After I walked in, I didn't expect Sam to shut the office door.
"What's wrong?" Sam asked me. He'd been trying to find out for days, and I'd been fending off his well-meant queries.
Eric was standing to one side, his arms crossed over his chest. He made a gesture with one hand that said, "Tell us; we're waiting." Despite his brusqueness, his presence relaxed the big knot inside me, the one that had kept the words locked in my stomach.
"I broke Calvin Norris's hand into bits," I said. "With a brick."
"Then he was . . . He stood up for your sister-in-law at the wedding," Sam said, figuring it out quickly. Eric looked blank. The vampires know something about the wereanimals—they have to—but the vamps think they are far superior, so they don't make an effort to learn specifics about the rituals and rhythms of being a were.
"She had to break his hand, which represents his claws in panther form," Sam explained impatiently. "She stood up for Jason." And then Sam and Eric exchanged a look that scared me in its complete agreement. Neither of them liked Jason one little bit.
Sam looked from me to Eric as if he expected Eric to do something to make me feel better. "I don't belong to him," I said sharply, since all this was making me feel handled in a major way. "Did you think Eric coming would make me all happy and carefree?"
"No," Sam said, sounding a little angry himself. "But I hoped it would help you talk about whatever was wrong."
"What's wrong," I said very quietly. "Okay, what's wrong is that my brother arranged for Calvin and me to check on Crystal, who's about four months pregnant, and he fixed it so we'd get there at about the same time. And when we checked, we found Crystal in bed with Dove Beck. As Jason knew we would."
Eric said, "And for this, you had to break the werepanther's fingers." He might have been asking if I'd had to wear chicken bones and turn around three times, it was so obvious he was inquiring into the quaint customs of a primitive tribe.
"Yes, Eric, that's what I had to do," I said grimly. "I had to break my friend's fingers with a brick in front of a crowd."
For the first time Eric seemed to realize that he'd taken the wrong approach. Sam was looking at him in total exasperation. "And I thought you'd be such a big help," he said.
"I have a few things going in Shreveport," Eric answered with a shade of defensiveness. "Including hosting the new king."
Sam muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Fucking vampires."
This was totally unfair. I'd expected tons of sympathy when I finally confessed the reason for my bad mood. But now Sam and Eric were so wrapped up in being irritated with each other that neither one of them was giving me a moment's thought. "Well, thanks, guys," I said. "This has been a lot of fun. Eric, big help there—I appreciate the kind words." And I left in what my grandmother called high dudgeon. I stomped back out into the bar and waited on tables so grimly that some people were scared to call me over to order more drinks.
I decided to clean the surfaces behind the bar, because Sam was still in his office with Eric ... though possibly Eric had left out the back door. I scrubbed and polished and pulled some beers for Holly, and I straightened everything so meticulously that Sam might have a wee problem finding things. Just for a week or two.
Then Sam came out to take his place, looked at the counter in mute displeasure, and jerked his head to indicate I should get the hell out from behind the bar. My bad mood was catching.
You know how it is sometimes, when someone really tries to cheer you up? When you just decide that by golly, nothing in the world is going to make you feel better? Sam had thrown Eric at me like he was throwing a happy pill, yet he was aggravated that I hadn't swallowed it. Instead of being grateful that Sam was fond enough of me to call Eric, I was mad at him for his assumption.
I was in a totally black mood.
Quinn was gone. I'd banished him. Stupid mistake or wise decision? Verdict still out.
Lots of Weres were dead in Shreveport because of Priscilla, and I'd watched some of them die. Believe me, that sticks with you.
More than a few vampires were dead, too, including some I'd known fairly well.
My brother was a devious manipulative bastard.
My great-grandfather wasn't ever going to take me fishing.
Okay, now I was getting silly. Suddenly, I smiled, because I was picturing the prince of the fairies in old denim overalls and a Bon Temps Hawks baseball cap, carrying a can of worms and a couple of fishing poles.
I caught Sam's eye as I cleared a table of plates. I winked at him.
He turned away, shaking his head, but I caught a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
And just like that, my bad mood was officially over. My common sense kicked in. There was no point in lashing myself over the Hotshot incident any longer. I'd had to do what I'd had to do. Calvin understood that better than I did. My brother was an asshole, and Crystal was a whore. These were facts I had to deal with. Granted, they were both unhappy people who were acting out because they were married to the wrong spouse, but they were also both chronologically adults, and I couldn't fix their marriage any more than I'd been able to prevent it.
The Weres had dealt with their own problems in their own way, and I'd done my best to help them. Vampires, ditto ... sort of.
Okay. Notall better, but enough better.
When I got off work, I wasn't completely annoyed to find Eric waiting by my car. He seemed to be enjoying the night, standing all by himself in the cold. I was shivering myself because I hadn't brought a heavy jacket. My Windbreaker wasn't enough.
"It's been nice to be by myself for a while," Eric said unexpectedly.
"I guess at Fangtasia you're always surrounded," I said.
"Always surrounded by people wanting things," he said.
"But you enjoy that, right? Being the big kahuna?"
Eric looked like he was mulling that over. "Yes, I like that. I like being the boss. I don't like being ... overseen. Is that a word? I'll be glad when Felipe de Castro and his minion Sandy take their departure. Victor will stay to take over New Orleans."
Eric wassharing. This was almost unprecedented. This was like a normal give-and-take between equals.
"What's the new king like?" Cold as I was, I couldn't resist keeping the conversation going.
"He's handsome, ruthless, and clever," Eric said.
"Like you." I could have slapped myself.
Eric nodded after a moment. "But more so," Eric said grimly. "I'll have to keep very alert to stay ahead of him."
"How gratifying to hear you say so," said an accented voice.
This was definitely anOh, shit! moment. (An OSM, as I called them to myself .) A gorgeous man stepped out from the trees, and I blinked as I took him in. As Eric bowed, I scanned Felipe de Castro from his gleaming shoes to his bold face. As I bowed, too, belatedly, I realized that Eric hadn't been exaggerating when he said the new king was handsome. Felipe de Castro was a Latin male who threw Jimmy Smits into the shade, and I am a big admirer of Mr. Smits. Though perhaps five foot ten or so, Castro carried himself with such importance and straight posture that you couldn't think of him as short— rather, he made other men look too tall. His dark thick hair was clipped close to his head, and he had a mustache and chin strip. He had caramel skin and dark eyes, strong arched eyebrows, a bold nose. The king wore a cape—no kidding, a real full-length black cape. I'll tell you how impressive he was; I didn't even think of giggling. Other than the cape, he seemed dressed for a night that might include flamenco dancing, with a white shirt, black vest, and black dress slacks. One of Castro's ears was pierced, and there was a dark stone in it. The overhead security light didn't let me get a better idea of what it might be. Ruby? Emerald?