Iron Kissed by Patricia Briggs

“Jean won’t allow her personal beliefs to interfere with her job.” Then he smiled at me. “And it will make a point, having someone so active in the anti-fae community defending your friend.”
    â€œI’m not doing it because I believe he is innocent,” she said.
    Kyle turned his smile to her and it became sharklike. He seldom showed anyone that side of him. “And you can tell the newspapers and the jury and the judge that—and it still won’t stop them from believing that he must be innocent or you wouldn’t have taken the case.”
    She looked appalled, but she didn’t disagree.
    I tried to imagine working a job where your convictions were an inconvenience that you learned to ignore—and decided I’d rather turn a wrench no matter how much better her paycheck was than mine.
    â€œI’ll stay away from the crime scene, then,” I lied. I wasn’t a fae. What the police and Ms. Ryan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. The coyote is a sly beastie and no stranger to stealth—and I wasn’t about to let Zee’s fate depend wholly on this woman.
    I’d find out who killed O’Donnell and figure out a way to prove him guilty that didn’t involve me telling twelve of my peers that I smelled him.
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    I picked up a couple of buck burgers and fries from a fast-food place and drove home. The trailer was looking as spiffy as a seventies single-wide could. New siding had made the porch look tacky, so I’d repainted it gray. Samuel had suggested flower boxes to dress it up, but I don’t like living things to suffer unnecessarily—and I have a black thumb.
    Samuel’s Mercedes was gone from its usual spot so he must still be at Tumbleweed. He’d offered to come with me to meet with the lawyer—so had Adam. Which is how I ended up with just Kyle, whom neither of the werewolves looked upon as a rival.
    I opened the front door and the smell of crock pot stew made my stomach rumble its approval.
    There was a note next to the crock pot on the kitchen counter. Samuel had learned to write before typewriters and computers rendered penmanship an art practiced by elementary school children. His notes always looked like formal wedding invitations. Hard to believe a doctor actually wrote like that.
    Mercy, his note said with lovely flourishes that made the alphabet look like artwork. Sorry, I am not here. I promised to volunteer at the festival until after tonight’s concert. Eat something.
    I followed his advice and got out a bowl. I was hungry, Samuel was a good cook—and it was still a few hours until dark.
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    O’Donnell’s address was in the phone book. He lived in Kennewick just off Olympia in a modest-sized house with a neat yard in the front and an eight-foot white fence that enclosed the backyard. It was one of the cinder block houses that were fairly common in the area. Recently someone had been of the mistaken impression that painting it blue and putting shutters on the windows would make it look less industrial.
    I drove past it, taking in the yellow police-line tape that covered the doors—and the darkened houses to either side of it.
    It took me a while to find a good parking spot. In a neighborhood like this, people would notice a strange car parked in front of their house. Finally I parked in a lot by a church that was not too far away.
    I put on the collar with the tags that gave Adam’s phone number and address as my home. One trip to the dog pound had left me grateful for this little precaution. I didn’t look anything at all like a dog, but at least in town there wouldn’t be angry farmers ready to shoot me before they saw my collar.
    Finding a place to change was a little more challenging. The dog pound I could deal with, but I didn’t want to get a ticket for indecent exposure. Finally I found an empty house with a realtor’s sign out front and an unlocked gardening