Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [476]
I looked down at my feet, pushing away the recollection of the desperation, the pain.
“She let you get raped,” Alcide said harshly.
Him saying it like that, flat out, shocked me. “Hey, Bill didn’t know it was me,” I said. “He hadn’t had anything to eat for days and days, and the impulses are so closely related. I mean, he stopped, you know? He stopped, when he knew it was me.” I couldn’t put it like that to myself; I couldn’t say that word. I knew beyond a doubt that Bill would rather have chewed off his own hand than done that to me if he’d been in his right mind. At that time, he’d been the only sex partner I’d ever had. My feelings about the incident were so confused that I couldn’t even bear to try to pick through them. When I’d thought of rape before, when other girls had told me what had happened to them or I’d read it in their brains, I hadn’t had the ambiguity I felt over my own short, awful time in the trunk.
“He did something you didn’t want him to do,” Alcide said simply.
“He wasn’t himself,” I said.
“But he did it.”
“Yes, he did, and I was awful scared.” My voice began to shake. “But he came to his senses, and he stopped, and I was okay, and he was really, really sorry. He’s never laid a finger on me since then, never asked me if we could have sex, never . . .” My voice trailed off. I stared down at my hands. “Yes, Debbie was responsible for that.” Somehow, saying that out loud made me feel better. “She knew what would happen, or at least she didn’t care what would happen.”
“And even then,” Alcide said, returning to his main point, “she kept coming back and I kept trying to rationalize her behavior. I can’t believe I would do that if I wasn’t under some kind of magical influence.”
I wasn’t about to try to make Alcide feel guiltier. I had my own load of guilt to carry. “Hey, it’s over.”
“You sound sure.”
I looked Alcide directly in the eyes. His were narrow and green. “Do you think there’s the slightest chance that Debbie’s alive?” I asked.
“Her family . . .” Alcide stopped. “No, I don’t.”
I couldn’t get rid of Debbie Pelt, dead or alive.
“Why’d you need to talk to me in the first place?” I asked. “You said over the phone you needed to tell me something.”
“Colonel Flood died yesterday.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! What happened?”
“He was driving to the store when another driver hit him broadside.”
“That’s awful. Was anyone in the car with him?”
“No, he was by himself. His kids are coming back to Shreveport for the funeral, of course. I wondered if you’d come to the funeral with me.”
“Of course. It’s not private?”
“No. He knew so many people still stationed at the Air Force base, and he was head of his Neighborhood Watch group and the treasurer of his church, and of course he was the packmaster.”
“He had a big life,” I said. “Lots of responsibility.”
“It’s tomorrow at one. What’s your work schedule?”
“If I can swap shifts with someone, I’d need to be back here at four thirty to change and go to work.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Who’ll be packmaster now?”
“I don’t know,” Alcide said, but his voice wasn’t as neutral as I’d expected.
“Do you want the job?”
“No.” He seemed a little hesitant, I thought, and I felt the conflict in his head. “But my father does.” He wasn’t finished. I waited.
“Were funerals are pretty ceremonial,” he said, and I realized he was trying to tell me something. I just wasn’t sure what it was.
“Spit it out.” Straightforward is always good, as far as I’m concerned.
“If you think you can overdress for this, you can’t,” he said. “I know the rest of the shifter world thinks Weres only go for leather and chains, but that’s not true. For funerals, we go all out.” He wanted to give me even more fashion tips, but he stopped there. I could see the thoughts crowding right behind his eyes, wanting to be let out.
“Every woman wants to know what’s appropriate to wear,” I said.