“What? What do I have to do?”
“You just watch the proceedings and congratulate the winner, no matter who it is.”
Of course, to Alcide, this struggle for succession was the most important thing going. It was hard for him to get that I didn’t have the same priorities. I was getting swamped by a wave of supernatural obligations.
The werewolf pack of Shreveport said they owed me. I owed Calvin. Andy Bellefleur owed me and Dawson and Sam for solving his case. I owed Andy for saving my life. Though I’d cleared Andy’s mind about Halleigh’s complete normality, so maybe that canceled my debt to him for shooting Sweetie.
Sweetie had owed payback to her assailant.
Eric and I were even, I figured.
I owed Bill slightly.
Sam and I were more or less caught up.
Alcide personally owed me, as far as I was concerned. I had showed up for this pack shit and tried to follow the rules to help him out.
In the world I lived in, the world of human people, there were ties and debts and consequences and good deeds. That was what bound people to society; maybe that was what constituted society. And I tried to live in my little niche in it the best way I could.
Joining in the secret clans of the two-natured and the undead made my life in human society much more difficult and complicated.
And interesting.
And sometimes . . . fun.
Alcide had been talking at least some of the time I’d been thinking, and I’d missed a lot of it. He was picking up on that. He said, “I’m sorry if I’m boring you, Sookie,” in a stiff voice.
I rolled over to face him. His green eyes were full of hurt. “Not bored. I just have a lot to think about. Leave the invitation, okay? I’ll get back with you on that.” I wondered what you wore to a fighting-for-packmaster event. I wondered if the senior Mr. Herveaux and the somewhat pudgy motorcycle dealership owner would actually roll on the ground and grapple.
Alcide’s green eyes were full of puzzlement. “You’re acting so strange, Sookie. I felt so comfortable with you before. Now I feel like I don’t know you.”
Valid
had been one of my Words of the Day last week. “That’s a valid observation,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “I felt just as comfortable with you when I first met you. Then I started to find out stuff. Like about Debbie, and shifter politics, and the servitude of some shifters to the vamps.”
“No society is perfect,” Alcide said defensively. “As for Debbie, I don’t ever want to hear her name again.”
“So be it,” I said. God knew I couldn’t get any sicker of hearing her name.
Leaving the cream envelope on the bedside table, Alcide took my hand, bent over it, and laid a kiss on the back of it. It was a ceremonial gesture, and I wished I knew its significance. But the moment I would have asked, Alcide was gone.
“Lock the door behind you,” I called. “Just turn the little button on the doorknob.” I guess he did, because I went right back to sleep, and no one woke me up until it was almost time for me to go to work. Except there was a note on my front door that said, “Got Linda T. to stand in for you. Take the night off. Sam.” I went back inside and took off my waitress clothes and pulled on some jeans. I’d been ready to go to work, and now I felt oddly at a loss.
I was almost cheered to realize I had another obligation, and I went into the kitchen to start fulfilling it.
After an hour and a half of struggling to cook in an unfamiliar kitchen with about half the usual paraphernalia, I was on my way to Calvin’s house in Hotshot with a dish of chicken breasts baked with rice in a sour-cream sauce, and some biscuits. I didn’t call ahead. I planned to drop off the food and go. But when I reached the little community, I saw there were several cars parked on the road in front of Calvin’s trim little house. “Dang,” I said. I didn’t want to get involved any further with Hotshot than I already was. My brother’s new nature and Calvin’s courting had already dragged me in too far.
Heart sinking, I parked and ran my arm through the handle of the basket full of biscuits. I took the hot dish of chicken and rice in oven-mitted hands, gritted my teeth against the ache in my shoulder, and marched my butt up to Calvin’s front door. Stackhouses did the right thing.
Crystal answered the door. The surprise and pleasure on her face shamed me. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, doing her best to be offhand. “Please come in.” She stood back, and now I could see that the small living room was full of people, including my brother. Most of them were werepanthers, of course. The werewolves of Shreveport had sent a representative; to my astonishment, it was Patrick Furnan, contender for the throne and Harley-Davidson salesman.
Crystal introduced me to the woman who appeared to be acting as hostess, Maryelizabeth Norris. Maryelizabeth moved as if she hadn’t any bones. I was willing to bet Maryelizabeth didn’t often leave Hotshot. The shifter introduced me around the room very carefully, making sure I understood the relationship Calvin bore to each individual. They all began to blur after a bit. But I could see that (with a few exceptions) the natives of Hotshot ran to two types: the small, dark-haired, quick ones like Crystal, and the fairer, stockier ones with beautiful green or golden-brown eyes, like Calvin. The surnames were mostly Norris or Hart.
Patrick Furnan was the last person Crystal reached. “Why, of course I know you,” he said heartily, beaming at me as if we’d danced at a wedding together. “This here’s Alcide’s girlfriend,” he said, making sure he was heard by everyone in the room. “Alcide’s the son of the other candidate for packmaster.”
There was long silence, which I would definitely characterize as “charged.”
“You’re mistaken,” I said in a normal conversational tone. “Alcide and I are friends.” I smiled at him in such a way as to let him know he better not be alone with me in an alley anytime soon.
“My mistake,” he said, smooth as silk.
Calvin was receiving a hero’s welcome home. There were balloons and banners and flowers and plants, and his house was meticulously clean. The kitchen had been full of food. Now Maryelizabeth stepped forward, turned her back to cut Patrick Furnan dead, and said, “Come this way, honey. Calvin’s ready to see you.” If she’d had a trumpet handy, she’d have blown a flourish on it. Maryelizabeth was not a subtle woman, though she had a deceptive air of mystery due to her wide-spaced golden eyes.
I guess I could have been more uncomfortable, if there’d been a bed of red-hot coals to walk on.
Maryelizabeth ushered me into Calvin’s bedroom. His furniture was very nice, with spare, clean lines. It looked Scandinavian, though I know little about furniture—or style, for that matter. He had a high bed, a queen-size, and he was propped up in it against sheets with an African motif of hunting leopards. (Someone had a sense of humor, anyway.) Against the deep colors in the sheets and the deep orange of the bedspread, Calvin looked pale. He was wearing brown pajamas, and he looked exactly like a man who’d just been released from the hospital. But he was glad to see me. I found myself thinking there was something a bit sad about Calvin Norris, something that touched me despite myself.
“Come sit,” he said, indicating the bed. He moved over a little so I’d have room to perch. I guess he’d made some signal, because the man and the woman who’d been in the room—Dixie and Dixon—silently eased out through the door, shutting it behind them.
I perched, a little uneasily, on the bed beside him. He had one of those tables you most often see in hospitals, the kind that can be rolled across the bed. There was a glass of ice tea and a plate on it, steam rising from the food. I gestured that he should begin. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer while I sat quietly. I wondered to whom the prayer was addressed.
“Tell me about it,” Calvin said as he unfolded his napkin, and that made me a lot more comfortable. He ate while I told him what had happened in the alley. I noticed that the food on the tray was the chicken-and-rice casserole I’d brought, with a dab of mixed vegetable casserole and two of my biscuits. He wanted me to see that he was eating the food I’d prepared for him. I was touched, which sounded a warning bell at the back of my brain.
“So, without Dawson, there’s no telling what would’ve happened,” I concluded. “I thank you for sending him. How is he?”
Calvin said, “Hanging on. They airlifted him from Grainger to Baton Rouge. He would be dead, if he wasn’t a Were. He’s lasted this long; I think he’ll make it.”
I felt terrible.
“Don’t go blaming yourself for this,” Calvin said, his voice suddenly sounding deeper. “This is Dawson’s choice.”
“Huh?” would’ve sounded ignorant, so I said, “How so?”
“His choice of professions. His choice of actions. Maybe he should have leaped for her a few seconds earlier. Why’d he wait? I don’t know. How’d she know to aim low, given the poor light? I don’t know. Choices lead to consequences.” Calvin was struggling to express something. He was not naturally an articulate man, and he was trying to convey a thought both important and abstract. “There’s no blame,” he said finally.
“It would be nice to believe that, and I hope some day I do,” I said. “Maybe I’m on my way to believing it.” It was true that I was sick of self-blame and second-guessing.
“I suspect the Weres are going to invite you to their little packleader shindig,” Calvin said. He took my hand. His was warm and dry.
I nodded.
“I bet you’ll go,” he said.
“I think I have to,” I said uneasily, wondering what his goal was.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” Calvin said. “I have no authority over you.” He didn’t sound too happy about that. “But if you go, please watch your back. Not for my sake; that don’t mean nothing to you, yet. But for yourself.”
“I can promise that,” I said after a careful pause. Calvin was not a guy to whom you blurted the first idea in your head. He was a serious man.
Calvin gave me one of his rare smiles. “You’re a damn fine cook,” he said. I smiled back.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and got up. His hand tightened on mine and pulled. You don’t fight a man who’s just gotten out of the hospital, so I bent toward him and laid my cheek to his lips.
“No,” he said, and when I turned a little to find out what was wrong, he kissed me on the lips.
Frankly, I expected to feel nothing. But his lips were as warm and dry as his hands, and he smelled like my cooking, familiar and homey. It was surprising, and surprisingly comfortable, to be so close to Calvin Norris. I backed off a little, and I am sure my face showed the mild shock I felt. The werepanther smiled and released my hand.
“The good thing about being in the hospital was you coming to see me,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger now that I’m home.”
“Of course not,” I said, ready to be out of the room so I could regain my composure.
The outer room had emptied of most of its crowd while I talked to Calvin. Crystal and Jason had vanished, and Maryelizabeth was gathering up plates with the help of an adolescent werepanther. “Terry,” Maryelizabeth said with a sideways inclination of her head. “My daughter. We live next door.”
I nodded to the girl, who gave me a darting look before turning back to her task. She was not a fan of mine. She was from the fairer bloodstock, like Maryelizabeth and Calvin, and she was a thinker. “Are you going to marry my dad?” she asked me.
“I’m not planning on marrying anyone,” I said cautiously. “Who’s your dad?”
Maryelizabeth gave Terry a sidelong look that promised Terry she’d be sorry later. “Terry is Calvin’s,” she said.
I was still puzzled for a second or two, but suddenly, the stance of both the younger and the older woman, their tasks, their air of comfort in this house, clicked into place.
I didn’t say a word. My face must have shown something, for Maryelizabeth looked alarmed, and then angry.
“Don’t presume to judge how we live our life,” she said. “We are not like you.”
“That’s true,” I said, swallowing my revulsion. I forced a smile to my lips. “Thank you for introducing me around. I appreciate it. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“We can take care of it,” said Terry, giving me another look that was a strange combination of respect and hostility.
“We should never have sent you to school,” Maryelizabeth said to the girl. Her wide-spaced golden eyes were both loving and regretful.
“Good-bye,” I said, and after I recovered my coat, I left the house, trying not to hurry. To my dismay, Patrick Furnan was waiting for me beside my car. He was holding a motorcycle helmet under his arm, and I spotted the Harley a little farther down the road.
“You interested in hearing what I’ve got to say?” the bearded Were asked.
“No, actually not,” I told him.
“He’s not going to keep on helping you out for nothing,” Furnan said, and my whole head snapped around so I could look at this man.
“What are you talking about?”
“A thank-you and a kiss ain’t going to hold him. He’s going to demand payment sooner or later. Won’t be able to help it.”
“I don’t recall asking you for advice,” I said. He stepped closer. “And you keep your distance.” I let my gaze roam to the houses surrounding us. The watchful gaze of the community was full upon us; I could feel its weight.
“Sooner or later,” Furnan repeated. He grinned at me suddenly. “I hope it’s sooner. You can’t two-time a Were, you know. Or a panther. You’ll get ripped to shreds between ’em.”
“I’m not two-timing
anyone,
” I said, frustrated almost beyond bearing at his insistence that he knew my love life better than I did. “I’m not dating either of them.”
“Then you have no protection,” he said triumphantly.
I just couldn’t win.
“Go to hell,” I said, completely exasperated. I got in my car and drove away, letting my eyes glide over the Were as if he weren’t there. (This “abjure” concept could come in handy.) The last thing I saw in my rearview mirror was Patrick Furnan sliding his helmet on, still watching my retreating car.