Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set (164 page)

If I hadn’t really cared who won the King of the Mountain contest between Jackson Herveaux and Patrick Furnan, I did now.

I
WAS WASHING THE DISHES I’D USED AS I COOKED FOR Calvin. My little duplex was peaceful. If Halleigh was home, she was being quiet as a mouse. I didn’t mind washing dishes, to tell you the truth. It was a good time to let my mind drift around, and often I made good decisions while I was doing something completely mundane. Not too surprisingly, I was thinking of the night before. I was trying to remember exactly what Sweetie had said. Something about it had struck me wrong, but at the moment I hadn’t exactly been in a position to raise my hand to ask a question. It had something to do with Sam.

I finally recalled that though she’d told Andy Bellefleur that the dog in the alley was a shapeshifter, she hadn’t known it was Sam. There wasn’t anything strange about that, since Sam had been in a bloodhound shape, not his usual collie form.

After I’d realized what had been bothering me, I thought my mind would be at peace. That didn’t happen. There was something else—something else Sweetie had said. I thought and thought, but it just wouldn’t pop to the top of my brain.

To my surprise, I found myself calling Andy Bellefleur at home. His sister Portia was just as surprised as I was when she answered, and she said rather coldly that she’d find Andy.

“Yes, Sookie?” Andy sounded neutral.

“Let me ask a question, Andy.”

“I’ll listen.”

“When Sam was shot,” I said, and paused, trying to figure out what to say.

“Okay,” Andy said. “What about it?”

“Is it true that the bullet didn’t match the others?”

“We didn’t retrieve a bullet in every case.” Not a direct answer, but probably as good as I was going to get.

“Hmmm. Okay,” I said, then thanked him and hung up, uncertain if I’d learned what I wanted or not. I had to push it out of my mind and do something else. If there was a question there, it would eventually work its way to the top of the heap of the issues that burdened my thoughts.

What remained of the evening was quiet, which was getting to be a rare pleasure. With so little house to clean, and so little yard to care for, there would be lots of free hours to come. I read for an hour, worked a crossword puzzle, and went to bed at about eleven.

Amazingly, no one woke me all night. No one died, there weren’t any fires, and no one had to alert me to any emergency.

The next morning I rose feeling better than I had in a week. A glance at the clock told me I’d slept all the way through to ten o’clock. Well, that wasn’t so surprising. My shoulder felt nearly healed; my conscience had settled itself. I didn’t think I had many secrets to keep, and that was a tremendous relief. I was used to keeping other people’s secrets, but not my own.

The phone rang as I swallowed the last of my morning coffee. I put my paperback facedown on the kitchen table to mark my place and got up to answer it. “Hello,” I said cheerfully.

“It’s today,” Alcide said, voice vibrating with excitement. “You need to come.”

Thirty minutes my peace had lasted. Thirty minutes.

“I’m guessing you mean the contest for the position of packmaster.”

“Of course.”

“And I need to be there why?”

“You need to be there because the entire pack and all friends of the pack have to be there,” Alcide said, his voice brooking no dissent. “Christine especially thought you should be a witness.”

I might have argued if he hadn’t added the bit about Christine. The wife of the former packmaster had struck me as a very intelligent woman with a cool head.

“All right,” I said, trying not to sound grumpy. “Where and when?”

“At noon, be at the empty building at 2005 Clairemont. It used to be David & Van Such, the printing company.”

I got a few directions and hung up. While I showered, I reasoned that this was a sporting event, so I dressed in my old denim skirt with a long-sleeved red tee. I pulled on some red tights (the skirt was quite short) and some black Mary Janes. They were a little scuffed, so I hoped that Christine would not look down at my shoes. I tucked my silver cross into my shirt; the religious significance wouldn’t bother the Weres at all, but the silver might.

The defunct printing company of David & Van Such had been in a very modern building, in an equally modern industrial park, largely deserted this Saturday. All the businesses had been constructed to match: low gray stone and dark glass edifices, with crepe myrtle bushes all around, grass medians, and nice curbing. David & Van Such featured an ornamental bridge over an ornamental pond, and a red front door. In the spring, and after some restorative maintenance, it would be as pretty as a modern business building could get. Today, in the fading phase of winter, the dead weeds that had grown high during the previous summer waved in a chilly breeze. The skeletal crepe myrtles needed pruning back, and the water in the pond looked stagnant, with trash floating dismally here and there. The David & Van Such parking lot contained about thirty cars, including—ominously—an ambulance.

Though I wore a jacket, the day suddenly seemed colder as I went from the parking lot and across the bridge to the front door. I was sorry I’d left my heavier coat at home, but it hadn’t seemed worth bringing for a brief run between enclosed spaces. The glass front of David & Van Such, broken only by the red door, reflected the clear pale blue sky and the dead grass.

It didn’t seem right to knock at a business door, so I slipped inside. Two people were ahead of me, having crossed the now-empty reception area. They passed through plain gray double doors. I followed them, wondering what I was getting into.

We entered what had been the manufacturing area, I suppose; the huge presses were long gone. Or maybe this cavern of a room had been full of desks manned by clerks taking orders or doing accounting work. Skylights in the roof let in some illumination. There was a cluster of people close to the middle of the space.

Well, I hadn’t gotten the clothes thing right. The women were mostly wearing nicer pants outfits, and I glimpsed a dress here and there. I shrugged. Who could have known?

There were a few people in the crowd I hadn’t seen at the funeral. I nodded at a red-haired Were named Amanda (I knew her from the Witch War), and she nodded back. I was surprised to spot Claudine and Claude. The twins looked marvelous, as always. Claudine was wearing a deep green sweater and black pants, and Claude was wearing a black sweater and deep green pants. The effect was striking. Since the two fairies were the only obvious non-Weres in attendance, I went to stand with them.

Claudine bent and kissed me on the cheek, and so did Claude. Their kisses felt exactly the same.

“What’s going to happen?” I whispered the question because the group was abnormally quiet. I could see things hanging from the ceiling, but in the poor light I couldn’t imagine what they were.

“There will be several tests,” Claudine murmured. “You’re not much of a screamer, right?”

I never had been, but I wondered if I’d break new ground today.

A door opened on the far side of the room, and Jackson Herveaux and Patrick Furnan came in. They were naked. Having seen very few men naked, I didn’t have much basis for comparison, but I have to say that these two Weres weren’t my ideal. Jackson, though certainly fit, was an older man with skinny legs, and Patrick (though he, too, looked strong and muscular) was barrel-like in form.

After I’d adjusted to the nakedness of the men, I noticed that each was accompanied by another Were. Alcide followed his father, and a young blond man trailed Patrick. Alcide and the blond Were remained fully clothed. “It would’ve been nice if
they’d
been naked, huh?” Claudine whispered, nodding at the younger men. “They’re the seconds.”

Like in a duel. I looked to see if they carried pistols or swords, but their hands were empty.

I noticed Christine only when she went to the front of the crowd. She reached above her head and clapped her hands one time. There hadn’t been much chatter before this, but now the huge space fell completely silent. The delicate woman with her silver hair commanded all attention.

She consulted a booklet before she began. “We meet to discern the next leader of the Shreveport pack, also called the Long Tooth pack. To be the leader of the pack, these Weres must compete in three tests.” Christine paused to look down at the book.

Three was a good mystical number. I would have expected three.

I hoped none of these tests involved blood. Fat chance.

“The first test is the test of agility.” Christine gestured behind her at a roped-off area. It looked like a giant playground in the dim light. “Then the test of endurance.” She pointed at a carpeted area to her left. “Then the test of might in battle.” She waved a hand at a structure behind her.

So much for no blood.

“Then the winner must mate with another Were, to ensure the survival of the pack.”

I sure hoped part four would be symbolic. After all, Patrick Furnan had a wife, who was standing apart with a group that was definitely pro-Patrick.

That seemed like four tests to me, not three, unless the mating part was kind of like the winner’s trophy.

Claude and Claudine took my hands and gave them a simultaneous squeeze. “This is gonna be bad,” I whispered, and they nodded in unison.

I saw two uniformed paramedics standing toward the back of the crowd. They were both shifters of some kind, their brain patterns told me. With them was a person—well, maybe a creature—I hadn’t seen for months: Dr. Ludwig. She caught my eye and bowed to me. Since she was around three feet tall, she didn’t have far to lean. I bowed back. Dr. Ludwig had a large nose, olive skin, and thick wavy brown hair. I was glad she was there. I had no idea what Dr. Ludwig actually was, other than nonhuman, but she was a good doctor. My back would have been permanently scarred—assuming I’d lived—if Dr. Ludwig hadn’t treated me after a maenad attack. I’d escaped with a couple of bad days and a fine white tracery across my shoulder blades, thanks to the tiny doctor.

The contestants entered the “ring”—actually a large square marked off by those velvet ropes and metal-topped posts that they use in hotels. I’d thought the enclosed area looked like a playground, but now, as the lights came up, I realized I was seeing something more like a jumping arena for horses crossed with a gymnastics arena—or a course for a dog agility competition for giant dogs.

Christine said, “You will change.” Christine moved away to melt back into the crowd. Both candidates dropped to the ground, and the air around them began to shimmer and distort. Changing quickly at one’s desire was a great source of pride among shifters. The two Weres achieved their change at nearly the same instant. Jackson Herveaux became a huge black wolf, like his son. Patrick Furnan was pale gray, broad in the chest, a bit shorter in length.

As the small crowd drew closer, hugging the velvet ropes, one of the biggest men I’d ever seen emerged from the darkest shadows to step into the arena. I recognized him as the man whom I’d last seen at Colonel Flood’s funeral. At least six and half feet tall, today he was bare-chested and barefoot. He was impressively muscular, and his chest was as hairless as his head. He looked like a genie; he would have appeared quite natural with a sash and pantaloons. Instead, he was wearing aged blue jeans. His eyes were pits of pitch. Of course, he was a shape-shifter of some kind, but I could not imagine what he turned into.

“Whoa,” breathed Claude.

“Hooboy,” whispered Claudia.

“Wowzers,” I muttered.

Standing between the contenders, the tall man led them to the start of the course.

“Once the test begins, no pack member can interrupt,” he said, looking from one Were to the other.

“First contestant is Patrick, wolf of this pack,” the tall man said. His bass voice was as dramatic as the distant rumble of drums.

I understood, then; he was the referee. “Patrick goes first, by coin flip,” the tall man said.

Before I could think it was pretty funny that all this ceremony included a coin toss, the pale wolf was off, moving so fast that I could hardly keep track of him. He flew up a ramp, leaped three barrels, hit the ground on the far side at a dash, went up another ramp and through a ring hanging from the ceiling (which rocked violently after he was through it), and dropped down on the ground, crawling on all fours through a clear tunnel that was very narrow and twisted at intervals. It was like the one sold in pet stores for ferrets or gerbils, just bigger. Once out of the tunnel, the wolf, mouth open in a pant, came to a level area covered with Astroturf. Here, he paused and considered before putting out a foot. Every step was like that, as the wolf worked its way across the twenty yards or so of this particular area. Suddenly a section of Astroturf leaped up as a trap snapped shut, narrowly missing the wolf ’s hind leg. The wolf yipped in consternation, frozen in place. It must have been agonizing, trying to restrain himself from dashing for the safety of the platform that was now only a few feet away.

I was shivering, though this contest had little to do with me. The tension was clearly showing among the Weres. They didn’t seem to be moving quite as humans did anymore. Even the overly made-up Mrs. Furnan had wide round eyes now, eyes that didn’t look like a woman’s even under all that makeup.

As the gray wolf took his final test, a leap from a dead stop that had to cover the length of perhaps two cars, a howl of triumph erupted from Patrick’s mate’s throat. The gray wolf stood safely on the platform. The referee checked a stopwatch in his hand.

“Second candidate,” said the big man, “Jackson Herveaux, wolf of this pack.” A brain close to me supplied me with the big man’s name.

“Quinn,” I whispered to Claudine. Her eyes opened wide. The name was significant to her in a way I could not guess.