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Sea Glass Island Can Samantha heal a war hero’s heart? Third in the series!

Zero Hour The latest NUMA Files thriller is here!

Big Sky Summer Will secrets from the past thwart a second chance at love?

Ray of Light Book 2 in the Days of Redemption series

Patricia Briggs

"Patty long ago decided to ignore the tumult of critics and chase the fairies," reads the official biography of Patricia Briggs. That's as apt a way as any to describe the author of the Mercy Thompson series, a staple of any modern urban fantasy library that has landed its author atop the New York Times bestseller list time and again. Set in the same Pacific Northwest milieu where Briggs herself has spent much of her life, the Mercy Thompson series stars Mercedes Thompson, a Native American shapeshifter raised by werewolves and currently working as a mechanic who gets drawn into the conflicts of the local werewolves and vampires in Washington state's Tri-Cities area. The sexy, suspenseful brand of urban fantasy on ample display in such Mercy Thompson titles as Moon Called, Blood Bound, Iron Kissed, Bone Crossed and the recent New York Times bestseller Silver Borne have even inspired Briggs to start a spinoff series, the Alpha and Omega books. In a market crowded with bloody, steamy stories of vampires and werewolves, Patricia Briggs’ attention to Washington’s unique local atmosphere and her skill with strong heroines set her apart from the pack and leave readers howling for more.

Author Note

Dear Reader,

So where do stories come from?

The other day, I watched a fox run through our neighbor's pasture and then veer off to run just outside our fence line.

"Ah," I thought, "he's been here often enough to know about Danger Horse."

My big gray gelding protects his fields from coyotes, antelope, deer and, apparently, foxes. His name isn't really Danger Horse, but that's the one he acquired for his big snorting shows of fear when the only thing he's afraid of is missing his next meal or working too hard.

I wonder how the first meeting happened between horse and fox-how many times the gelding drove the fox off before the fox decided it was easier to run along the fence line though he'd had no problem running through my neighbor's horse herd.

Story ideas come like that, from sparks born of small incidents-the VWs in my driveway and a woman I know who made her living as a mechanic. The sparks flitter along meandering tracks, most of them dying out, but a few hit dry tinder and burst into life. Then I have a story.

Sometimes it works backwards too.

I've run my main characters through murder and mayhem until I, the characters, and the reader need a break, a chance to catch our breath. So I might slip in the coyote who followed us one day when we took the horses into the hills near home. She was so narrow from side to side that, from a distance, all we could see was a pair of big, triangular ears. Or use the little boy at the zoo, who, looking at a particularly wrinkled elephant, said, "Mommy, look at the elder-fant."

Best wishes,

Patty Briggs

Author Note

Dear Reader,

So where do stories come from?

The other day, I watched a fox run through our neighbor's pasture and then veer off to run just outside our fence line.

"Ah," I thought, "he's been here often enough to know about Danger Horse."

Sometimes it works backwards too.

Best wishes,

Patty Briggs

Author Note

Dear Reader,

So where do stories come from?

The other day, I watched a fox run through our neighbor's pasture and then veer off to run just outside our fence line.

"Ah," I thought, "he's been here often enough to know about Danger Horse."

Sometimes it works backwards too.

Best wishes,

Patty Briggs

River Marked

FROM THE DALLES CHRONICLE
Two Local Men Still Missing
Thomas Kerrington (62) and his son Christopher Kerrington(40) are still missing, though the boat that they were fishing in has been recovered. The boat was found abandoned two miles downstream of John Day Dam yesterday. The men set out on a morning fishing expedition Monday but never returned. Sherman
Co. marine deputy Max Whitehead says, “This has been an unusually bad year for boating fatalities on the Columbia. We’re stepping up patrols and urging boaters to take their safety very seriously.” Searchers are scouring the river, but after four days, hopes are low for a safe recovery of the two men.

FROM HOOD RIVER NEWS
This week’s fish counts are drastically down at both John Day and The Dalles dams. Allen Robb of the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife says, “We are concerned that there was some sort of toxic dump in the river somewhere between the dams. There is a significant reduction in the numbers of fish, and our operators are telling us that this is especially true of our larger fish such as the adult coho salmon.” Although extensive testing is under way, no sign of poison has been found in the river nor has there been an unusually high number of dead fish. “The fish are spooked,” says local fishing guide Jon Turner Bowman.

Chapter One

UNDER THE GLARE OF STREETLIGHTS, I COULD SEE that the grass of Stefan’s front lawn was dried to yellow by the high summer heat. It had been mowed, but only with an eye to trimming the length of the grass, not to making it aesthetically pleasing. Judging by the debris of dead grass in the yard, the lawn had been left to grow long enough that the city might have demanded it be
mowed. The grass that remained was so dry that whoever had cut it wouldn’t have to do it again unless someone started watering.

I pulled the Rabbit up to the curb and parked. The last time I’d seen Stefan’s house, it had fit right into his ritzy neighborhood. The yard’s neglect hadn’t spread to the house’s exterior yet, but I worried about the people inside.

Stefan was resilient, smart, and . . . just Stefan—able to talk Pokémon in ASL with deaf boys, defeat nasty villains while locked up in a cage, then drive off in his VW bus to fight bad guys another day. He was like Superman, but with fangs and oddly impaired morals.

I got out of my car and walked up the sidewalk toward the front porch. In the driveway, Scooby-Doo looked out at me eagerly through a layer of dust on the windows of Stefan’s usually meticulously tended bus. I had gotten the big stuffed dog for Stefan to go with the Mystery Machine paint job.

Author Note

Dear Reader,

So where do stories come from?

The other day, I watched a fox run through our neighbor's pasture and then veer off to run just outside our fence line.

"Ah," I thought, "he's been here often enough to know about Danger Horse."

Sometimes it works backwards too.

Best wishes,

Patty Briggs

Masques & Wolfsbane

Prologue

The wolf stumbled from the cave, knowing that someone was searching for him and he couldn’t protect himself this time. Feverish and ill, his head throbbing so hard that it hurt to move, he couldn’t pull his thoughts together.

After all this time, after all of his preparations, he was going to be brought down by an illness.

The searcher’s tendrils spread out again, brushing across him without recognition or pause. The Northlands were rife with wild magic—which is why other magic couldn’t work correctly here. The searcher looked for a wizard and would never notice the wolf who concealed the man in its shape unless the fever betrayed him.

He should lie low, it was the best defense . . . but he was so afraid, and his illness clogged his thoughts.

Death didn’t frighten him; he sometimes thought he had come here seeking it. He was more afraid he wouldn’t die, afraid of what he would become. Perhaps the one who looked for him was just idly hunting—but when he felt a third sweep, he knew it was unlikely. He must have given
himself away somehow. He’d always known that he would be found one day. He’d just never thought it would be when he was so weak.

He fought to blend better with the form he’d taken, to lose himself in the wolf. He succeeded.

The fourth sizzle of magic, the searcher’s magic, was too much for the wolf. The wolf was a simpler creature than the mage who hid within him. If he was frightened, he attacked or ran. There was no one here to attack, so he ran.

It wasn’t until the wolf was tired that he could gather his humanity—that was a laugh, his humanity—well then, he gathered himself together and stopped running. His ribs ached with the force of his breath and the tough pads of his feet were cut by stones and an occasional crystal of ice from a land where the sun would never completely melt winter’s gift. He was shivering though he felt hot, feverish. He was sick.

He couldn’t keep running—and it wasn’t only the wolf who craved escape—because running wasn’t escape, not from what he fled.

He closed his eyes, but that didn’t keep his head from throbbing in time with his pounding pulse. If he wasn’t going to die out here, he would have to find shelter. Someplace warm, where he could wait and recover. He was
lucky he’d come south, and it was high summer. If it had been winter, his only chance would have been to return to the caves he’d run from.

A pile of leaves under a thicket of aspen caught his attention. If they were deep enough to be dry underneath, they would do for shelter. He headed downhill and started for the trees.

There was no warning. The ground simply gave out from under him so fast he was lying ten feet down on a pile of rotted stakes before he realized what had happened.

It was an old pit trap. He stared to get up and realized that he hadn’t been as lucky as he thought. The stakes had snapped when he hit them, but so had his rear leg.

Author Note

Dear Reader,

So where do stories come from?

The other day, I watched a fox run through our neighbor's pasture and then veer off to run just outside our fence line.

"Ah," I thought, "he's been here often enough to know about Danger Horse."

Sometimes it works backwards too.

Best wishes,

Patty Briggs