The Sookie Stackhouse Companion by Charlaine Harris Page B

property was ringed by the two-natured, and they were all looking out. They hadn’t relaxed their vigilance, though perhaps seventy percent of the protesters had left. I was glad of that because I didn’t really think this was over. I thought the worst had been staved off, at best.
    “I thought about this some when I saw how many people were here. I think that this was all planned. I think the word about the wedding spread, and someone decided this was the chance to see how an organized protest went . . . kind of a testing of the waters. If this went well for the assholes who were out there screaming—if the wedding had been put off, or if the weres had attacked and killed a human—then this would have become a model for other events.”
    “But the weres showed up, too.”
    I nodded.
    “You mean the twoeys were also alerted early? By the same . . . ?”
    “By the same people who alerted the anti-furries.”
    “To make this a confrontation.”
    “To make this a confrontation,” I agreed.
    “My brother’s wedding was a test-drive ?”
    I shrugged. “That’s what I think.”
    Sam held open the door for me. “I wish I could say I was sure you’re wrong,” he said quietly. “What kind of maniac would actually make things worse than they are?”
    “The kind of person who is going to make his point no matter how many people have to die in the process,” I said. “Luna told me she saw someone in the crowd. And then I saw her, too.”
    Sam looked at me intently. “Who?”
    “Sarah Newlin.”
    Every supe in America knew that name. He turned that over in his mind for a few seconds. Bernie, resplendent in beige lace, glanced back at us, clearly wanting Sam to rejoin her. The bride was ready to cut the cake, a traditional moment that demanded our attendance. Sam and I drifted over to join the knot of people around the white-draped table. Craig put his hand over Deidra’s, and together they sliced the bridal cake, which turned out to be spice cake with white icing, homemade by the bride’s mother. This was the most personal wedding I’d attended in some time, and I enjoyed the hominess of it. The little plates for the cake were paper, and so were the napkins, and the forks were plastic, and no one cared. The cake was very good.
    Brother Arrowsmith came over to me, and though burdened with a plate and punch, he found a way to free a hand to shake mine. I got a huge gust of his relief, his pride that he had done the right thing, his worry about his son, and his love for his wife who had been by his side all day, both in her prayers and physically.
    The minister’s chest was burning, and he was having heartburn, which he seemed to have pretty frequently these days, and he thought maybe he’d better not drink the punch, though of course it wasn’t alcoholic.
    “You need to go to a heart specialist in Dallas or Fort Worth,” I said.
    Brother Arrowsmith looked as though I’d hit him in the head with an ax handle. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and he wondered what I really was, all over again.
    Dammit, I knew the signs of possible heart problems. His arm hurt, he had heartburn, and he was way too tired. Let him think I was supernaturally guided if he chose. That might up the chances he’d make an appointment.
    “You were really smart to turn on the speaker,” Brother Arrowsmith said. “The word of God entered those people’s hearts and changed them for the good.”
    I started to shake my head, but then I had second thoughts.
    “You’re absolutely right,” I said, and I realized I meant it. I felt I was such a bad Christian that I hardly deserved to call myself that anymore, but I understood at that moment that I still believed, no matter how far my actions had strayed from those of the woman my grandmother had raised me to be.
    I gave Deidra and Craig a hug apiece, and I automatically told Bernie how beautiful it had been, which was simply weird. I met the Lisles, and it was easy to sense their