From Dead To Worse

Chapter 7

Dawson's pickup, a Dodge Ram, although battered on the outside, was orderly within. It wasn't a new vehicle by any means— probably five years old—but it was very well-maintained both under the hood and in the cab.

"You're not a member of the pack, Dawson, right?"

"It's Tray. Tray Dawson."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Dawson shrugged, as if to sayNo big deal. "I never was a good pack animal," he said. "I couldn't keep in line. I couldn't follow the chain of command."

"So why are you joining in this fight?" I said.

"Patrick Furnan tried to put me out of business," Dawson said.

"Why'd he do that?"

"Aren't that many other motorcycle repair shops in the area, especially since Furnan bought the Harley-Davidson dealership in Shreveport," Tray explained. "That so-and-so's greedy. He wants it all for himself. He doesn't care who goes broke. When he realized I was sticking with my shop, he sent a couple of his guys down to see me. They beat me up, busted up the shop."

"They must have been really good," I said. It was hard to believe anyone could best Tray Dawson. "Did you call the police?"

"No. The cops in Bon Temps aren't that crazy about me anyway. But I threw in with Alcide."

Detective Cal Myers, obviously, was not above doing Furnan's dirty work. It was Myers who'd collaborated with Furnan in cheating in the packmaster contest. But I was truly shocked that he would go as far as murdering Maria-Star, whose only sin was being loved by Alcide. We'd seen it with our own eyes, though.

"What's the deal with you and the police in Bon Temps?" I asked, as long as we were talking about law enforcement.

He laughed. "I used to be a cop; did you know that?"

"No," I said, genuinely surprised. "No kidding?"

"For real," he said. "I was on the force in New Orleans. But I didn't like the politics, and my captain was a real bastard, pardon me."

I nodded gravely. It had been a long time since someone had apologized for using bad language within my hearing. "So, something happened?"

"Yeah, eventually things came to a head. The captain accused me of taking some money this scuzzbag had left lying on a table when we arrested him in his home." Tray shook his head in disgust. "I had to quit then. I liked the job."

"What did you like about it?"

"No two days were alike. Yeah, sure, we got in the cars and patrolled. That was the same. But every time we got out something different would happen."

I nodded. I could understand that. Every day at the bar was a little different, too, though probably not as different as Tray's days had been in the patrol car.

We drove in silence for a while. I could tell Tray was thinking about the odds of Alcide overcoming Furnan in the struggle for dominance. He was thinking Alcide was a lucky guy to have dated Maria-Star and me, and all the luckier since that bitch Debbie Pelt had vanished. Good riddance, Tray thought.

"Now I get to ask you a question," Tray said.

"Only fair."

"You have something to do with Debbie disappearing?"

I took a deep breath. "Yeah. Self-defense."

"Good for you. Someone needed to do it."

We were quiet again for at least ten minutes. Not to drag the past into the present too much, but Alcide had broken up with Debbie Pelt before I met him. Then he dated me a little. Debbie decided I was an enemy, and she tried to kill me. I got her first. I'd come to terms with it . . . as much as you ever do. However, it had been impossible for Alcide to ever look at me again in the same way, and who could blame him? He'd found Maria-Star, and that was a good thing.

Had been a good thing.

I felt tears well up in my eyes and looked out the window. We'd passed the racetrack and the turnoff to Pierre Bossier Mall, and we went a couple more exits before Tray turned the truck onto the off ramp.

We meandered through a modest neighborhood for a while, Tray checking his rearview mirror so often that even I realized he was watching for anyone following us. Tray suddenly turned into a driveway and pulled around to the back of one of the slightly larger homes, which was demurely clad in white siding. We parked under a porte cochere in the back, along with another pickup. There was a small Nissan parked off to the side. There were a couple of motorcycles, too, and Tray gave them a glance of professional interest.

"Whose place?" I was a little hesitant about asking yet another question, but after all, I did want to know where I was.

"Amanda's," he said. He waited for me to precede him, and I went up the three steps leading up to the back door and rang the bell.

"Who's there?" asked a muffled voice.

"Sookie and Dawson," I said.

The door opened cautiously, the entrance blocked by Amanda so we couldn't see past her. I don't know much about handguns, but she had a big revolver in her hand pointed steadily at my chest. This was the second time in two days I'd had a gun pointed at me. Suddenly, I felt very cold and a little dizzy.

"Okay," Amanda said after looking us over sharply.

Alcide was standing behind the door, a shotgun at the ready. He'd stepped out into view as we came in, and when his own senses had checked us out, he stood down. He put the shotgun on the kitchen counter and sat at the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry about Maria-Star, Alcide," I said, forcing the words through stiff lips. Having guns aimed at you is just plain terrifying, especially at close range.

"I haven't gotten it yet," he said, his voice flat and even. I decided he was saying that the impact of her death hadn't hit him. "We were thinking about moving in together. It would have saved her life."

There wasn't any point in wallowing in what-might-have-been. That was only another way to torture yourself. What had actually happened was bad enough.

"We know who did it," Dawson said, and a shiver ran through the room. There were more Weres in the house—I could sense them now—and they had all become alert at Tray Dawson's words.

"What? How?" Without my seeing the movement, Alcide was on his feet.

"She got her witch friends to do a reconstruction," Tray said, nodding in my direction. "I watched. It was two guys. One I'd never seen, so Furnan's brought in some wolves from outside. The second was Cal Myers."

Alcide's big hands were clenched in fists. He didn't seem to know where to start speaking, he had so many reactions. "Furnan's hired help," Alcide said, finally picking a jumping-in point. "So we're within our rights to kill on sight. We'll snatch one of the bastards and make him talk. We can't bring a hostage here; someone would notice. Tray, where?"

"Hair of the Dog," he answered.

Amanda wasn't too crazy about that idea. She owned that bar, and using it as an execution or torture site didn't appeal to her. She opened her mouth to protest. Alcide faced her and snarled, his face twisting into something that wasn't quite Alcide. She cowered and nodded her assent.

Alcide raised his voice even more for his next pronouncement. "Cal Myers is Kill on Sight."

"But he's a pack member, and members get trials," Amanda said, and then cowered, correctly anticipating Alcide's wordless roar of rage.

"You haven't asked me about the man who tried to kill me," I said. I wanted to defuse the situation, if that was possible.

As furious as he was, Alcide was still too decent to remind me that I'd lived and Maria-Star hadn't, or that he'd loved Maria-Star much more than he'd ever cared about me. Both thoughts crossed his mind, though.

"He was a Were," I said. "About five foot ten, in his twenties. He was clean-shaven. He had brown hair and blue eyes and a big birthmark on his neck."

"Oh," said Amanda. "That sounds like what's-his-name, the brand-new mechanic at Furnan's shop. Hired last week. Lucky Owens. Ha! Who were you with?"

"I was with Eric Northman," I said.

There was a long, not entirely friendly silence. Weres and vampires are natural rivals, if not out-and-out enemies.

"So, the guy's dead?" Tray asked practically, and I nodded.

"How'd he approach you?" Alcide asked in a voice that was more rational.

"That's an interesting question," I said. "I was on the interstate driving home from Shreveport with Eric. We'd been to a restaurant here."

"So who would know where you were and who you were with?" Amanda said while Alcide frowned down at the floor, deep in thought.

"Or that you'd have to return home along the interstate last night." Tray was really rising in my opinion; he was right in there with the practical and pertinent ideas.

"I only told my roommate I was going out to dinner, not where," I said. "We met someone there, but we can leave him out. Eric knew, because he was acting as chauffeur. But I know Eric and the other man didn't tip anyone off."

"How can you be so sure?" Tray asked.

"Eric got shot protecting me," I said. "And the person he took me to meet was a relative."

Amanda and Tray didn't realize how small my family was, so they didn't get how momentous that statement was. But Alcide, who knew more about me, glared. "You're making this up," he said.

"No, I'm not." I stared back. I knew this was a terrible day for Alcide, but I didn't have to explain my life to him. But I had a sudden thought. "You know, the waiter—he was a Were." That would explain a lot.

"What's the name of the restaurant?"

"Les Deux Poissons." My accent wasn't good, but the Weres nodded.

"Kendall works there," Alcide said. "Kendall Kent. Long reddish hair?" I nodded, and he looked sad. "I thought Kendall would come around to our side. We had a beer together a couple of times."

"That's Jack Kent's oldest. All he would have had to do was place a phone call," Amanda said. "Maybe he didn't know ..."

"Not an excuse," Tray said. His deep voice reverberated in the little kitchen. "Kendall has to know who Sookie is, from the packmaster contest. She's a friend of the pack. Instead of telling Alcide she was in our territory and should be protected, he called Furnan and told him where Sookie was, maybe let him know when she started home. Made it easy for Lucky to lie in wait."

I wanted to protest that there was no certainty that it had happened like that, but when I thought about it, it had to have been exactly that way or in some manner very close to it. Just to be sure I was remembering correctly, I called Amelia and asked her if she'd told any callers where I was the night before.

"No," she said. "I heard from Octavia, who didn't know you. I got a call from that werepanther boy I met at your brother's wedding. Believe me, you didn't come up in that conversation. Alcide called, real upset. Tanya. I told her nothing."

"Thanks, roomie," I said. "You recovering?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling better, and Octavia left to go back to the family she's been staying with in Monroe."

"Okay, see you when I get back."

"You going to make it back in time for work?"

"Yeah, Ihave to make it to work." Since I'd spent that week in Rhodes, I have to be careful to stick to the schedule for a while, otherwise the other waitresses would get up in my face about Sam giving me all the breaks. I hung up. "She told no one," I said.

"So you—and Eric—had a leisurely dinner at an expensive restaurant, with another man."

I looked at him incredulously. This was so far off the point. I concentrated. I'd never poked a mental probe into such turmoil. Alcide was feeling grief for Maria-Star, guilt because he hadn't protected her, anger that I'd been drawn into the conflict, and above all, eagerness to knock some skulls. As the cherry on top of all that, Alcide—irrationally—hated that I'd been out with Eric.

I tried to keep my mouth shut out of respect for his loss; I was no stranger to mixed emotions myself. But I found I'd become abruptly and completely tired of him. "Okay," I said. "Fight your own battles. I came when you asked me to. I helped you when you asked me to, both at the battle for packleader and today, at expense and emotional grief to myself. Screw you, Alcide. Maybe Furnan is the better Were." I spun on my heel and caught the look Tray Dawson was giving Alcide while I marched out of the kitchen, down the steps, and into the carport. If there'd been a can, I would've kicked it.

"I'll take you home," Tray said, appearing at my side, and I marched over to the side of the truck, grateful that he was giving me the wherewithal to leave. When I'd stormed out, I hadn't been thinking about what would happen next. It's the ruin of a good exit when you have to go back and look in the phone book for a cab company.

I'd believed Alcide truly loathed me after the Debbie debacle. Apparently the loathing was not total.

"Kind of ironic, isn't it?" I said after a silent spell. "I almost got shot last night because Patrick Furnan thought that would upset Alcide. Until ten minutes ago, I would have sworn that wasn't true."

Tray looked like he would rather be cutting up onions than dealing with this conversation. After another pause, he said, "Alcide's acting like a butthead, but he's got a lot on his plate."

"I understand that," I said, and shut my mouth before I said one more word.

As it turned out, Iwas on time to go to work that night. I was so upset while I was changing clothes that I almost split my black pants, I yanked them on so hard. I brushed my hair with such unnecessary vigor that it crackled.

"Men are incomprehensible assholes," I said to Amelia.

"No shit," she said. "When I was searching for Bob today, I found a female cat in the woods with kittens. And guess what? They were all black-and-white."

I really had no idea what to say.

"So to hell with the promise I made him, right? I'm going to have fun. He can go have sex; I can have sex. And if he vomits on my bedspread again, I'll get after him with the broom."

I was trying not to look directly at Amelia. "I don't blame you," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. It was nice to be on the verge of laughter instead of wanting to smack someone. I grabbed up my purse, checked my ponytail in the mirror in the hall bathroom, and exited out the back door to drive to Merlotte's.

I felt tired before I even walked through the employees' door, not a good way to start my shift.

I didn't see Sam when I stowed my purse in the deep desk drawer we all used. When I came out of the hall that accessed the two public bathrooms, Sam's office, the storeroom, and the kitchen (though the kitchen door was kept locked from the inside, most of the time), I found Sam behind the bar. I gave him a wave as I tied on the white apron I'd pulled from the stack of dozens. I slid my order pad and a pencil into a pocket, looked around to find Arlene, whom I'd be replacing, and scanned the tables in our section.

My heart sank. No peaceful evening for me. Some asses in Fellowship of the Sun T-shirts were sitting at one of the tables. The Fellowship was a radical organization that believed (a) vampires were sinful by nature, almost demons, and (b) they should be executed. The Fellowship "preachers" wouldn't say so publicly, but the Fellowship advocated the total eradication of the undead. I'd heard there was even a little primer to advise members of how that could be carried out. After the Rhodes bombing they'd become bolder in their hatred.

The FotS group was growing as Americans struggled to come to terms with something they couldn't understand—and as hundreds of vampires streamed into the country that had given them the most favorable reception of all the nations on earth. Since a few heavily Catholic and Muslim countries had adopted a policy of killing vampires on sight, the U.S. had begun accepting vampires as refugees from religious or political persecution, and the backlash against this policy was violent. I'd recently seen a bumper sticker that read, "I'll say vamps are alive when you pry my cold dead fingers from my ripped-out throat."

I regarded the FotS as intolerant and ignorant, and I despised those who belonged to its ranks. But I was used to keeping my mouth shut on the topic at the bar, the same way I was used to avoiding discussions on abortion or gun control or gays in the military.

Of course, the FotS guys were probably Arlene's buddies. My weak-minded ex-friend had fallen hook, line, and sinker for the pseudo religion that the FotS propagated.

Arlene curtly briefed me on the tables as she headed out the back door, her face set hard against me. As I watched her go, I wondered how her kids were. I used to babysit them a lot. They probably hated me now, if they listened to their mother.

I shook off my melancholy, because Sam didn't pay me to be moody. I made the rounds of the customers, refreshed drinks, made sure everyone had enough food, brought a clean fork for a woman who'd dropped hers, supplied extra napkins to the table where Catfish Hennessy was eating chicken strips, and exchanged cheerful words with the guys seated at the bar. I treated the FotS table just like I treated everyone else, and they didn't seem to be paying me any special attention, which was just fine with me. I had every expectation that they'd leave with no trouble ...until Pam walked in.

Pam is white as a sheet of paper and looks just like Alice in Wonderland would look if she'd grown up to become a vampire. In fact, this evening Pam even had a blue band restraining her straight fair hair, and she was wearing a dress instead of her usual pants set. She was lovely—even if she looked like a vampire cast in an episode ofLeave It to Beaver. Her dress had little puff sleeves with white trim, and her collar had white trim, too. The tiny buttons down the front of her bodice were white, to match the polka dots on the skirt. No hose, I noticed, but any hose she bought would look bizarre since the rest of her skin was so pale.

"Hey, Pam," I said as she made a beeline for me.

"Sookie," she said warmly, and gave me a kiss as light as a snowflake. Her lips felt cool on my cheek.

"What's up?" I asked. Pam usually worked at Fangtasia in the evening.

"I have a date," she said. "Do you think I look good?" She spun around.

"Oh, sure," I said. "You always look good, Pam." That was only the truth. Though Pam's clothing choices were often ultra-conservative and strangely dated, that didn't mean they didn't become her. She had a kind of sweet-but-lethal charm. "Who's the lucky guy?"

She looked as arch as a vampire over two hundred years old can look. "Who says it's a guy?" she said.

"Oh, right." I glanced around. "Who's the lucky person?"

Just then my roomie walked in. Amelia was wearing a beautiful pair of black linen pants and heels with an off-white sweater and a pair of amber and tortoiseshell earrings. She looked conservative, too, but in a more modern way. Amelia strode over to us, smiled at Pam, and said, "Had a drink yet?"

Pam smiled in a way I'd never seen her smile before. It was . . . coy. "No, waiting for you."

They sat at the bar and Sam served them. Soon they were chatting away, and when their drinks were gone, they got up to leave.

When they passed me on their way out, Amelia said, "I'll see you when I see you"—her way of telling me she might not be home tonight.

"Okay, you two have fun," I said. Their departure was followed by more than one pair of male eyes. If corneas steamed up like glasses do, all the guys in the bar would be seeing blurry.

I made the round of my tables again, fetching new beers for one, leaving the bill at another, until I reached the table with the two guys wearing the FotS shirts. They were still watching the door as though they expected Pam to jump back inside and scream, "BOO!"

"Did I just see what I thought I saw?" one of the men asked me. He was in his thirties, clean-shaven, brown-haired, just another guy. The other man was someone I would have eyed with caution if we'd been in an elevator alone. He was thin, had a beard fringe along his jaw, was decorated with a few tattoos that looked like home jobs to me—jail tats—and he was carrying a knife strapped to his ankle, a thing that hadn't been too hard for me to spot once I'd heard in his mind that he was armed.

"What do you think you just saw?" I asked sweetly. Brown Hair thought I was a bit simple. But that was a good camouflage, and it meant that Arlene hadn't sunk to telling all and sundry about my little peculiarities. No one in Bon Temps (if you asked them outside of church on Sunday) would have said telepathy was possible. If you'd asked them outside of Merlotte's on a Saturday night, they might have said there was something to it.

"I think I saw a vamp come in here, just like she had a right. And I think I saw a woman acting happy to walk out with her. I swear to God, I cannot believe it." He looked at me as if I was sure to share his outrage. Jail Tat nodded vigorously.

"I'm sorry—you see two women walking out of a bar together, and that bothers you? I don't understand your problem with that." Of course I did, but you have to play it out sometimes.

"Sookie!" Sam was calling me.

"Can I get you gentlemen anything else?" I asked, since Sam was undoubtedly trying to call me back to my senses.

They were both looking at me oddly now, having correctly deduced that I was not exactly down with their program.

"I guess we're ready to leave," said Jail Tat, clearly hoping I'd be made to suffer for driving paying customers away. "You got our check ready?" I'dhad their check ready, and I laid it down on the table in between them. They each glanced at it, slapped a ten on top, and shoved their chairs back.

"I'll be back with your change in just a second," I said, and turned.

"No change," said Brown Hair, though his tone was surly and he didn't seem genuinely thrilled with my service.

"Jerks," I muttered as I went to the cash register at the bar.

Sam said, "Sookie, you have to suck it up."

I was so surprised that I stared at Sam. We were both behind the bar, and Sam was mixing a vodka collins. Sam continued quietly, keeping his eyes on his hands, "You have to serve them like they were anybody else."

It wasn't too often that Sam treated me like an employee rather than a trusted associate. It hurt; the more so when I realized he was right. Though I'd been polite on the surface, I would have (and should have) swallowed their last remarks with no comment—if it hadn't been for the FotS T-shirts. Merlotte's wasn't my business. It was Sam's. If customers didn't come back, he'd suffer the consequences. Eventually, if he had to let bar-maids go, I would, too.

"I'm sorry," I said, though it wasn't easy to manage saying it. I smiled brightly at Sam and went off to do an unnecessary round of my tables, one that probably crossed the line from attentive and into irritating. But if I went into the employees' bathroom or the public ladies' room, I'd end up crying, because it hurt to be admonished and it hurt to be wrong; but most of all, it hurt to be put in my place.

When we closed that night, I left as quickly and quietly as possible. I knew I was going to have to get over being hurt, but I preferred to do my healing in my own home. I didn't want to have any "little talks" with Sam—or anyone else, for that matter. Holly was looking at me with way too much curiosity.

So I scooted out to the parking lot with my purse, my apron still on. Tray was leaning against my car. I jumped before I could stop myself.

"You running scared?" he asked.

"No, I'm running upset," I said. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going to follow you home," he said. "Amelia there?"

"No, she's out on a date."

"Then I'm definitely checking out the house," the big man said, and climbed into his truck to follow me out Hummingbird Road.

There wasn't any reason to object that I could see. In fact, it made me feel good to have someone with me, someone I pretty much trusted.

My house was just as I'd left it, or rather, as Amelia had left it. The outside security lights had come on automatically, and she'd left the light over the sink on in the kitchen as well as the back porch light. Keys in hand, I crossed to the kitchen door.

Tray's big hand gripped my arm when I started to twist the doorknob.

"There's no one there," I said, having checked in my own way. "And it's warded by Amelia."

"You stay here while I look around," he said gently. I nodded and let him in. After a few seconds' silence, he opened the door to tell me I could come into the kitchen. I was ready to follow him through the house for the rest of his search, but he said, "I'd sure like a glass of Coke, if you got any."

He'd deflected me perfectly from following him by appealing to my hospitality. My grandmother would have hit me with a fly swatter if I hadn't gotten Tray a Coke right then.

By the time he arrived back in the kitchen and pronounced the house clear of intruders, the icy Coke was sitting in a glass on the table, and there was a meatloaf sandwich sitting by it. With a folded napkin.

Without a word, Tray sat down and put the napkin in his lap and ate the sandwich and drank the Coke. I sat opposite him with my own drink.

"I hear your man has vanished," Tray said when he'd patted his lips with the napkin.

I nodded.

"What do you think happened to him?"

I explained the circumstances. "So I haven't heard a word from him," I concluded. This story was sounding almost automatic, like I ought to tape it.

"That's bad" was all he said. Somehow it made me feel better, this quiet, undramatic discussion of a very touchy subject. After a minute of thoughtful silence, Tray said, "I hope you find him soon."

"Thanks. I'm real anxious to know how he's doing." That was a huge understatement.

"Well, I'd better be getting on," he said. "If you get nervous in the night, you call me. I can be here in ten minutes. It's no good, you being alone out here with the war starting."

I had a mental image of tanks coming down my driveway.

"How bad do you think it could get?" I asked.

"My dad told me in the last war, which was when his daddy was little, the pack in Shreveport got into it with the pack in Monroe. The Shreveport pack was about forty then, counting the halfies." Halfies was the common term for Weres who'd become wolves by being bitten. They could only turn into a kind of wolf-man, never achieving the perfect wolf form that born Weres thought was vastly superior. "But the Monroe pack had a bunch of college kids in it, so it come up to forty, forty-five, too. At the end of the fighting, both packs were halved."

I thought of the Weres I knew. "I hope it stops now," I said.

"It ain't gonna," Tray said practically. "They've tasted blood, and killing Alcide's girl instead of trying for Alcide was a cowardly way to open the fight. Them trying to get you, too; that only made it worse. You don't have a drop of Were blood. You're a friend of the pack. That should make you untouchable, not a target. And this afternoon, Alcide found Christine Larrabee dead."

I was shocked all over again. Christine Larrabee was—had been—the widow of one of the previous packleaders. She had a high standing in the Were community, and she'd rather reluctantly endorsed Jackson Herveaux for packleader. Now she had gotten a delayed payback.

"He's not going after any men?" I finally managed to speak.

Tray's face was dark with contempt. "Naw," the Were said. "The only way I can read it is, Furnan wants to set Alcide's temper off. He wants everyone to be on a hair trigger, while Furnan himself stays cool and collected. He's about got what he wants, too. Between grief and the personal insult, Alcide is aimed to go off like a shotgun. He needs to be more like a sniper rifle."

"Isn't Furnan's strategy real . . . unusual?"

"Yes," Tray said heavily. "I don't know what's gotten into him. Apparently, he don't want to face Alcide in personal combat. He don't want to just beat Alcide. He's aiming to kill Alcide and all Alcide's people, as far as I can tell. A few of the Weres, the ones with little kids, they already repledged themselves to him. They're too scared of what he'd do to their kids, after the attacks against women." The Were stood. "Thanks for the food. I've got to go feed my dogs. You lock up good after me, you hear? And where's your cell phone?"

I handed it to him, and with surprisingly neat movements for such large hands, Tray programmed his cell phone number into my directory. Then he left with a casual wave of his hand. He had a small neat house by his repair shop, and I was really relieved to find he'd timed the journey from there to here at only ten minutes. I locked the door behind him, and I checked the kitchen windows. Sure enough, Amelia had left one open at some point during the mild afternoon. After that discovery, I felt compelled to check every window in the house, even the ones upstairs.

After that was done and I felt as secure as I was going to feel, I turned on the television and sat in front of it, not really seeing what was happening on the screen. I had a lot to think about.

Months ago, I'd gone to the packmaster contest at Alcide's request to watch for trickery. It was my bad luck that my presence had been noticed and my discovery of Furnan's treachery had been public. It griped me that I'd been drawn into this fight, which was none of my own. In fact, bottom line: knowing Alcide had brought me nothing but grief.

I was almost relieved to feel a head of anger building at this injustice, but my better self urged me to squash it in the bud. It wasn't Alcide's fault that Debbie Pelt had been such a murderous bitch, and it wasn't Alcide's fault that Patrick Furnan had decided to cheat in the contest. Likewise, Alcide wasn't responsible for Furnan's bloodthirsty and uncharacteristic approach to consolidating his pack. I wondered if this behavior was even remotely wolflike.

I figured it was just Patrick Furnan-like.

The telephone rang, and I jumped about a mile. "Hello?" I said, unhappy at how frightened I sounded.

"The Were Herveaux called me," Eric said. "He confirms that he's at war with his packmaster."

"Yeah," I said. "You needed confirmation from Alcide? My message wasn't enough?"

"I'd thought of an alternative to the theory that you were attacked in a strike against Alcide. I'm sure Niall must have mentioned that he has enemies."

"Uh-huh."

"I wondered if one of those enemies had acted very swiftly. If the Weres have spies, so may the fairies."

I pondered that. "So, in wanting to meet me, he almost caused my death."

"But he had the wisdom to ask me to escort you to and from Shreveport."

"So he saved my life, even though he risked it."

Silence.

"Actually," I said, leaping to firmer emotional ground, "you saved my life, and I'm grateful." I half expected Eric to ask me just how grateful I was, to refer to the kissing . . . but still he didn't speak.

Just as I was about to blurt out something stupid to break the silence, the vampire said, "I'll only interfere in the Were war to defend our interests. Or to defend you."

My turn for a silent spell. "All right," I said weakly.

"If you see trouble coming, if they try to draw you in further, call me immediately," Eric told me. "I believe the assassin truly was sent by the packmaster. Certainly he was a Were."

"Some of Alcide's people recognized the description. The guy, Lucky somebody, had just been taken on by Furnan as a mechanic."

"Strange that he'd entrust such an errand to someone he hardly knew."

"Since the guy turned out to be so unlucky."

Eric actually snorted. Then he said, "I won't talk to Niall of this any further. Of course, I told him what occurred."

I had a moment's ridiculous pang because Niall hadn't rushed to my side or called to ask if I was okay. I'd only met him once, and now I was sad he wasn't acting like my nursemaid.

"All right, Eric, thanks," I said, and hung up as he was saying good-bye. I should have asked him about my money again, but I was too dispirited; besides, it wasn't Eric's problem.

I was jumpy the whole time I was getting ready for bed, but nothing happened to make me more anxious. I reminded myself about fifty times that Amelia had warded the house. The wards would work whether she was in the house or not.

I had some good locks on the doors.

I was tired.

Finally, I slept, but I woke up more than once, listening for an assassin.