over Bran's message as I called Paul—who would as soon kill me as rescue me, though he'd feel differently about Jesse. As the phone rang without results, I remembered that the werewolves were fond of top-secret-emergency-code-word things. Nothing to do with being a werewolf and everything to do with just how many werewolves found themselves in the military at some time or other, and how that left them a particular kind of paranoid.
I knew about the secret codes because I'd grown up with werewolves, but I hadn't learned them because I wasn't one. Adam presumably would have gotten around to teaching me now that I was a member of his pack, but what with river monsters and broken legs and pack drama, it was no wonder it hadn't made it to the top of the list.
Paul didn't answer, either. If this was just a test of the emergency-secret-code system, I was going to chew on someone. My stomach clenched, and the panic attack I'd had that had caused the accident seemed more sinister. I was twice bound, once to Adam, once to the pack.
Had something happened to Adam or the pack? I reached out for those bonds. He wasn't a were-anything, so he might not have gotten the memo about the phones. And, as the significant other of the third-ranked member of the pack, he might know what was going on. I got his voice mail and didn't leave a message. Next I tried Elizaveta the witch.
Elizaveta was under contract to the pack—I'd recently seen what Adam paid her every month and had no qualms about making her play taxi'but she didn't answer. Maybe she was in on the codes—or maybe she was shopping, and the screaming hordes kept her from hearing her cell.
Maybe the whole pack was out shopping, and I was being paranoid. Cram them in with a bunch of normal people in tight quarters and wait for the bloodbath. I can't think of any of them, except maybe Honey, who would try it. We're on our own.
Frost Burned (Mercy Thompson, #7) by Patricia Briggs
Gabriel, my whatever-needs-doing man, was fighting like a demon not to be in love with Jesse. He had officially broken up with her in September, when he left for Seattle and college—though they hadn't been officially dating.
But he'd sat next to her at Thanksgiving dinner a few hours ago and flirted as hard as he could given that her sharp-eyed father was at the same table.
Love doesn't wait on convenience. When he was in town, Gabriel also lived in my very small manufactured house on the other side of the fence from the home I shared with Adam and Jesse. When he and his mother had a huge home-wrecking fight over whether or not he should be hanging out with me and my werewolf friends, he'd moved into it.
He might be living mostly in Seattle—but it was there waiting for him when he came back for the holidays. He wouldn't be on any werewolf emergency contact list so when Jesse shook her head, I started to get even more worried. Had something happened to the pack while we were gone? The bond was strong and steady, but sometimes it took more effort to get information from it.
When I'd talked to Adam about it, concerned, he'd shrugged. How did you feel when we were doing that? I love you just as you are, Mercy. I don't need to swallow you whole, I don't need to be in your head at all times. I just need to know that you're there. I fought my way down our bond, increasing my already considerable headache, and squeezed past the barriers my subconscious mind apparently had created to keep from being overwhelmed by the charismatic Alpha among Alphas who was Adam Hauptman, and touched him at last.
I know most of the guys who tow cars in the area—I have a mechanic shop, it comes with the territory. It would have been easier to pretend to be normal without the sudden renewal of the nasty, shivery, breath-stealing feeling that had caused me to run into the SUV in the first place.
I struggled to suppress the second panic attack. Probably Dale would think that my chattering jaws were from the cold. Or do you want to admit defeat immediately and I can take her out to the Pasco wrecking yard?
He looked down at his coat. Is there a spot? I thought I grabbed this from the clean clothes. We can't get my husband on the phone. I have a car at the shop I can drive home.
My shop was a safe, warm place to think. I needed that, needed my Fortress of Solitude against panic. Because when I reached down the bond between Adam and myself, I could sense nothing but rage and pain.
Someone was hurting my husband, and that was all I could tell. Dale's truck smelled like old french fries, coffee, and stale bananas. I forced myself to make light conversation, catching up on his daughter and her new baby, the rising costs of diesel fuel, and whatever else I could come up with.
I couldn't let Jesse know how worried I was until I had more information. My shop looked just as it should. The little boneyard where the remnants of a few dead cars lingered to donate parts to their living brethren and the parking lot were well lit. New halogen lights illuminated the four cars in the still-alive-but-need-help parking lot, and I patted Jesse's knee when she drew in a breath.
I hopped out of the truck and helped Dale unchain the Rabbit, sending Jesse into the shop. She glanced again at the four cars in the parking lot where there should have been three and ran inside without protest. She had no trouble opening the door that should have been locked—and when she went in, she didn't turn on the lights because she was her father's daughter. She knew better than to turn on lights in a room with windows when there might be something to hide.
A little banged up, but nothing a little Bondo and paint can't fix. I waved as he drove away, then sprinted for the door of my office because the fourth car, parked between a '68 Beetle and an old Type II, was a battered and worn '74 Mercedes that belonged to Gabriel. I slipped through the door and closed it. The dark office had been enough to let me know that Gabriel knew something and that it was important to keep it quiet—otherwise, the interior would have been blazing with light.
As I turned, I caught Gabriel's scent, all right, but there was also someone else. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, jerking me almost off my feet. My nose told me the arms belonged to Ben of the British accent and foul mouth as he buried his face against my stomach, so I put the crowbar I'd snagged off the counter back where it belonged without smashing in his head. He moved his head until my shirt rucked up, and his beard-rough cheek was against my skin. I'd had another werewolf do that before, felt the same tremors and ragged breathing.
I was reasonably sure that Ben wasn't feeling hungry like the other wolf had been because it hadn't been that long since turkey dinner. So I put a hand on his head and glanced at the pair of shell-shocked teenagers standing in front of a shelf of old, mismatched hubcaps.
It was dark inside the shop, but coyotes like me can see in the dark. Ben half growled, half spoke, but I couldn't parse anything he said. From the heat of his skin against mine, he was trying to fight off the change. I made a soothing sound but didn't move my hand again because a werewolf's skin is pretty sensitive when he is changing. Ben quit trying to talk and contented himself with breathing.
I looked at Gabriel. He was gripping Jesse's hand—or letting her grip him—and didn't look to be in much better shape than Ben. As soon as we were outside, I could tell there was a lot of something going down at your house. There weren't any headlights, but I could hear cars—something with diesel engines, truck size. Ben said something about getting here and getting to you, I think. He sounded pretty odd.
He shoved me into the driver's seat and hasn't said a coherent thing since. I am really, really glad to see you.
It was about half full of something that looked like milk, but I knew better. Someone knew our secrets. We've always thought that werewolves are invulnerable to drugs of any kind. But the bad guy who happened to be a werewolf himself figured out a cocktail that worked with ingredients any vet supply would have. I wasn't sure I heard him right, his voice was slurred and thick. You're burning out the drug?
But Ben shook his head. Need to tell you. They should be occupied with the rest. I considered it but shook my head. Adding a stimulant to the mixture could just make it worse. He'd seen what Zee could do for a car and had acquired a case of hero worship for the grumpy old fae. He was writhing against me.
Silver hits werewolves like that. I wished that there was something I could do. Sometimes the pack bond did that—one of the things that I was still adjusting to. Keep me talking so I can keep the wolf down. You need to know. I had a degree in history. When the government moves against a segment of its own population, it is bad. We needed the feds to protect the werewolves from the zealots in the general population. If the government had turned against us, the wolves would have to defend themselves.
There was no good ending to that story. I'd heard the heat turn on. Stefan went to the door, cracked it open, and took a quick peek outside. He shut it noiselessly and shook his head. But he was quieter when he talked than we'd been before. The rest are just a precaution. If Adam and the pack are hostages, they need every one they can keep their hands on.
I grabbed his hand and looked at Stefan. We settled down to wait, ready to defend ourselves if the men downstairs decided to check on Kyle.
Stefan left when the sun started coming up. Ben and I waited with Kyle, despite Kyle's protests that he could handle this on his own. We were safely out of it; if we left, we gave the enemy no one to follow Kyle had a lot of arguments, which he delivered with the cell on mute. I wasn't leaving Kyle alone in a house full of bad guys. I finally stole his phone, took it off mute, and introduced myself to the operator. I explained that I thought that these same men were responsible for launching an attack at my house - yes, I was married to the local Alpha.
One of the pack had escaped and found me - and we'd figured out something was wrong. We snuck in through the upstairs window just after Kyle had managed to free himself. I told her about the blood we'd found in the backyard that belonged to Kyle's boyfriend, a pack member, who had been taken off the premises by these bad guys, presumably to be held by whoever had taken the rest of the pack. Kyle listened hard, since it was the first time he'd heard a lot of what I said.
I didn't give the police the whole truth. There were too many things the werewolves didn't want getting out, and I wasn't mentioning Stefan.
But I stuck to it as closely as I could. When I'd finished, it was not just the SWAT team who were headed our way, but a fair percentage of a number of different police departments - and, to my relief, someone was going to go check at the firehouse where Mary Jo worked as well as the houses of our married pack members who hadn't come to our Thanksgiving dinner but had been taken just the same.
They'd make sure that there were no other hostage situations. I handed Kyle back his phone. He shook his head at me but took it in one hand, put it against his ear, and opened the gun safe in his closet with the other. The safe held two handguns and Warren's rifle - it was a Spencer repeating rifle dating back to the Civil War.
He'd let me shoot it a couple of times. My own gun was still in Marsilia's car. Kyle left the rifle in the safe when he closed it. Warren's father had carried it during the War Between the States and at his death it had come to Warren, who was eight or nine at the time.