Dead as a Doornail (Sookie Stackhouse #5)(61)
Author: Charlaine Harris

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 br**sts 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."