Dead as a Doornail

have no friends in there. And I shave every morning,” he said.
    “Okay, then.” I nodded, nonplussed.
    “Or if I’m going out in the evening.”
    “Gotcha.”
    “To do something special.”
    What would Quinn consider special?
    The doors opened, interrupting one of the strangest conversations I’d ever had.
    “You can come back in,” said a young Were in three-inch-high fuck-me shoes. She was wearing a burgundy sheath, and when we followed her back into the big room, she gave her walk some extra sway. I wondered whom she was trying to entrance, Quinn or Claude. Or maybe Claudine?
    “This is our judgment,” said Christine to Quinn. “We’ll resume the contest where it ended. According to the vote, since Patrick cheated on the second test, he is declared the loser of that test. Of the agility test, too. However, he’s allowed to stay in the running. But, to win, he has to win the last test decisively.” I wasn’t sure what “decisively” meant in this context. From Christine’s face, I was certain it didn’t bode well. For the first time, I realized that justice might not prevail.
    Alcide looked very grim, when I found his face in the crowd. This judgment seemed clearly biased in favor of his father’s opponent. I hadn’t realized that there were more Weres in the Furnan camp than the Herveaux camp, and I wondered when that shift had occurred. The balance had seemed more even at the funeral.
    Since I had already interfered, I felt free to interfere some more. I began wandering among the pack members, listening to their brains. Though the twisted and turned brains of all Weres and shifters are difficult to decipher, I began to pick up a clue here and there. The Furnans, I learned, had followed their plan of leaking stories about Jackson Herveaux’s gambling habits, talking up how unreliable that made Jackson as a leader.
    I knew from Alcide that the stories about his father’s gambling were true. Though I didn’t admire the Furnans for playing this card, I didn’t consider it stacking the deck, either.
    The two competitors were still in wolf form. If I had understood correctly, they had been scheduled to fight anyway. I was standing by Amanda. “What’s changed about the last test?” I asked. The redhead whispered that now the fight was no longer a regular match, with the contestant left standing after five minutes declared the winner. Now, to win the fight “decisively,” the loser had to be dead or disabled.
    This was more than I’d bargained for, but I knew without asking that I couldn’t leave.
    The group gathered around a wire dome that reminded me irresistibly of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome . You remember—“Two men enter, one man leaves.” I guess this was the wolf equivalent. Quinn opened the door, and the two large wolves slunk in, casting their gazes from side to side as they counted their supporters. Or at least, that’s what I guessed they were doing.
    Quinn turned and beckoned to me.
    Ah-oh. I frowned. The dark, purple-brown eyes were intent. The man meant business. I approached him reluctantly.
    “Go read their minds again,” he told me. He laid a huge hand on my shoulder. He turned me to face him, which brought me face-to-face—well, so to speak—with his dark brown nipples. Disconcerted, I looked up. “Listen, blondie, all you have to do is go in there and do your thing,” he said reassuringly.
    He couldn’t have had this idea while the wolves were outside the cage? What if he shut the door on me? I looked over my shoulder at Claudine, who was frantically shaking her head.
    “Why do I need to? What purpose will it serve?” I asked, not being a total idiot.
    “Is he gonna cheat again?” Quinn asked so softly that I knew no one else could hear him. “Does Furnan have some means of cheating that I can’t see?”
    “Do you guarantee my safety?”
    He met my eyes. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. He opened the door to the cage. Though he had to stoop, he came in behind me.
    The two wolves approached me cautiously. Their smell was strong; like dog, but muskier and wilder. Nervously, I laid my hand on Patrick Furnan’s head. I looked in his head as hard as I could, and I could discern nothing but rage at me for costing him his win in the endurance contest. There was a glowing coal of purpose about the coming battle, which he intended to win by sheer ruthlessness.
    I sighed, shook my head, moved my hand away. To be fair, I put my hand on Jackson’s