Chapter 31 Savannah #2
Strategic room assignments. Because apparently even a blizzard is just another opportunity for romantic warfare.
"Beverly," I grunt, trying to keep my voice level, "right now I'm more concerned with keeping everyone alive than I am with your matchmaking schemes."
"But think of the possibilities!" She clutches her clipboard like it contains state secrets. "Forced proximity, heightened emotions, the natural bonding that occurs during survival situations..."
I walk away before I say something that'll get me uninvited from future Pine Hollow social events. Not that I'd mind being uninvited, but Logan would probably have opinions about my diplomatic skills.
That's when Harold flags me down, his usually calm demeanor replaced by something approaching panic.
"Griffin, I need to get home," he says, wringing his hands like a nervous omega. "My wife is expecting me for dinner, and if I'm late because of weather, she's going to think I'm using the storm as an excuse to avoid her mother's visit."
I look out the window at what can only be described as nature having a complete psychological breakdown. The snow's coming down so hard it looks like someone's shaking the world's most aggressive snow globe.
"Harold," I say carefully, "the roads are closed. As in, the county has physically blocked them with equipment. You're not driving anywhere until this stops."
"But my wife..."
I'm not sure why he came to the wedding without her, but who am I to question relationships.
"Will probably prefer you alive rather than frozen to death in a ditch somewhere."
Harold looks like I've just told him his dog died, but he nods reluctantly and wanders off to presumably call his wife and explain that he's been kidnapped by weather.
That's when I hear shouting from the entrance area.
"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE STORM!" someone's yelling. "I HAVE A FLIGHT TO CATCH!"
I follow the noise and find David Webb, one of Emma's college friends, standing by the front doors like he's personally going to wrestle the blizzard into submission.
He's wearing a dress shirt and suit pants, no coat, and he's staring at the wall of white outside with the determination of someone who's clearly lost touch with reality.
"David," I say, approaching carefully like I'm dealing with a spooked animal. "What's the plan here?"
"I'm walking to my car," he announces with the confidence of someone who's never experienced weather. "The airport's only forty minutes away. If I leave now, I can make my red-eye to Seattle."
“Weren’t you planning to stay for the wedding?” He ignores my question.
I look out at the blizzard that's currently trying to bury the parking lot. "In this?"
"It's just snow," David says, reaching for the door handle.
I grab his wrist before he can open the door and let the storm into the building. "David. Buddy. That's not 'just snow.' That's a legitimate blizzard with wind speeds that could knock you down and visibility of about three feet. You'll be dead before you make it to the parking lot."
"You're exaggerating."
To prove my point, I crack the door open just enough for the wind to hit us. The blast of arctic air and snow immediately coats both of us in ice crystals, and David stumbles backward with the expression of someone who's just been slapped by Mother Nature herself.
"Okay," he admits, brushing snow off his face. "Maybe I'll wait a few minutes."
"Good choice," I grunt, closing the door before we both turn into popsicles.
That's when I hear Emma's voice carrying across the main hall with the kind of determination that means she's made a decision someone's going to argue with.
"Forget tradition!" she's announcing to anyone within earshot. "I want to be with my pack. Right now. I don't care about the bride not seeing the grooms before the ceremony. We're snowed in together, and I want my alphas."
I can see Xavier and Logan's heads snap up from wherever they've been handling logistics, and the look of pure relief on all three of their faces is almost embarrassing.
They've been keeping their distance all morning out of some misplaced sense of wedding propriety, and it's been making them twitchy as hell.
"Emma's right," I announce to the room, because someone needs to make executive decisions before this turns into Lord of the Flies with wedding dresses. "Everyone needs to be with their packs. Forget the traditional separation bullshit. We're in survival mode now."
The immediate scramble that follows this announcement is like watching someone release pressure from a steam valve. Packs start gravitating toward each other with the kind of relief that suggests they've been fighting natural instincts all morning.
That's when Logan appears at my elbow, covered in dust and looking like he's been wrestling with the building's infrastructure. Which he probably has.
"Generator's on,” he reports without preamble. "But I got three of the four fireplaces working, and there are enough space heaters in storage to keep the main areas warm. Food situation's good for at least four days. Thank God all the guests didn't show up."
"What about the fourth fireplace?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure I don't want to know the answer.
"Chimney's blocked. Probably ice buildup from the storm." Logan wipes his hands on a rag that's seen better days. "Could try to clear it, but I'd need to get on the roof, and in this weather..."
"Absolutely not," I cut him off. "We're not risking anyone climbing on a roof in a blizzard just for one more fireplace."
That's when Xavier appears, looking like he's been herding cats for the past hour. Which, considering he's been managing two hundred trapped wedding guests, is probably accurate.
"Sleeping situation's handled," he reports, but there's something in his voice that suggests it wasn't simple. "Most of the visiting packs are sharing the larger suites upstairs. Singles and smaller groups are taking the common areas with sleeping bags and extra blankets."
"Most of the packs?" I ask, because with Xavier, the details matter.
"Redtooth Pack has claimed the entire east wing for their 'compatibility experiments,'" Xavier says with the tone of someone who's given up on understanding human behavior. "They've set up some kind of testing station with questionnaires and scent samples. It's... elaborate."
Through the crowd, I can see Rebecca Redtooth directing her pack members in what looks like a scientific operation. They've got clipboards, measuring cups for what I hope is just hot cocoa, and a whiteboard covered in charts that look like they belong in a psychology textbook.
"ATTENTION COMPATIBLE INDIVIDUALS!" Rebecca's voice carries across the room. "Phase Two compatibility testing begins in fifteen minutes! Please report to Station Alpha with your preferred beverage temperature and three words that describe your ideal nesting environment!"
An omega near me looks genuinely confused. "Do I have to participate in this?"
"Hell no," I grunt. "You can just tell them you're already mated or not interested."
"But what if I am interested?" she asks, which makes me realize that maybe Rebecca's insane approach is actually working.
Before I can figure out how to respond to that, there's a commotion near the main entrance. Through the crowd, I can see someone trying to prop open the front doors.
"WHO THE HELL IS LETTING THE STORM IN?" I bellow, pushing through the crowd of people who are apparently content to watch someone freeze the entire building.
I find Tyler Brooks and Jake Thompson standing by the doors, both of them looking like they've lost a fight with a snowbank. They're covered head to toe in snow and ice, their faces red from cold, and they're tracking slush across Logan's perfectly refinished floors.
"We were checking on the cars," Tyler explains through chattering teeth. "Making sure the snow wasn't burying them completely."
"And?" I ask, though their expressions already tell me this isn't good news.
"Mine's completely buried," Jake reports miserably. "Can't even see where I parked it. Tyler's truck is visible, but there's got to be three feet of snow around it."
"My dad's going to kill me if anything happens to his truck," Tyler adds, looking like he's contemplating walking into the storm rather than facing his father's wrath.
"Your dad's going to kill you if you freeze to death checking on a truck that's not going anywhere until spring," I point out. "Get inside, get dry, and stop opening the doors unless someone's actively dying."
They nod and shuffle deeper into the building, leaving puddles of melted snow that someone's going to have to deal with. Probably me.
That's when Beverly Hartwell appears at my elbow again, because apparently crisis situations don't stop the matchmaking committee from doing what they do best.
"Griffin," she says with the conspiratorial tone of someone sharing state secrets, "I've been observing the pack dynamics during this crisis, and I think there are some very interesting developments happening."
"Beverly, I really don't have time for..."
"Pack Thornmark is fracturing," she continues, ignoring my attempt to escape. "Three of their unmated members have gravitated toward other groups. Very telling behavior during stress situations."
I look across the room to where the Thornmark pack is clustered near one of the working fireplaces. They do look smaller than they did an hour ago, and Derek Thornmark is pacing like an alpha who's lost control of his pack.
"And Redtooth Pack's aggressive recruitment is actually working," Beverly adds with the tone of someone discovering a new scientific principle. "They've gained four new potential members just from their compatibility testing. Revolutionary approach to pack building."
"That's one word for it," I say flatly.
"Oh, and there's been a very interesting development with the bride and her alphas," Beverly says, and something in her voice makes me pay attention. "They've been scenting each other quite intensively. Very public claiming behavior."
I look toward where Emma and her pack have set up near the largest fireplace. Sure enough, Emma's pressed between her three alphas in a way that's definitely more intimate than typical wedding party behavior. They're all over each other in the way that suggests their control is slipping.
"Crisis bonding," Beverly explains with academic interest. "High-stress situations often accelerate pack dynamics. Very natural response to perceived threats."
"Beverly," I say carefully, "are you telling me that being trapped in a blizzard is making everyone's instincts go haywire?"
"Oh yes," she says cheerfully. "Absolutely fascinating from an anthropological perspective. I'm taking notes."
Of course she's taking notes. Because apparently even a natural disaster is just research material for the matchmaking committee.
That's when I hear shouting from the direction of the kitchen.
"THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!" someone's yelling with the kind of outrage usually reserved for major political scandals.
I push through the crowd and find Aunt Dolly Brooks standing in the kitchen doorway, gesturing wildly at the catering staff with a wooden spoon that looks like it could be classified as a weapon.
"This woman," Dolly announces to anyone within hearing distance, "refuses to let me improve the hot chocolate with my special holiday blend!"
The catering manager, a woman who looks like she's been through several wars and isn't impressed by drunk aunts, crosses her arms and stares Dolly down.
"Ma'am," the catering manager says with professional calm, "I'm not serving alcohol to guests when we're trapped in a blizzard with no medical facilities. That's how people die."
"It's medicinal!" Dolly protests, waving her flask like evidence in a court case. "Emergency situations require emergency measures! Besides, it's barely noon. This is practically breakfast."
"It's three in the afternoon," I point out, which makes Dolly look confused and slightly betrayed.
"Time is a social construct," she declares with the philosophical depth of someone who's been drinking since dawn. "And frankly, being trapped in a snowstorm seems like the perfect time to reassess our relationship with conventional scheduling."
The catering manager looks at me with the expression of someone requesting backup.
"Dolly," I say, using the voice I usually reserve for difficult clients, "how about you help me check on the fireplaces instead? Make sure everyone's staying warm?"
"Oh, that's a wonderful idea!" Dolly brightens immediately, apparently forgetting about her battle with the catering staff. "I can assess the romantic potential of fireside seating arrangements! Very important for proper winter courtship!"
I escort Dolly away from the kitchen before she can cause any more chaos, but I can already see her eyeing the couples gathered around the fireplaces with the intensity of someone planning military strategy.