Dead as a doornail - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,33
Jackson Herveaux and Patrick Furnan.
The two men, with their female companions, came to stand facing each other at the bottom of the steps. The assembled Weres passed between them to enter the church. Some nodded at one, some at the other, some at both. Fence-sitters. Even after their ranks had been reduced by the recent war with the witches, I counted twenty-five full-blooded adult Weres in Shreveport, a very large pack for such a small city. Its size was attributable to the Air Force base, I figured.
Everyone who walked between the two candidates was a full Were. I saw only two children. Of course, some parents might have left their kids in school rather than bring them to the funeral. But I was pretty sure I was seeing the truth of what Alcide had told me: Infertility and a high infant mortality rate plagued the Weres.
Alcide’s younger sister, Janice, had married a human. She herself would never change shape, since she was not the firstborn child. Her son’s recessive Were traits, Alcide had told me, might show as increased vigor and a great healing ability. Many professional athletes came from couples whose genetic pool contained a percentage of Were blood.
“We go in a second,” Alcide murmured. He was standing beside me, scanning the faces as they went by.
“I’m going to kill you later,” I told him, keeping my face calm for the Weres passing by. “Why didn’t you explain this?”
The tall man walked up the steps, his arms swinging as he walked, his large body moving with purpose and grace. His head swung toward me as he went by, and I met his eyes. They were very dark, but still I couldn’t distinguish the color. He smiled at me.
Alcide touched my hand, as if he knew my attention had wandered. He leaned over to whisper in my ear, “I need your help. I need you to find a chance after the funeral to read Patrick’s mind. He’s going to do something to sabotage my father.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me?” I was confused, and mostly I was hurt.
“I thought you might feel like you owed me anyway!”
“How do you figure that?”
“I know you killed Debbie.”
If he’d slapped me, it couldn’t have shocked me more. I have no idea what my face looked like. After the impact of the shock and the reflexive guilt wore off, I said, “You’d abjured her. What’s it to you?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing. She was already dead to me.” I didn’t believe that for a minute. “But you thought it would be a big deal to me, and you concealed it. I figure you’d guess you owed me.”
If I’d had a gun in my purse, I would’ve been tempted to pull it out then. “I don’t owe you squat,” I said. “I think you came to get me in your dad’s car because you knew I’d drive away once you said that.”
“No,” he said. We were still keeping our voices down, but I could see from the sideways glances we were getting that our intense colloquy was attracting attention. “Well, maybe. Please, forget what I said about you owing me. The fact is, my dad’s in trouble and I’d do just about anything to help him out. And you can help.”
“Next time you need help, just ask. Don’t trying blackmailing me into it or maneuvering me into it. I like to help people. But I hate to be pushed and tricked.” He’d lowered his eyes, so I grabbed his chin and made him look into mine. “I hate it.”
I glanced up at the top of the steps to gauge how much interest our quarrel was attracting. The tall man had reappeared. He was looking down at us without perceptible expression. But I knew we had his attention.
Alcide glanced up, too. His face reddened. “We need to go in now. Will you go with me?”
“What is the meaning of me going in with you?”
“It means you’re on my father’s side in his bid for the pack.”
“What does that oblige me to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why is it important for me to do it?”
“Though choosing a packmaster is pack business, it may influence those who know how much you helped us during the Witch War.”
Witch Skirmish would have been more accurate, because though it had certainly been them vs. us, the total number of people involved had been fairly small—say, forty or fifty. But in the history of the Shreveport pack, it was an epic episode, I gathered.