Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [249]
Alcide strode down the hall, safety shoes clomping on the hardwood floor. “I promised him I’d take care of you,” he said. “Now, we’ll just hope that works out.” He wasn’t smiling.
I had been tuning up to be aggravated, but his last sentence was so realistic that the hot air went out of me as if I’d been punctured. In the complex relationship between vampire, Were, and human, there was a lot of leeway for something to go wrong somewhere. After all, my plan was thin, and the vampires’ hold over Alcide was tenuous. Bill might not have been taken unwillingly; he might be happy being held captive by a king, as long as the vampire Lorena was on site. He might be enraged that I had come to find him.
He might be dead.
I locked the door behind me and followed Alcide as he stowed my things in the extended cab of the Ram.
The outside of the big truck gleamed, but inside, it was the littered vehicle of a man who spent his working life on the road; a hard hat, invoices, estimates, business cards, boots, a first-aid kit. At least there wasn’t any food trash. As we bumped down my eroded driveway, I picked up a rubber-banded sheaf of brochures whose cover read, “Herveaux and Son, AAA Accurate Surveys.” I eased out the top one and studied it carefully as Alcide drove the short distance to interstate 20 to go east to Monroe, Vicksburg, and then to Jackson.
I discovered that the Herveauxes, father and son, owned a bi-state surveying company, with offices in Jackson, Monroe, Shreveport, and Baton Rouge. The home office, as Alcide had told me, was in Shreveport. There was a photo inside of the two men, and the older Herveaux was just as impressive (in a senior way) as his son.
“Is your dad a werewolf, too?” I asked, after I’d digested the information and realized that the Herveaux family was at least prosperous, and possibly rich. They’d worked hard for it, though; and they’d keep working hard, unless the older Mr. Herveaux could control his gambling.
“Both my parents,” Alcide said, after a pause.
“Oh, sorry.” I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for, but it was safer than not.
“That’s the only way to produce a Were child,” he said, after a moment. I couldn’t tell if he was explaining to be polite, or because he really thought I should know.
“So how come America’s not full of werewolves and shapeshifters?” I asked, after I’d considered his statement.
“Like must marry like to produce another, which is not always doable. And each union only produces one child with the trait. Infant mortality is high.”
“So, if you marry another werewolf, one of your kids will be a werebaby?”
“The condition will manifest itself at the onset of, ah, puberty.”
“Oh, that’s awful. Being a teenager is tough enough.”
He smiled, not at me, but at the road. “Yeah, it does complicate things.”
“So, your ex-girlfriend . . . she a shifter?”
“Yeah. I don’t normally date shifters, but I guess I thought with her it would be different. Weres and shifters are strongly attracted to each other. Animal magnetism, I guess,” Alcide said, as an attempt at humor.
My boss, also a shifter, had been glad to make friends with other shifters in the area. He had been hanging out with a maenad (“dating” would be too sweet a word for their relationship), but she’d moved on. Now, Sam was hoping to find another compatible shifter. He felt more comfortable with a strange human, like me, or another shifter, than he did with regular women. When he’d told me that, he’d meant it as a compliment, or maybe just as a simple statement; but it had hurt me a little, though my abnormality had been borne in on me since I was very young.
Telepathy doesn’t wait for puberty.
“How come?” I asked baldly. “How come you thought it would be different?”
“She told me she was sterile.