From Dead to Worse (Sookie Stackhouse #8)(32)
Author: Charlaine Harris

It was my fault he was here. When he’d become so curious about what was brewing with the Weres, I’d had to tell him. After all, if someone came through the door of Merlotte’s trying to shoot me down, Sam at least deserved to know why his bar was full of holes. I’d argued bitterly with him when he’d told me he was coming with me, but here we both were.

Maybe I’m lying to myself. Maybe I simply wanted a friend with me, someone definitely on my side. Maybe I was just scared. Actually, no "maybe" about that at all.

The night was brisk, and we were both wearing waterproof jackets with hoods. Not that we needed the hoods, but if it got any colder, we might be grateful for them. The abandoned office park stretched around us in gloomy silence. We stood in the loading bay of a firm that had accepted big shipments of something. The large metal pull-down doors where the trucks had been unloaded looked like big shiny eyes in the gleam of the remaining security lights.

Actually, there were lots of big shiny eyes around tonight. The Sharks and the Jets were negotiating. Oh, excuse me, the Furnan Weres and the Herveaux Weres. The two sides of the pack might come to an understanding, and they might not. And right smack dab in the middle stood Sam the Shapeshifter and Sookie the Telepath.

As I felt the hard red throbbing of Were brains approaching from both north and south, I turned to Sam and said from the bottom of my heart, "I should never have let you come with me. I should never have opened my mouth."

"You’ve gotten into the habit of not telling me things, Sookie. I want you to tell me what’s going on with you. Especially if there’s danger." Sam’s red gold hair blew around his head in the sharp little breeze wafting between the buildings. I felt his difference more strongly than I ever had. Sam is a rare true shapeshifter. He can change into anything. He prefers the form of a dog, because dogs are familiar and friendly and people don’t shoot at them too often. I looked into his blue eyes and saw the wildness in them. "They’re here," he said, raising his nose to the breeze.

Then the two groups were standing about ten feet away on either side of us, and it was time to concentrate.

I recognized the faces of a few of the Furnan wolves, who were more numerous. Cal Myers, the police detective, was among them. It took some kind of nerve for Furnan to bring Cal along when he was proclaiming his innocence. I also recognized the teenage girl Furnan had taken as part of his victory celebration after Jackson Herveaux’s defeat. She looked a million years older tonight.

Alcide’s group included auburn-haired Amanda, who nodded at me, her face serious, and some werewolves I’d seen at the Hair of the Dog the night Quinn and I had visited the bar. The scrawny girl who’d worn the red leather bustier that night was standing right behind Alcide, and she was both intensely excited and deeply scared. To my surprise, Dawson was there. He wasn’t as much of a lone wolf as he’d painted himself to be.

Alcide and Furnan stepped away from their packs.

This was the agreed-on format for the parley, or sit-down, or whatever you wanted to call it: I would stand between Furnan and Alcide. Each Were leader would grip one of my hands. I would be the human lie detector while they talked. I had sworn to tell each one if the other lied, at least to the best of my ability. I could read minds, but minds can be deceptive and tricky or just dense. I’d never done anything exactly like this, and I prayed my ability would be extra precise tonight and that I would use it wisely, so I could help to end this life taking.

Alcide approached me stiffly, his face harsh in the hard glare of the security lighting. For the first time, I noticed that he looked thinner and older. There was a little gray in the black hair that hadn’t been there when his father had been alive. Patrick Furnan, too, didn’t look well. He’d always had a tendency to porkiness, and now he looked as though he’d gained a good fifteen or twenty pounds. Being packmaster hadn’t been good to him. And the shock of the abduction of his wife had laid its mark on his face.

I did something that I never imagined I would do. I held out my right hand to him. He took it, and the flood of his ideas washed through me instantly. Even his twisty Were brain was easy to read because he was so focused. I held out my left hand to Alcide, and he grasped it too tightly. For a long minute, I felt inundated. Then, with a huge effort, I channeled them into a stream so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed. It would be easy for them to lie out loud, but it’s not so easy to lie inside your own head. Not consistently. I closed my eyes. A flip of the coin had given Alcide the first question.

"Patrick, why did you kill my woman?" The words sounded like they were cutting up Alcide’s throat. "She was pure Were, and she was as gentle as a Were can be."

"I never ordered any of my people to kill any of yours," Patrick Furnan said. He sounded so tired he could hardly stand up, and his thoughts were proceeding in much the same way: slowly, wearily, on a track he’d worn in his own brain. He was easier to read than Alcide. He meant what he said.

Alcide was listening with great attention, and he said next, "Did you tell anyone not in your pack to kill Maria-Star and Sookie and Mrs. Larrabee?"

"I never gave orders to kill any of you, ever," Furnan said.

"He believes that," I said.

Unfortunately, Furnan wouldn’t shut up. "I hate you," he said, sounding just as tired as he had before. "I would be glad if a truck hit you. But I didn’t kill anyone."

"He believes that, too," I said, maybe a little dryly.

Alcide demanded, "How can you claim to be innocent with Cal Myers standing with your pack? He stabbed Maria-Star to death."

Furnan looked confused. "Cal wasn’t there," he said.

"He believes what he says," I told Alcide. I turned my face to Furnan. "Cal was there, and he murdered Maria-Star." Though I dared not lose focus, I heard the whispering start all around Cal Myers, saw the rest of the Furnan Weres step away from him.

It was Furnan’s turn to ask a question.

"My wife," he said, and his voice cracked. "Why her?"

"I didn’t take Libby," Alcide said. "I would never abduct a woman, especially a Were woman with young. I would never order anyone else to do it."

He believed that. "Alcide didn’t do it himself, and he didn’t order it done." But Alcide hated Patrick Furnan with a great ferocity. Furnan hadn’t needed to kill Jackson Herveaux at the climax of the contest, but he had. Better to start his leadership with the elimination of his rival. Jackson would never have submitted to his rule, and would have been a thorn in his side for years. I was getting thoughts from both sides, wafts of ideas so strong it burned in my head, and I said, "Calm down, both of you." I could feel Sam behind me, his warmth, the touch of his mind, and I said, "Sam, don’t touch me, okay?"