Dead as a Doornail

included Jackson’s body, which Dr. Ludwig had taken somewhere to be altered, to make the story of how he’d met his death more plausible), all the pack members present gathered in front of Patrick Furnan, who hadn’t resumed clothes. According to his body, victory had made him feel manly. Ick.
    He was standing on a blanket; it was a red plaid stadium blanket, like you’d take to a football game. I felt my lips twitch, but I became completely sober when the new packmaster’s wife led a young woman to him, a brown-haired girl who seemed to be in her late teens. The girl was as bare as the packmaster, though she looked considerably better in that state.
    What the hell?
    Suddenly I remembered the last part of the ceremony, and I realized Patrick Furman was going to fuck this girl infront of us. No. No way was I going to watch this. I tried to turn to walk out. But Claude hissed, “You can’t leave.” He covered my mouth and picked me up bodily to move me to the back of the crowd. Claudine moved with us and stood in front of me, but with her back to me, so I wouldn’t have to see. I made a furious sound into Claude’s hand.
    “Shut up,” the fairy said grimly, his voice as concentrated with sincerity as he could manage. “You’ll land us all in trouble. If it makes you feel any better, this is traditional. The girl volunteered. After this, Patrick’ll be a faithful husband once more. But he’s already bred his whelp by his wife, and he has to make the ceremonial gesture of breeding another one. May take, may not, but it has to be done.”
    I kept my eyes shut and was grateful when Claudine turned to me and placed her tear-wet hands over my ears. A shout went up from the crowd when the thing was completed. The two fairies relaxed and gave me some room. I didn’t see what happened to the girl. Furnan remained naked, but as long as he was in a calm state, I could handle that.
    To seal his status, the new packmaster began to receive the pledges of his wolves. They went in turn, oldest to youngest, I figured, after a moment’s observation. Each Were licked the back of Patrick Furnan’s hand and exposed his or her neck for a ritual moment. When it was Alcide’s turn, I suddenly realized there was potential for even more disaster.
    I found I was holding my breath.
    From the profound silence, I knew I wasn’t the only one.
    After a long hesitation, Furnan bent over and placed his teeth on Alcide’s neck; I opened my mouth to protest, but Claudine clapped her hand over it. Furnan’s teeth came away from Alcide’s flesh, leaving it unscathed.
    Packmaster Furnan had sent a clear signal.
    By the time the last Were had performed the ritual, I wasexhausted from all the emotion. Surely this was an end to it? Yes, the pack was dispersing, some members giving the Furnans congratulatory hugs, and some striding out silently.
    I dodged them myself and made a beeline for the door. The next time someone told me I had to watch a supernatural rite, I was going to tell him I had to wash my hair.
    Once out in the open air, I walked slowly, my feet dragging. I had to think about things I’d put to one side, like what I’d seen in Alcide’s head after the whole debacle was over. Alcide thought I’d failed him. He’d told me I had to come, and I had; I should have known he had some purpose in insisting I be present.
    Now I knew that he’d suspected Furnan had some underhanded trick in mind. Alcide had primed Christine, his father’s ally, ahead of time. She made sure I used my telepathy on Patrick Furnan. And, sure enough, I had found that Jackson’s opponent was cheating. That disclosure should have ensured Jackson’s win.
    Instead, the will of the pack had gone against Jackson, and the contest had continued with the stakes even higher. I’d nothing to do with that decision. But right now Alcide, in his grief and rage, was blaming me.
    I was trying to be angry, but I was too sad.
    Claude and Claudine said good-bye, and they hopped into Claudine’s Cadillac and peeled out of the parking lot as if they couldn’t wait to get back to Monroe. I was of the same mind, but I was a lot less resilient than the fairies. I had to sit behind the wheel of the borrowed Malibu for five or ten minutes, steadying myself for the drive home.
    I found myself thinking of Quinn. It was a welcome relief from thinking of torn flesh and blood and death. When I’d looked into his head, I’d seen a man who knew his way. And I still