Moon Called by Patricia Briggs Page A

opened the reinforced metal door of the motel room and took a look around. The furnishing was new, but sparse, just a bed and a nightstand that was permanently fixed against the wall—nothing to help me get a werewolf who weighed twice what I did out of the van and into the room without hurting one or the other of us. There was no porch as there had been at Adam’s house, which left almost a four-foot drop from the back of the van to the ground.
    In the end I decided calling for help was better than hurting Adam worse. I went back to the office and picked up the phone. I hadn’t called Sam’s number since I’d left, but some things are just ingrained. Even though he was the reason I’d left here, he was the first one I thought to call for help.
    â€œHello,” answered a woman’s voice that sounded completely unfamiliar.
    I couldn’t speak. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been counting on hearing Samuel until I heard someone else’s voice instead.
    â€œMarlie? Is there something wrong at the motel? Do you need me to send Carl?” She must have caller ID, I thought stupidly.
    She sounded frantic, but I recognized her voice at last, and felt a wave of relief. I don’t know why Lisa Stoval was answering this number, but the mention of Carl and the sudden tension in her voice cued me in. I guess she had just never sounded cheerful when she talked to me.
    Some things might have changed, but some things I had just forgotten. Aspen Creek had a population of about five hundred people, and only about seventy were werewolves, but I seldom thought about the human majority. Lisa and her husband Carl were both human. So was Marlie, at least she had been when I left. She’d also been about six years old.
    â€œI don’t know where Marlie is,” I told her. “This is Mercedes, Mercedes Thompson. There’s no one in the moteloffice. I’d really appreciate it if you’d send Carl down here, or tell me who else to call. I have the Alpha from the Columbia Basin Pack in my van. He’s badly wounded, and I need help getting him into the motel room. Even better would be if you could tell me how to get ahold of Bran.”
    Bran didn’t have a telephone at his home—or hadn’t when I left. For all I knew he had a cell phone now.
    Lisa, like most of the women of Aspen Creek, had never liked me. But she wasn’t one of those people who let a little thing like that get in the way of doing what was right and proper.
    â€œBran and some of the others have taken the new wolves out for their first hunt. Marlie’s probably holed up somewhere crying. Lee, her brother, was one of the ones who tried to Change. He didn’t make it.”
    I’d forgotten. How could I have forgotten? The last full moon of October, all of those who chose to try to become werewolves were allowed to come forward. In a formal ceremony they were savaged by Bran, or by some other wolf who loved them, in the hopes that they would rise Changed. Most of them didn’t make it. I remembered the tension that gripped the town through October and the sadness of November. Thanksgiving had a different meaning to the residents of Aspen Creek than it did for the rest of America.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said inadequately, feeling rawly incapable of dealing with more dead youngsters—I remembered Lee, too. “Lee was a good kid.”
    â€œI’ll send Carl.” Lisa’s voice was crisp, denying me the right to grieve or sympathize. She hung up without saying good-bye.
    I avoided thinking—or looking at the tarp that covered Mac—while I sat in the van waiting for help. Instead, I fed Adam the remaining hamburgers while we waited. They were cold and congealed, but it didn’t seem to bother the wolf. When they were gone, he closed his eyes and ignored me.
    At long last, Carl pulled up next to me in a beat-up Jeep and climbed out. He was a big man, and