"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.
