Dead as a Doornail

said. “This is Christine Larrabee.” Christine, who might have been anything from fifty-seven to sixty-seven, looked like a painting done in pastels. Her eyes were a washed-out blue,her smooth skin was magnolia pale with the faintest tinge of pink, her white hair was immaculately groomed. She was wearing a light blue suit, which I personally wouldn’t have worn until the winter was completely over, but she looked great in it, for sure.
    “Nice to meet you,” I said, wondering if I should curtsy. I’d shaken hands with Alcide’s father, but Christine didn’t extend hers. She gave me a nod and a sweet smile. Probably didn’t want to bruise me with her diamond rings, I decided after a squint at her fingers. Of course, they matched her earrings. I was outclassed, no doubt about it. Eff it, I thought. It seemed to be my day for shrugging off unpleasant things.
    “Such a sad occasion,” Christine said.
    If she wanted to do polite chitchat, I was up to it. “Yes, Colonel Flood was a wonderful man,” I said.
    “Oh, you knew him, dear?”
    “Yes,” I said. As a matter of fact, I’d seen him naked, but in decidedly unerotic circumstances.
    My brief answer didn’t leave her much of anywhere to go. I saw genuine amusement lurking in her pale eyes. Alcide and his dad were exchanging low-voiced comments, which we were obviously supposed to be ignoring. “You and I are strictly decorations today,” Christine said.
    “Then you know more than I do.”
    “I expect so. You’re not one of the two-natured?”
    “No.” Christine was, of course. She was a full-blooded Were, like Jackson and Alcide. I couldn’t picture this elegant woman changing into a wolf, especially with the down-and-dirty reputation the Weres had in the shifter community, butthe impressions I got from her mind were unmistakable.
    “The funeral of the packmaster marks the opening of the campaign to replace him,” Christine said. Since that wasmore solid information than I’d gotten in two hours from Alcide, immediately I felt kindly disposed toward the older woman.
    “You must be something extraordinary, for Alcide to choose you as his companion today,” Christine continued.
    “I don’t know about extra ordinary. In the literal sense, I guess I am. I have extras that aren’t ordinary.”
    “Witch?” Christine guessed. “Fairy? Part goblin?”
    Gosh. I shook my head. “None of the above. So what’s going to happen in there?”
    “There are more roped-off pews than usual. The whole pack will sit at the front of the church, the mated ones with their mates, of course, and their children. The candidates for packmaster will come in last.”
    “How are they chosen?”
    “They announce themselves,” she said. “But they’ll be put to the test, and then the membership votes.”
    “Why is Alcide’s dad bringing you, or is that a real personal question?”
    “I’m the widow of the packmaster prior to Colonel Flood,” Christine Larrabee said quietly. “That gives me a certain influence.”
    I nodded. “Is the packmaster always a man?”
    “No. But since strength is part of the test, males usually win.”
    “How many candidates are there?”
    “Two. Jackson, of course, and Patrick Furnan.” She inclined her patrician head slightly to her right, and I gave a closer look at the couple that had been on the periphery of my attention.
    Patrick Furnan was in his mid-forties, somewhere between Alcide and his father. He was a thick-bodied man with a light brown crew cut and a very short beard shavedinto a fancy shape. His suit was brown, too, and he’d had trouble buttoning the jacket. His companion was a pretty woman who believed in a lot of lipstick and jewelry. She had short brown hair, too, but it was highlighted with blond streaks and elaborately styled. Her heels were at least three inches high. I eyed the shoes with awe. I would break my neck if I tried to walk in them. But this woman maintained a smile and offered a good word to everyone who approached. Patrick Furnan was colder. His narrow eyes measured and assessed every Were in the gathering crowd.
    “Tammy Faye, there, is his wife?” I asked Christine in a discreetly low tone.
    Christine made a sound that I would have called snigger if it had issued from someone less patrician. “She does wear a lot of makeup,” Christine said. “Her name is Libby, actually. Yes, she’s his wife and a full-blooded Were, and they have two children. So he’s added to the