Dead as a Doornail by Charlaine Harris Page A

get through the funeral, since that’s what I’d come for.
    “Hard to say,” Christine murmured. “I wouldn’t have thrown in with either one, given a choice, but Jackson called on our old friendship, and I had to come down on his side.”
    “That’s not nice.”
    “No, but it’s practical,” she said, amused. “He needs all the support he can get. Did Alcide ask you to endorse his father?”
    “No. I’d be completely ignorant of the situation if you hadn’t been kind enough to fill me in.” I gave her a nod of thanks.
    “Since you’re not a Were—excuse me, honey, but I’m just trying to figure this out—what can you do for Alcide, I wonder? Why’d he drag you into this?”
    “He’ll have to tell me that real soon,” I said, and if my voice was cold and ominous, I just didn’t care.
    “His last girlfriend disappeared,” Christine said thoughtfully. “They were pretty on-again, off-again, Jackson tells me. If his enemies had something to do with it, you might watch your step.”
    “I don’t think I’m in danger,” I said.
    “Oh?”
    But I’d said enough.
    “Hmmmm,” Christine said after a long, thoughtful look at my face. “Well, she was too much of a diva for someone who isn’t even a Were.” Christine’s voice expressed the contempt the Weres feel for the other shifters. (“Why bother to change, if you can’t change into a wolf?” I’d heard a Were say once.)
    My attention was caught by the dull gleam of a shaved head, and I stepped a bit to my left to have a better view. I’d never seen this man before. I would certainly have remembered him; he was very tall, taller than Alcide or even Eric, I thought. He had big shoulders and arms roped with muscle. His head and arms were the brown of a Caucasian with a real tan. I could tell, because he was wearing a sleeveless black silk tee tucked into black pants and shiny dress shoes. It was a nippy day at the end of January, but the cold didn’tseem to affect him at all. There was a definite space between him and the people around him.
    As I looked at him, wondering, he turned and looked at me, as if he could feel my attention. He had a proud nose, and his face was as smooth as his shaved head. At this distance, his eyes looked black.
    “Who is that?” I asked Christine, my voice a thread in the wind that had sprung up, tossing the leaves of the holly bushes planted around the church.
    Christine darted a look at the man, and she must have known whom I meant, but she didn’t answer.
    Regular people had gradually been filtering through the Weres, going up the steps and into the church. Now two men in black suits appeared at the doors. They crossed their hands in front of them, and the one on the right nodded at 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, Alcidehad 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