Author notes: The beginning of this story takes place during Michael's planning stage. I do not know how much of Mercy's world will be introduced into this story. My primary focus will be to follow the Prison Break time line and plot. The first few chapters will start out as introducing Mercy and will have some minor background information on her. If you would like to know more about her world I would invite you to read the Mercy Thompson series of books they are fabulous. If you have any questions please email me. I do not view myself to be a great writer but would like to improve what few skills I may have. This idea has been playing around in my mind for awhile. A lot of the Mercy content in this story comes directly from any of the Mercy Thompson series books and will not necessarily follow their time line or order. I will be trying very hard to stay true to the characters, having said this; it is inevitable that some content, such as, characters history, characters signalment, time lines, locations and plot will be changed to fit this story.
Disclaimer: I take no credit of ownership for the characters, content, plot, etc. from the Mercy Thompson Series or the Prison Break franchise.
"Courage, it would seem, is nothing less than the power to overcome, danger, misfortune, fear, injustice, while continuing to affirm that life with all its sorrows is good, that everything is meaningful even if in a sense beyond our understanding, and that, there is always tomorrow." Dorothy Thompson
I don't go out to Fox Ridge often. There are closer places to run, or, if I feel like driving, Turkey Run isn't too far away. But sometimes my soul craves to run in the parks lush valleys, set amidst rolling hills along the Embarras River – especially on mornings like this.
It has been almost 5 years since Adam was killed. He sacrificed himself to save me from the clutches of a fae queen. Shortly after the funeral I sold my shop back to Zee and moved away from the Tri-Cities across the US to a small town approximately 300 miles South of Chicago. Darryl took position of Alpha and placed Paul as his second. I felt pressure from the pack to leave and it was too hard for me to stay, everything reminded me of Adam. Besides it made sense for me to go, it was hard enough for the werewolves to accept me in the first place. I felt it would be best to start somewhere fresh, some place far away from faes, vampires, and werewolves. I was too much of a danger magnet and only seemed to bring harm to those I love.
I parked the car and walked for a while until I was reasonably certain there was no one around. Then I took off my clothes and put them in the daypack and shifted.
Werewolves can take as much as fifteen minutes to shift shape – and shifting is painful for them, which is something to keep in mind. Werewolves aren't the friendliest animals anyway, but if they've just shifted, it's a good policy to leave them alone for a while.
Werewolves' instincts are inconvenient – that's why they don't tend to live long. Those same instincts are the reason their wild brothers lost to civilization while the coyotes were thriving, even in urban areas like Los Angeles.
The coyotes are my brothers. Oh, I'm not a werecoyote – if there even is such a thing. I am a walker.
The term is derived from "skinwalker," a witch of the Southwest Indian tribes who uses a skin to turn into a coyote or some other animal and goes around causing disease and death. The white settlers incorrectly used the term for all the native shapechangers and the name stuck.
Walkers' shifting – at least my shifting, because I don't know any other walkers – is quick and painless. One moment I'm a person and the next a coyote: pure magic. I just step from one form into the next.
I rubbed my nose against my foreleg to take away the last tingle of the change. It always takes a moment to adjust to moving on four feet instead of two. I know, because I looked it up, that coyotes have different eyesight than humans, but mine is pretty much the same in either form. My hearing picks up a little and so does my sense of smell, though even in human form I've got better senses than most.
I picked up the backpack, now stuffed with my clothes, and left it under a bunch of scrub. Then I shed the ephemera of my human existence and ran into the woods.
By the time I had chased three rabbits and teased a couple in a boat with a close-up glimpse of my lovely, furred self on the shore of the river, I felt much better.
Happily tired, in human shape, and newly clothed, I got into my car and said my usual prayer as I turned the key. This time the diesel engine caught and purred. I never know from day to day if the Rabbit will run. I drive it because it is cheap, not because it is a good car. There's a lot of truth in the adage that all cars named after animals are lemons.
Luckily my shop is not far from the park so it only took me 10 minutes to arrive. I parked the temperamental Rabbit in the lot, feeling more relaxed, I planned to put in a good day of work.
I didn't realize he was standing there at first. My nose isn't its best when surrounded by axle grease and burnt oil. So when someone made a polite noise near my feet to get my attention I thought he was a customer.
I was burrowed under the engine compartment of a Jetta, settling a rebuilt transmission into its new home. One of the drawbacks in running a one-women garage was that I had to stop and start every time the phone rang or a customer stopped by. It made me grumpy – which isn't a good way to deal with customers. I wasn't able to find any help lately that didn't insist on health benefits and a salary I just couldn't afford to pay. Not to mention it's hard to find someone who will do all the jobs I don't want to.
"Be with you in a sec," I said, trying not to sound snappish. I do my best not to scare off my customers if I can help it.
Transmission jacks be damned, the only way to get a transmission into an old Jetta is with muscle. Sometimes being a female is useful in my line of work – my hands are smaller so I can get them places a man can't. However, even weightlifting and karate can't make me as strong as a strong man. Usually leverage can compensate, but sometimes there's no substitute for muscle, and I had just barely enough to get the job done.
Grunting with effort, I held the transmission where it belonged with my knees and one hand. With the other I slipped the first bolt in and tightened it. I wasn't finished, but the transmission would stay where it was while I dealt with my customer.
I took a deep breath and smiled once brightly for practice before I rolled out from under the car. I snagged a rag to wipe the oil off my hands, and said, "Can I help you?" before I got a good enough look at the boy to see he wasn't a customer – though he certainly looked as though someone ought to help him.
The knees of his jeans were ripped out and stained with old blood and dirt. Over a dirty tee, he wore a too-small flannel shirt – inadequate clothing for November in central IL.
He looked gaunt, as though he'd been a while without food. My nose told me, even over the smell of gasoline, oil, and antifreeze permeating the garage, that it had been an equally long time since he'd seen a shower.
"I was wondering if you had some work I could do?" he asked hesitantly. "I saw the sign in the front window. I don't need a real job, ma'am. Just a few hours' work."
I could smell his anxiety before it was drowned out by a rush of adrenaline when I didn't immediately refuse. His words sped up until they crashed into one another. "A job would be okay, too, but I don't have a social security card, so it would have to be cash under the table."
Most of the people who come around looking for cash work are illegals trying to tide themselves over between harvest and planting season. This boy was white-bread American with chestnut hair and blue eyes. He was tall enough to be eighteen, I supposed, but my instincts, which are pretty good, pinned his age closer to fifteen. His shoulders were wide but bony, and his hands were a little large, as if he still had some growing to do before he grew into the man he would be.
"I'm a quick learner," he said. "I don't know a lot about fixing cars, but I used to help my uncle Mike keep his car running."
It is my own private policy not to break the law. I drive the speed limit, keep my cars insured, and pay a little more tax to the feds than I have to. I've given away a twenty or two to people who'd asked, but never hired someone who couldn't appear on my payroll.
He hadn't commented on how odd it was to see a woman mechanic. Sure, he'd probably been watching me for a while, long enough to get used to the idea – but, still, he hadn't said anything, and that won him points. But not enough points for what I was about to do.
My mothering instincts kicked in watching him shivering slightly in the damp November weather. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them to warm up his fingers, which were red with chill.
"All right," I said, slowly. It was not the wisest answer but it was the only on I could give. "We'll see how it works."
"There's a laundry room and a shower back through that door." I pointed to the door at the back of the shop. "My last assistant left some of his old work coveralls. You'll find them hanging on the hooks in the laundry room. If you want to shower and put those on you can run the clothes you're wearing through the washer. There's a fridge in the laundry room with a ham sandwich and some pop. Eat, and then come back out when you're ready."
After a moment he mumbled a thank-you and walked through the door, shutting it gently behind him. I let out the breath I'd been holding. Concern ran through me at the thought of what could have led a fifteen year old boy to arrive at my shop in such condition.
As he walked away I turned back to the transmission. The car cooperated, as they seldom do, so it didn't take me long. By the time my new help emerged clean and garbed in my old assistant's pair of coveralls, I was starting to put the rest of the car back together. Even the coveralls wouldn't be warm enough outside, but in the shop, with my big space heater going, he should be all right.
He was quick and efficient – he'd obviously spent a few hours under the hood of a car. He didn't stand around watching, but handed me parts before I asked, playing the part of a tool monkey as though it was an accustomed role. After a few minutes in silence I decided to coax him into talking to me.
"My first name is actually Mercedes, Mercy for short," I said, loosening an alternator bolt. "What do you want me to call you?"
His eyes lit for a minute. "Mercedes the Volkswagen mechanic?" His face closed down quickly, and he mumbled, "Sorry. Bet you've heard that a lot."
I grinned at him and handed him the bolt I'd taken out and stared on the next. "Yep. But I work on Mercedes, too – anything German-made. Porsche, Audi, BMW, and even the odd Opel or two. Mostly old stuff, out of dealer warranty, though I have the computers for most of the newer ones when they come in."
I turned my head away from him so I could get a better look at the stubborn second bolt. "You can call me Mercedes or Mercy, whichever you like. What do you want me to call you?"
"My name is LJ," he said after a pause.
"Well then, LJ," I said. "Would you give the Jetta's owner a call and tell him his car is ready?" I nodded toward the first car we had finished. "There's an invoice on the printer. His number is on the invoice along with the final cost of the transmission swap. When I get this belt replaced I'll take you to lunch – part of the wages."
"Okay," he said, sounding a little lost. He started for the door to the showers but I stopped him. The laundry and shower were in the back of the shop, but the office was on the side of the garage, next to a parking lot customers used.
"The office is straight through the gray door," I told him. "There's a cloth next to the phone you can use to hold the receiver so it doesn't get covered with grease.
I drove home that night and fretted about LJ. I'd paid him for his work in cash and told him he was welcome back. I was about to offer him a room at my home but before I could, he gave me a faint smile, tucked the money in a back pocket, and left in a hurry.
I pulled into my garage at home and headed around the side towards the front of the house. As I approached the porch I noticed a cat carrier was propped next to the door with Medea sitting on top. A small piece of paper was tapped to the front of it. Wow, funny how such a small thing could trigger such a vivid memory.
I turned into my drive with a crunch of gravel and stopped the old diesel Rabbit in front of my home. I noticed the cat carrier sitting on my porch as soon as I got out of the car.
Media gave me a plaintive yowl, but I picked up the note taped to the top of the carrier and read it before I let her out.
MS. THOMPSON, it said in heavy block letters, PLEASE KEEP YOUR FELINE OFF MY PROPERTY. IF I SEE IT AGAIN, I WILL EAT IT.
The note was unsigned.
I undid the latch and lifted the cat up and rubbed my face in her rabbitlike fur.
"Did the mean old werewolf stick the poor kitty in the box and leave her?" I asked.
She smelled like my neighbor, which told me that Adam had spent some time with her on his lap before he'd brought her over here. Most cats don't like werewolves – or walkers like me either. Medea likes everyone, poor old cat, even my grumpy neighbor. Which is why she often ended up in the cat carrier on my porch?
Why the Alpha werewolf had chosen to buy land right next to me, I suspect, had as much to do with the werewolf's urge to dominate those they see as lesser beings as it did with the superb riverfront view.
He didn't like having my old single-wide bringing down the value of his sprawling adobe edifice – though, as I sometimes pointed out to him, my trailer was already here when he bought his property and built on it. He also took every opportunity to remind me I was only here on his sufferance: a walker being no real match for a werewolf.
In response to these complaints, I bowed my head, spoke respectfully to his face – usually – and pulled the dilapidated old Rabbit I kept for parts out into my back field where it was clearly visible from Adam's bedroom window.
I was almost certain he wouldn't eat my cat, but I'd leave her inside for the next week or so to give the impression I was cowed by his threat. The trick with werewolves is never to confront them straight on.
I couldn't help but smile thinking back to how precarious our relationship was in the beginning. Medea took this moment to yowl loudly, effectively pulling me out of my reminiscing.
"Alright Medea," I said, reaching down to pull off the note and pick her up.
Hi Mercy, thanks for lending me your cat carrier.
Angie
Ah yes, I'd forgotten I had lent it to her. I picked up the carrier and walked into the house, Medea mewed, purred, and wagged her stub tail when I set her down and filled her food dish. She'd come to me as a stray and I'd thought for a while that some abusive person had chopped her tail off, but my vet said she was a Manx and born that way. I gave her one last stroke, and then went to my fridge to scrounge something for dinner.