“You haven’t shown yourself to be all that wonderful at taking care of your treasures, either,” I said coolly. “At least the car can be fixed.” She’d hurt my friend with her carelessness, and I wasn’t sure Stefan would ever recover. “Besides, if what I suspect is true, this damage”—I waved at the car—“as well as the death of my wolf Peter Jorgenson is a result of vampire politics.”

She didn’t say anything, which meant my speculation was accurate.

“An assassin attacked me,” I continued. “Her head hit the driver’s side door during the fight and left the first dent. She broke out of the trunk—still quite dead.” I tapped my nose. “I could smell it on her.”

Marsilia gave me a tight smile. “Perhaps you are right,” she said, and her hand went to the damaged trunk.

“But the bloodstains and claw scratch marks in the back seat are my responsibility,” I told her, stepping off my high horse. “I took the car without asking you because I needed one that could not be traced to me. Adam and I will foot the bill for repairs.”

Asil and Honey came up to flank me.

“No,” said Marsilia with a sigh. “You are right, this was vampire business.” She patted the trunk as if it were a living thing. “Especially this. Perhaps you can recommend a good repair shop.”

She looked at my face and laughed. The subtle wrongness of the sound set the hair on the back of my neck rising. Marsilia was really old, and did not do emotions quite right. The effect was disturbing.

“Really Mercy, what did you expect? I can be civilized, too. It is only a car. Come inside.” She waved her hand at the ruins of the winery behind her. “Come inside, and learn why your pack was targeted.”

“Because someone saw us, saw the werewolves as your allies,” I told her. “They wanted you weakened.” The rest of the explanation hinged on that first part. “They hired mercenaries and dissatisfied Cantrip zealots so that Bran would go hunting for federal agents and hired guns—and miss the one who was behind it all. Personally, I think they underestimate Bran, but a lot of people do. He likes it that way. The bottom line, Marsilia, is that someone, some vampire, wants your seethe.”

“Yes. And you, cunning little coyote,” she purred affectionately, so I knew that my accuracy had displeased her, “you have been so clever as not to die.” She reached out suddenly, and her face loosened with lust as she ran her fingers over Asil’s face. “And look what you brought me. A new toy.”

Marsilia had a thing for werewolves.