Book Six Chapter 9-12

Chapter 9
The Hair of the Dog was off Kings Highway, not too far from Centenary College. It was an old brick storefront. The large windows facing the street were covered with opaque cream curtains, I noticed, as we turned in to the left side of the building to lurch through an alley that led to a parking area at the back. We parked in the small, weedy lot. Though it was poorly lit, I could see that the ground was littered with empty cans, broken glass, used condoms, and worse. There were several motorcycles, a few of the less expensive compact cars, and a Suburban or two. The back door had a sign on it that read NO ENTRANCE—STAFF ONLY.
Though my feet were definitely beginning to protest the unaccustomed high heels, we had to pick our way through the alley to the front entrance. The cold creeping down my spine intensified as we grew close to the door. Then it was like I'd hit a wall, the spell gripped me that suddenly. I stopped dead. I struggled to go forward, but I couldn't move. I could smell the magic. The Hair of the Dog had been warded. Someone had paid a very good witch a handsome amount of money to surround the door with a go-away spell.
I fought not to give in to a compulsion to turn and walk in another direction, any other direction.
Quinn took a few steps forward, and turned to regard me with some surprise, until he realized what was happening. "I forgot," he said, that same surprise sounding in his voice. "I actually forgot you're human."
"That sounds like a compliment," I said, with some effort. Even in the cool night, my forehead beaded with sweat. My right foot edged forward an inch.
"Here," he said, and scooped me up, until he was holding me just like Rhett carried Scarlett O'Hara. As his aura wrapped around me, the unpleasant go-away compulsion eased. I drew a deep breath of relief. The magic could no longer recognize me as human, at least not decisively. Though the bar still seemed unattractive and mildly repellent, I could enter without wanting to be sick.
Maybe it was the lingering effects of the spell, but after we'd entered it, the bar still seemed unattractive and mildly repellent. I wouldn't say all conversation ceased when we walked in, but there was a definite lull in the noise that filled the bar. A jukebox was playing "Bad Moon Rising," which was like the Were national anthem, and the motley collection of Weres and shifters seemed to reorient themselves.
"Humans are not allowed in this place!" A very young woman leaped across the bar in one muscular surge and strode forward. She was wearing fishnet stockings and high-heeled boots, a red leather bustier—well, a bustier that wished it was made of red leather, it was probably more like Naugahyde—and a black band of cloth that I supposed she called a skirt. It was like she'd pulled a tube top on, and then worked it down. It was so tight I thought it might roll up all at once, like a window shade.
She didn't like my smile, correctly reading it as a comment on her ensemble.
"Get your human ass out of here," she said, and growled. Unfortunately, it didn't sound too threatening, since she hadn't had any practice at putting the menace into it, and I could feel my smile widen. The dress-challenged teen had the poor impulse control of the very new Were, and she pulled her hand back to punch me.
Then Quinn snarled.
The sound came from deep in his belly, and it was thunderous, the deep sound of it penetrating every corner of the bar. The bartender, a biker type with beard and hair of considerable length and tattoos that covered his bare arms, reached down below the bar. I knew he was pulling out a shotgun.
Not for the first time, I wondered if I shouldn't start going armed everywhere I went. In my law-abiding life, I had never seen the need until the past few months. The jukebox cut off just then, and the silence of the bar was just as deafening as the noise had been.
"Please don't get the gun out," I said, smiling brightly at the bartender. I could feel it stretching my lips, that too-bright grin that made me look a little nuts. "We come in peace," I added, on a crazy impulse, showing them my empty palms.
A shifter who'd been standing at the bar laughed, a sharp bark of startled amusement. The tension began to ratchet down a notch. The young woman's hand dropped to her side, and she took a step back. Her gaze flickered from Quinn to me and back again. Both the bartender's hands were in sight now.
"Hello, Sookie," said a familiar voice. Amanda, the red-haired Were who'd been chauffeuring Dr. Ludwig the day before, was sitting at a table in a dark corner. (Actually, the room seemed to be full of dark corners.)
With Amanda was a husky man in his late thirties. Both were supplied with drinks and a bowl of snack mix. They had company at the table, a couple sitting with their backs to me. When they turned, I recognized Alcide and Maria-Star. They turned cautiously, as if any
sudden movement might trigger violence. Maria-Star's brain was a motley jumble of anxiety, pride, and tension. Alcide's was just conflicted. He didn't know how to feel.
That made two of us.
"Hey, Amanda," I said, my voice as cheerful as my smile. It wouldn't do to let the silence pile up.
"I'm honored to have the legendary Quinn in my bar," Amanda said, and I realized that, whatever other jobs she might have, she owned the Hair of the Dog. "Are you two out for an evening on the town, or is there some special reason for your visit?"
Since I had no idea why we were there, I had to defer to Quinn for an answer, which didn't make me look too good, in my opinion.
"There's a very good reason, though I've long wanted to visit your bar," Quinn said in a courtly, formal style that had come out of nowhere.
Amanda inclined her head, which seemed to be a signal for Quinn to continue.
"This evening, my date and I were attacked in a public place, with civilians all around us."
No one seemed awfully upset or astonished by this. In fact, Miss Fashion-Challenged shrugged her bare skinny shoulders.
"We were attacked by Weres," Quinn said.
Now we got the big reaction. Heads and hands jerked and then became still. Alcide half rose to his feet and then sat down again.
"Weres of the Long Tooth pack?" Amanda asked. Her voice was incredulous.
Quinn shrugged. "The attack was a killing one, so I didn't stop to ask questions. Both were very young bitten Weres, and from their behavior, they were on drugs."
More shocked reaction. We were creating quite the sensation.
"Are you hurt?" Alcide asked me, as if Quinn weren't standing right there.
I tilted my head back so my neck would be visible. I wasn't smiling anymore. By now the bruises left by the boy's hands would be darkening nicely. And I'd been thinking hard. "As a friend of the pack, I didn't expect anything to happen to me here in Shreveport," I said.
I figured my status as friend of the pack hadn't changed with the new regime, or at least I hoped it hadn't. Anyway, it was my trump card, and I played it.
"Colonel Flood did say Sookie was a friend of the pack," Amanda said unexpectedly. The Weres all looked at each other, and the moment seemed to hang in the balance.
"What happened to the cubs?" asked the biker behind the bar.
"They lived," Quinn said, giving them the important news first. There was a general feeling that the whole bar gave a sigh; whether of relief or regret, I couldn't tell you.
"The police have them," Quinn continued. "Since the cubs attacked us in front of humans, there was no way around police involvement." We'd talked about Cal Myers on our way to the bar. Quinn had caught only a glimpse of the Were cop, but of course he'd known him for what he was. I wondered if my companion would now raise the issue of Cal Myers's presence at the station, but Quinn said nothing. And truthfully, why comment on something the Weres were sure to already know? The Were pack would stand together against outsiders, no matter how divided they were among themselves.
Police involvement in Were affairs was undesirable, obviously. Though Cal Myers's presence on the force would help, every scrutiny raised the possibility that humans would learn of the existence of creatures that preferred anonymity. I didn't know how they'd flown (or crawled, or loped) under the radar this long. I had a conviction that the cost in human lives had been considerable.
Alcide said, "You should take Sookie home. She's tired."
Quinn put his arm around me and pulled me to his side. "When we've received your assurance that the pack will get to the bottom of this unprovoked attack, we'll leave."
Neat speech. Quinn seemed to be a master of expressing himself diplomatically and firmly. He was a little overwhelming, truthfully. The power flowed from him in a steady stream, and his physical presence was undeniable.
"We'll convey all this to the packmaster," Amanda was saying. "He'll investigate, I'm sure. Someone must have hired these pups."
"Someone converted them to start with," Quinn said. "Unless your pack has degraded to biting street punks and sending them out to scavenge?"
Okay, hostile atmosphere now. I looked up at my large companion and discovered that Quinn was near-as-this to losing his temper.
"Thank you all," I said to Amanda, my bright smile again yanking at the corners of my mouth. "Alcide, Maria-Star, good to see you. We're going to go now. Long drive back to Bon Temps." I gave Biker Bartender and Fishnet Girl a little wave. He nodded, and she
scowled. Probably she wouldn't be interested in becoming my best friend. I wriggled out from under Quinn's arm and linked his hand with mine.
"Come on, Quinn. Let's hit the road."
For a bad little moment, his eyes didn't recognize me. Then they cleared, and he relaxed. "Sure, babe." He said good-bye to the Weres, and we turned our backs on them to walk out. Even though the little crowd included Alcide, whom I trusted in most ways, it was an uncomfortable moment for me.
I could feel no fear, no anxiety, coming from Quinn. Either he had great focus and control, or he really wasn't scared of a bar full of werewolves, which was admirable and all, but kind of… unrealistic.
The correct answer turned out to be "great focus and control." I found out when we got to the dim parking lot. Moving quicker than I could track, I was against the car and his mouth was on mine. After a startled second, I was right in the moment. Shared danger does that, and it was the second time—on our first date—that we'd been in peril. Was that a bad omen? I dismissed that rational thought when Quinn's lips and teeth traveled down to find that vulnerable and sensitive place where the neck curves into the shoulder. I made an incoherent noise, because along with the arousal I always felt when kissed there, I felt undeniable pain from the bruises that circled my neck. It was an uncomfortable combination.
"Sorry, sorry," he muttered into my skin, his lips never stopping their assault. I knew if I lowered my hand, I'd be able to touch him intimately. I'm not saying I wasn't tempted. But I was learning a little caution as I went along… probably not enough, I reflected with the sliver of my mind that wasn't getting more and more involved with the heat that surged up from my lowest nerve bundle to meet the heat generated by Quinn's lips. Oh, geez. Oh, oh, oh.
I moved against him. It was a reflex, okay? But a mistake, because his hand slipped under my breast and his thumb began stroking. I shuddered and jerked. He was doing a little gasping, too. It was like jumping onto the running board of a car that was already speeding down the dark road.
"Okay." I breathed, pulled away a little. "Okay, let's stop this now."
"Ummm," he said in my ear, his tongue flicking. I jerked.
"I'm not doing this," I said, trying to sound definite. Then my resolve gathered. "Quinn! I'm not having sex with you in this nasty parking lot!"
"Not even a little bit of sex?"
"No. Definitely not!"
"Your mouth" (here he kissed it) "is saying one thing, but your body" (he kissed my shoulder) "is saying another."
"Listen to the mouth, buster."
"Buster?"
"Okay. Quinn."
He sighed, straightened. "All right," he said. He smiled ruefully. "Sorry. I didn't plan on jumping you like that."
"Going into a place where you're not exactly welcome, and getting out unhurt, that's some excitement," I said.
He expelled a deep breath. "Right," he said.
"I like you a lot," I said. I could read his mind fairly clearly, just at this instant. He liked me, too; right at the moment, he liked me a whole bunch. He wanted to like me right up against the wall.
I battened my hatches. "But I've had a couple of experiences that have been warnings for me to slow down. I haven't been going slow with you tonight. Even with the, ah, special circumstances." I was suddenly ready to sit down in the car. My back was aching and I felt a slight cramp. I worried for a second, then thought of my monthly cycle. That was certainly enough to wear me out, coming on top of an exciting, and bruising, evening.
Quinn was looking down at me. He was wondering about me. I couldn't tell what his exact concern was, but suddenly he asked, "Which of us was the target of that attack outside the theater?"
Okay, his mind was definitely off sex now. Good. "You think it was just one of us?"
That gave him pause. "I had assumed so," he said.
"We also have to wonder who put them up to it. I guess they were paid, in some form—either drugs or money, or both. You think they'll talk?"
"I don't think they'll survive the night in jail."
* * * * *
Chapter 10
They didn't even rate the front page. They were in the local section of the Shreveport paper, below the fold. JAILHOUSE HOMICIDES, the headline read. I sighed.
Two juveniles awaiting transport from the holding cells to the Juvenile Facility were killed last night sometime after midnight.
The newspaper was delivered every morning to the special box at the end of my driveway, right beside my mailbox. But it was getting dark by the time I saw the article, while I was sitting in my car, about to pull out onto Hummingbird Road and go to work. I hadn't ventured out today until now. Sleeping, laundry, and a little gardening had taken up my day. No one had called, and no one had visited, just like the ads said. I'd thought Quinn might phone, just to check up on my little injuries… but not.
The two juveniles, brought into the police station on charges of assault and battery, were put in one of the holding cells to wait for the morning bus to arrive from the Juvenile Facility. The holding cell for juvenile offenders is out of sight from that for adult offenders, and the two were the only juveniles incarcerated during the night. At some point, the two were strangled by a person or persons unknown. No other prisoners were harmed, and all denied seeing any suspicious activity. Both the youths had extensive juvenile records. "They had had many encounters with the police," a source close to the investigation said.
"We're going to look into this thoroughly," said Detective Dan Coughlin, who had responded to the original complaint and was heading the investigation of the incident for which the youths were apprehended. "They were arrested after allegedly attacking a couple in a bizarre manner, and their deaths are equally bizarre." His partner, Cal Myers, added, "Justice will be done."
I found that especially ominous.
Tossing the paper on the seat beside me, I pulled my sheaf of mail out of the mailbox and added it to the little pile. I'd sort through it after my shift at Merlotte's.
I was in a thoughtful mood when I got to the bar. Preoccupied with the fate of the two assailants of the night before, I hardly flinched when I found that I would be working with Sam's new employee. Tanya was as bright-eyed and efficient as I'd found her previously. Sam was very happy with her; in fact, the second time he told me how pleased he was, I told him a little sharply that I'd already heard about it.
I was glad to see Bill come in and sit at a table in my section. I wanted an excuse to walk away, before I would have to respond to the question forming in Sam's head: Why don't you like Tanya?
I don't expect to like everyone I meet, any more than I expect everyone to like me. But I usually have a basis for disliking an individual, and it's more than an unspecified distrust and vague distaste. Though Tanya was some kind of shape-shifter, I should have been able to read her and learn enough to either confirm or disprove my instinctive suspicion. But I couldn't read Tanya. I'd get a word here and there, like a radio station that's fading out. You'd think I'd be glad to find someone my own age and sex who could perhaps become a friend. Instead, I was disturbed when I realized she was a closed book. Oddly, Sam hadn't said a word about her essential nature. He hadn't said, "Oh, she's a weremole," or "She's a true shifter, like me," or anything like that.
I was in a troubled mood when I strode over to take Bill's order. My bad mood compounded when I saw Selah Pumphrey standing in the doorway scanning the crowd, probably trying to locate Bill. I said a few bad words to myself, turned on my heel, and walked away. Very unprofessional.
Selah was staring at me when I glanced at their table after a while. Arlene had gone over to take their order. I simply listened to Selah; I was in a rude mood. She was wondering why Bill always wanted to meet her here, when the natives were obviously hostile. She couldn't believe that a discerning and sophisticated man like Bill could ever have dated a barmaid. And the way she'd heard it, I hadn't even gone to college, and furthermore, my grandmother had gotten murdered.
That made me sleazy, I guess.
I try to take things like this with a grain of salt. After all, I could have shielded myself pretty effectively from these thoughts. People who eavesdrop seldom hear good about themselves, right? An old adage, and a true one. I told myself (about six times in row) that I had no business listening to her, that it would be too drastic a reaction to go slap her upside the head or snatch her baldheaded. But the anger swelled in me, and I couldn't seem to get it under control. I put three beers down on the table in front of Catfish, Dago, and Hoyt with unnecessary force. They looked up at me simultaneously in astonishment.
"We do something wrong, Sook?" Catfish said. "Or is it just your time of the month?"
"You didn't do anything," I said. And it wasn't my time of the month—oh. Yes, it was. I'd had the warning with the ache in my back, the heaviness in my stomach, and my swollen
fingers. My little friend had come to visit, and I felt the sensation even as I realized what was contributing to my general irritation.
I glanced over at Bill and caught him staring at me, his nostrils flaring. He could smell the blood. A wave of acute embarrassment rolled over me, turning my face red. For a second, I glimpsed naked hunger on his face, and then he wiped his features clean of all expression.
If he wasn't weeping with unrequited love on my doorstep, at least he was suffering a little. A tiny pleased smile was on my lips when I glimpsed myself in the mirror behind the bar.
A second vampire came in an hour later. She looked at Bill for a second, nodded to him, and then sat at a table in Arlene's section. Arlene hustled over to take the vamp's order. They spoke for a minute, but I was too busy to check in on them. Besides, I'd just have heard the vamp filtered through Arlene, since vampires are silent as the grave (ho ho) to me. The next thing I knew, Arlene was wending her way through the crowd to me.
"The dead gal wants to talk to you," she said, not moderating her voice in the least, and heads turned in our direction. Arlene is not long on subtlety—or tact, for that matter.
After I made sure all my customers were happy, I went to the vamp's table. "What can I do for you?" I asked, in the lowest voice I could manage. I knew the vamp could hear me; their hearing is phenomenal, and their vision is not far behind in acuity.
"You're Sookie Stackhouse?" asked the vamp. She was very tall, just under six feet, and she was of some racial blend that had turned out awfully well. Her skin was a golden color, and her hair was thick and coarse and dark. She'd had it cornrowed, and her arms were weighed down with jewelry. Her clothes, in contrast, were simple; she wore a severely tailored white blouse with long sleeves, and black leggings with black sandals.
"Yes," I said. "Can I help you?" She was looking at me with an expression I could only identify as doubtful.
"Pam sent me here," she said. "My name is Felicia." Her voice was as lilting and exotic as her appearance. It made you think about rum drinks and beaches.
"How-de-do, Felicia," I said politely. "I hope Pam is well."
Since vampires don't have variable health, this was a stumper for Felicia. "She seems all right," the vamp said uncertainly. "She has sent me here to identify myself to you."
"Okay, I know you now," I said, just as confused as Felicia had been.
"She said you had a habit of killing the bartenders of Fangtasia," Felicia said, her lovely doe eyes wide with amazement. "She said I must come to beg your mercy. But you just seem like a human, to me."
That Pam. "She was just teasing you," I said as gently as I could. I didn't think Felicia was the sharpest tool in the shed. Super hearing and super strength do not equal super intelligence. "Pam and I are friends, sort of, and she likes to embarrass me. I guess she likes to do the same thing to you, Felicia. I have no intention of harming anyone." Felicia looked skeptical. "It's true, I have a bad history with the bartenders of Fangtasia, but that's just, ah, coincidence," I babbled on. "And I am really, truly just a human."
After chewing that over for a moment, Felicia looked relieved, which made her even prettier. Pam often had multiple reasons for doing something, and I found myself wondering if she'd sent Felicia here so I could observe her attractions—which of course would be obvious to Eric. Pam might be trying to stir up trouble. She hated a dull life.
"You go back to Shreveport and have a good time with your boss," I said, trying to sound kind.
"Eric?" the lovely vampire said. She seemed startled. "He's good to work for, but I'm not a lover of men."
I glanced over at my tables, not only checking to see if anyone urgently needed a drink, but to see who'd picked up on that line of dialogue. Hoyt's tongue was practically hanging out, and Catfish looked as though he'd been caught in the headlights. Dago was happily shocked. "So, Felicia, how'd you end up in Shreveport, if you don't mind me asking?" I turned my attention back to the new vamp.
"Oh, my friend Indira asked me to come. She said servitude with Eric is not so bad." Felicia shrugged, to show how "not so bad" it was. "He doesn't demand sexual services if the woman is not so inclined, and he asks in return only a few hours in the bar and special chores from time to time."
"So he has a reputation as a good boss?"
"Oh, yes." Felicia looked almost surprised. "He's no softie, of course."
Softie was not a word you could use in the same sentence as Eric.
"And you can't cross him. He doesn't forgive that," she continued thoughtfully. "But as long as you fulfill your obligations to him, he'll do the same for you."
I nodded. That more or less fit with my impression of Eric, and I knew Eric very well in some respects… though not at all in others.
"This will be much better than Arkansas," Felicia said.
"Why'd you leave Arkansas?" I asked, because I just couldn't help it. Felicia was the simplest vampire I'd ever met.
"Peter Threadgill," she said. "The king. He just married your queen."
Sophie-Anne Leclerq of Louisiana was by no means my queen, but out of curiosity, I wanted to continue the conversation.
"What's so wrong with Peter Threadgill?"
That was a poser for Felicia. She mulled it over. "He holds grudges," she said, frowning. "He's never pleased with what he has. It's not enough that he's the oldest, strongest vampire in the state. Once he became king—and he'd schemed for years to work his way up to it—he still wasn't content. There was something wrong with the state, you see?"
"Like, 'Any state that would have me for a king isn't a good state to be king of?"
"Exactly," Felicia said, as if I were very clever to think of such a phrase. "He negotiated with Louisiana for months and months, and even Jade Flower got tired of hearing about the queen. Then she finally agreed to the alliance. After a week of celebrating, the king grew sullen again. Suddenly, that wasn't good enough. She had to love him. She had to give up everything for him." Felicia shook her head at the vagaries of royalty.
"So it wasn't a love match?"
"That's the last thing vampire kings and queens marry for," Felicia said. "Now he is having his visit with the queen in New Orleans, and I'm glad I'm at the other end of the state."
I didn't grasp the concept of a married couple visiting, but I was sure that sooner or later I'd understand.
I would have been interested in hearing more, but it was time for me to get back to my section and work. "Thanks for visiting, Felicia, and don't worry about a thing. I'm glad you're working for Eric," I said.
Felicia smiled at me, a dazzling and toothy experience. "I'm glad you don't plan on killing me," she said.
I smiled back at her, a bit hesitantly.
"I assure you, now that I know who you are, you won't get a chance to creep up on me," Felicia continued. Suddenly, the true vampire looked out from Felicia's eyes, and I shivered. It could be fatal to underestimate Felicia. Smart, no. Savage, yes.
"I don't plan on creeping up on anyone, much less a vampire," I said.
She gave me a sharp nod, and then she glided out the door as suddenly as she'd come in.
"What was all that about?" Arlene asked me, when we happened to be at the bar waiting for orders at the same time. I noticed Sam was listening, as well.
I shrugged. "She's working at Fangtasia, in Shreveport, and she just wanted to make my acquaintance."
Arlene stared at me. "They got to check in with you, now? Sookie, you need to shun the dead and involve yourself more with the living."
I stared right back. "Where'd you get an idea like that?"
"You act like I can't think for myself."
Arlene had never worked out a thought like that in her life. Arlene's middle name was tolerance, mostly because she was too easygoing to take a moral stance.
"Well, I'm surprised," I said, sharply aware of how harshly I'd just evaluated someone I'd always looked on as a friend.
"Well, I been going to church with Rafe Prudhomme."
I liked Rafe Prudhomme, a very quiet man in his forties who worked for Pelican State Title Company. But I'd never had the chance to get to know him well, never listened in to his thoughts. Maybe that had been a mistake. "What kind of church does he go to?" I said.
"He's been attending that Fellowship of the Sun, that new church."
My heart sank, almost literally. I didn't bother to point out that the Fellowship was a collection of bigots who were bound together by hatred and fear. "It's not really a church, you know. There's a branch of the Fellowship close to here?"
"Minden." Arlene looked away, the very picture of guilt. "I knew you wouldn't like that. But I saw the Catholic priest, Father Riordan, there. So even the ordained people think it's okay. We've been the past two Sunday evenings."
"And you believe that stuff?"
But one of Arlene's customers yelled for her, and she was definitely glad to walk away.
My eyes met Sam's, and we looked equally troubled. The Fellowship of the Sun was an antivampire, antitolerance organization, and its influence was spreading. Some of the Fellowship enclaves were not militant, but many of them preached hatred and fear in its most extreme form. If the Fellowship had a secret underground hit list, I was surely on it. The Fellowship founders, Steve and Sarah Newlin, had been driven out of their most lucrative church in Dallas because I'd interfered with their plans. I'd survived a couple of assassination attempts since then, but there was always the chance the Fellowship would track me down and ambush me. They'd seen me in Dallas, they'd seen me in Jackson, and sooner or later they'd figure out who I was and where I lived.
I had plenty to worry about.
* * * * *
Chapter 11
The next morning, Tanya showed up at my house. It was Sunday, and I was off work, and I felt pretty cheerful. After all, Crystal was healing, Quinn seemed to like me, and I hadn't heard any more from Eric, so maybe he would leave me alone. I try to be optimistic. My gran's favorite saying from the Bible was, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." She had explained that that meant that you don't worry about tomorrow, or about things you can't change. I tried to practice that philosophy, though most days it was hard. Today it was easy.
The birds were tweeting and chirping, the bugs were buzzing, and the pollen-heavy air was full of peace as if it were yet another plant emission. I was sitting on the front porch in my pink robe, sipping my coffee, listening to Car Talk on Red River Radio, and feeling really good, when a little Dodge Dart chugged up my driveway. I didn't recognize the car, but I did recognize the driver. All my peacefulness vanished in a puff of suspicion. Now that I knew about the proximity of a new Fellowship conclave, Tanya's inquisitive presence seemed even more suspicious. I was not happy to see her at my home. Common courtesy forbade me from warning her off, with no more provocation than I'd had, but I wasn't giving her any welcoming smile when I lowered my feet to the porch and stood.
"Good morning, Sookie!" she called as she got out of her car.
"Tanya," I said, just to acknowledge the greeting.
She paused halfway to the steps. "Um, everything okay?"
I didn't speak.
"I should have called first, huh?" She tried to look winsome and rueful.
"That would have been better. I don't like unannounced visitors."
"Sorry, I promise I'll call next time." She resumed her progress over the stepping stones to the steps. "Got an extra cup of coffee?"
I violated one of the most basic rules of hospitality. "No, not this morning," I said. I went to stand at the top of the steps to block her way onto the porch.
"Well… Sookie," she said, her voice uncertain. "You really are a grump in the morning."
I looked down at her steadily.
"No wonder Bill Compton's dating someone else," Tanya said with a little laugh. She knew immediately she'd made an error. "Sorry," she added hastily, "maybe I haven't had enough coffee myself. I shouldn't have said that. That Selah Pumphrey's a bitch, huh?"
Too late now, Tanya. I said, "At least you know where you stand with Selah." That was clear enough, right? "I'll see you at work."
"Okay. I'll call next time, you hear?" She gave me a bright, empty smile.
"I hear you." I watched her get back into the little car. She gave me a cheerful wave and, with a lot of extra maneuvering, she turned the Dart around and headed back to Hummingbird Road.
I watched her go, waiting until the sound of the engine had completely died away before I resumed my seat. I left my book on the plastic table beside my lawn chair and sipped the rest of my coffee without the pleasure that had accompanied the first few mouthfuls.
Tanya was up to something.
She practically had a neon sign flashing above her head. I wished the sign would be obliging enough to tell me what she was, who she worked for, and what her goal might be, but I guessed I'd just have to find that out myself. I was going to listen to her head every chance I got, and if that didn't work—and sometimes it doesn't, because not only was she a shifter, but you can't make people think about what you need to them to, on demand—I would have to take more drastic action.
Not that I was sure what that would be.
In the past year, somehow I'd assumed the role of guardian of the weird in my little corner of our state. I was the poster girl for interspecies tolerance. I'd learned a lot about the other universe, the one that surrounded the (mostly oblivious) human race. It was kind of neat, knowing stuff that other people didn't. But it complicated my already difficult life, and it led me into dangerous byways among beings who desperately wanted to keep their existence a secret.
The phone rang inside the house, and I stirred myself from my unhappy thoughts to answer it.
"Hey, babe," said a warm voice on the other end.
"Quinn," I said, trying not to sound too happy. Not that I was emotionally invested in this man, but I sure needed something positive to happen right now, and Quinn was both formidable and attractive.
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, sitting on my front porch drinking coffee in my bathrobe."
"I wish I was there to have a cup with you."
Hmmm. Idle wish, or serious "ask me over"?
"There's plenty in the pot," I said cautiously.
"I'm in Dallas, or I'd be there in a flash," he said.
Deflation. "When did you leave?" I asked, because that seemed the safest, least prying question.
"Yesterday. I got a call from the mother of a guy who works for me from time to time. He quit in the middle of a job we were working on in New Orleans, weeks ago. I was pretty pissed at him, but I wasn't exactly worried. He was kind of a free-floating guy, had a lot of irons in the fire that took him all over the country. But his mom says he still hasn't shown up anywhere, and she thinks something's happened to him. I'm looking around his house and going through his files to help her out, but I'm reaching a dead end. The track seems to have ended in New Orleans. I'll be driving back to Shreveport tomorrow. Are you working?"
"Yes, early shift. I'll be off around five-ish."
"So can I invite myself over for dinner? I'll bring the steaks. You got a grill?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. It's pretty old, but it works."
"Got coals?"
"I'd have to check." I hadn't cooked out since my grandmother had died.
"No problem. I'll bring some."
"Okay," I said. "I'll fix everything else."
"We have a plan."
"See you at six?"
"Six it is."
"Okay, good-bye then."
Actually, I would have liked to talk to him longer, but I wasn't sure what to say, since I'd never had the experience of much idle chitchat with boys. My dating career had begun last year, when I'd met Bill. I had a lot of catching up to do. I was not like, say, Lindsay Popken, who'd been Miss Bon Temps the year I graduated from high school. Lindsay was able to reduce boys to drooling idiots and keep them trailing after her like stunned hyenas. I'd watched her at it often and still could not understand the phenomenon. It never seemed to me she talked about anything in particular. I'd even listened to her brain, but it was mostly full of white noise. Lindsay's technique, I'd concluded, was instinctive, and it was based on never saying anything serious.
Oh well, enough of reminiscence. I went into the house to see what I needed to do to get it ready for Quinn's visit the next evening and to make a list of necessary purchases. It was a happy way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I'd go shopping. I stepped into the shower contemplating a pleasurable day.
A knock at my front door interrupted me about thirty minutes later as I was putting on some lipstick. This time I looked through the peephole. My heart sank. However, I was obliged to open the door.
A familiar long black limo was parked in my drive. My only previous experience with that limo led me to expect unpleasant news and trouble.
The man—the being—standing on my front porch was the personal representative and lawyer for the vampire queen of Louisiana, and his name was Mr. Cataliades, emphasis on the second syllable. I'd first met Mr. Cataliades when he'd come to let me know that my cousin Hadley had died, leaving her estate to me. Not only had Hadley died, she'd been murdered, and the vampire responsible had been punished right before my eyes. The night had been full of multiple shocks: discovering not only that Hadley had left this world, but she'd left it as a vampire, and she'd been the favorite of the queen, in a biblical sense.
Hadley had been one of the few remaining members of my family, and I felt her loss; at the same time, I had to admit that Hadley, in her teenage years, had been the cause of much grief to her mother and much pain to my grandmother. If she'd lived, maybe she'd have tried to make up for that—or maybe she wouldn't. She hadn't had the chance.
I took a deep breath. I opened the door. "Mr. Cataliades," I said, feeling my anxious smile stretch my lips unconvincingly. The queen's lawyer was a man composed of circles, his face round and his belly rounder, his eyes beady and circular and dark. I didn't think he was human—or perhaps not wholly human—but I wasn't sure what he could be. Not a vampire; here he was, in broad daylight. Not Were, or shifter; no red buzz surrounding his brain.
"Miss Stackhouse," he said, beaming at me. "What a pleasure to see you again."
"And you also," I said, lying through my teeth. I hesitated, suddenly feeling achy and jumpy. I was sure Cataliades, like all the other supes I encountered, would know I was having my time of the month. Just great. "Won't you come in?"
"Thank you, my dear," he said, and I stepped aside, filled with misgivings, to let this creature enter my home.
"Please, have a seat," I said, determined to be polite. "Would you care for a drink?"
"No, thank you. You seem to be on your way somewhere." He was frowning at the purse I'd tossed on my chair on my way to the door.
Okay, something I wasn't understanding, here. "Yes," I said, raising my eyebrows in query. "I had planned on going to the grocery store, but I can put that off for an hour or so."
"You're not packed to return to New Orleans with me?"
"What?"
"You received my message?"
"What message?"
We stared at each other, mutually dismayed.
"I sent a messenger to you with a letter from my law office," Mr. Cataliades said. "She should have arrived here four nights ago. The letter was sealed with magic. No one but you could open it."
I shook my head, my blank expression telling him what I needed to say.
"You are saying that Gladiola didn't get here? I expected her to arrive here Wednesday night, at the latest. She wouldn't have come in a car. She likes to run." He smiled indulgently for just a second. But then the smile vanished. If I'd blinked, I would have missed it. "Wednesday night," he prompted me.
"That was the night I heard someone outside the house," I said. I shivered, remembering how tense I'd been that night. "No one came to the door. No one tried to break in. No one called to me. There was only the sense of something moving, and all the animals fell silent."
It was impossible for someone as powerful as the supernatural lawyer to look bewildered, but he did look very thoughtful. After a moment he rose ponderously and bowed to me, gesturing toward the door. We went back outside. On the front porch, he turned to the car and beckoned.
A very lean woman slid from behind the wheel. She was younger than me, maybe in her very early twenties. Like Mr. Cataliades, she was only partly human. Her dark red hair was spiked, her makeup laid on with a trowel. Even the striking outfit of the girl in the Hair of the Dog paled in comparison to this young woman's. She wore striped stockings, alternating bands of shocking pink and black, and her ankle boots were black and extremely high-heeled. Her skirt was transparent, black, and ruffled, and her pink tank top was her sole upper garment.
She just about took my breath away.
"Hi, howareya?" she said brightly, her smile revealing very sharp white teeth a dentist would fall in love with, right before he lost a finger.
"Hello," I said. I held out my hand. "I'm Sookie Stackhouse."
She covered the ground between us very speedily, even in the ridiculous heels. Her hand was tiny and bony. "Pleasedtameetya," she said. "Diantha."
"Pretty name," I said, after I figured out it wasn't another run-on sentence.
"Thankya."
"Diantha," Mr. Cataliades said, "I need to you to conduct a search for me."
"To find?"
"I'm very afraid we are looking for Glad's remains."
The smile fell from the girl's face.
"No shit," she said quite clearly.
"No, Diantha," the lawyer said. "No shit."
Diantha sat on the steps and pulled off her shoes and her striped tights. It didn't seem to bother her at all that without the tights, her transparent skirt left nothing to the imagination. Since Mr. Cataliades's expression didn't change in the least, I decided I could be worldly enough to ignore it, too.
As soon as she'd disencumbered herself, the girl was off, moving low to the ground, sniffing in a way that told me she was even less human than I'd estimated. But she didn't move like the Weres I'd observed, or the shape-shifting panthers. Her body seemed to bend and turn in a way that simply wasn't mammalian.
Mr. Cataliades watched her, his hands folded in front of him. He was silent, so I was, too. The girl darted around the yard like a demented hummingbird, vibrating almost visibly with an unearthly energy.
For all that movement, I couldn't hear her make a sound.
It wasn't long before she stopped at a clump of bushes at the very edge of the woods. She was bent over looking at the ground, absolutely still. Then, not looking up, she raised her hand like a schoolchild who'd discovered the correct answer.
"Let us go see," Mr. Cataliades suggested, and in his deliberate way he strode across the driveway, then the grass, to a clump of wax myrtles at the edge of the woods. Diantha didn't look up as we neared, but remained focused on something on the ground behind the bushes. Her face was streaked with tears. I took a deep breath and looked down at what held her attention.
This girl had been a little younger than Diantha, but she too was thin and slight. Her hair had been dyed bright gold, in sharp contrast with her milk chocolate skin. Her lips had drawn back in death, giving her a snarl that revealed teeth as white and sharp as Diantha's. Oddly enough, she didn't seem as worse for wear as I would have expected, given the fact that she might have been out here for several days. There were only a few ants walking over her, not at all the usual insect activity… and she didn't look bad at all for a person who'd been cut in two at the waist.
My head buzzed for a minute, and I was little scared I would go down on one knee. I'd seen some bad stuff, including two massacres, but I'd never seen anyone divided like this girl had been. I could see her insides. They didn't look like human insides. And it appeared the two halves had been separately seared shut. There was very little leakage.
"Cut with a steel sword," Mr. Cataliades said. "A very good sword."
"What shall we do with her remains?" I asked. "I can get an old blanket." I knew without even asking that we would not be calling the police.
"We have to burn her," Mr. Cataliades said. "Over there, on the gravel of your parking area, Miss Stackhouse, would be safest. You're not expecting any company?"
"No," I said, shocked on many levels. "I'm sorry, why must she be… burned?"
"No one will eat a demon, or even a half demon like Glad or Diantha," he said, as if explaining that the sun rises in the east. "Not even the bugs, as you see. The ground will not digest her, as it does humans."
"You don't want to take her home? To her people?"
"Diantha and I are her people. It's not our custom to take the dead back to the place where they were living."
"But what killed her?"
Mr. Cataliades raised an eyebrow.
"No, of course she was killed by something cutting through her middle, I'm seeing that! But what wielded the blade?"
"Diantha, what do you think?" Mr. Cataliades said, as if he were conducting a class.
"Something real, real strong and sneaky," Diantha said. "It got close to Gladiola, and she weren't no fool. We're not easy to kill."
"I have seen no sign of the letter she was carrying, either." Mr. Cataliades leaned over and peered at the ground. Then he straightened. "Have you got firewood, Miss Stackhouse?"
"Yessir, there's a good bit of split oak in the back by the toolshed." Jason had cut up some trees the last ice storm had downed.
"Do you need to pack, my dear?"
"Yes," I said, almost too overwhelmed to answer. "What? What for?"
"The trip to New Orleans. You can go now, can't you?"
"I… I guess so. I'll have to ask my boss."
"Then Diantha and I will take care of this while you are getting permission and packing," Mr. Cataliades said, and I blinked.
"All right," I said. I didn't seem to be able to think very clearly.
"Then we need to leave for New Orleans," he said. "I'd thought I'd find you ready. I thought that Glad had stayed to help you."
I wrenched my gaze from the body to stare up at the lawyer. "I'm just not understanding this," I said. But I remembered something. "My friend Bill wanted to go to New Orleans when I went to clean out Hadley's apartment," I said. "If he can, if he can arrange it, would that be all right with you?"
"You want Bill to go," he said, and there was a tinge of surprise in his voice. "Bill is in favor with the queen, so I wouldn't mind if he went."
"Okay, I'll have to get in touch with him when it's full dark," I said. "I hope he's in town."
I could have called Sam, but I wanted to go somewhere away from the strange funeral on my driveway. When I drove off, Mr. Cataliades was carrying the limp small body out of the woods. He had the bottom half.
A silent Diantha was filling a wheelbarrow with wood.
* * * * *
Chapter 12
"Sam," I said, keeping my voice low, "I need a few days off." When I'd knocked on his trailer door, I'd been surprised to find he had guests, though I'd seen the other vehicles parked by Sam's truck. JB du Rone and Andy Bellefleur were perched on Sam's couch, beer and potato chips set handily on the coffee table. Sam was engaging in a male bonding ritual. "Watching sports?" I added, trying not to sound astonished. I waved over Sam's shoulder to JB and Andy, and they waved back: JB enthusiastically, and Andy less happily. If you can be said to wave ambivalently, that was what he did.
"Uh, yeah, basketball. LSU's playing… oh, well. You need the time off right now?"
"Yes," I said. "There's kind of an emergency."
"Can you tell me about it?"
"I have to go to New Orleans to clean out my cousin Hadley's apartment," I said.
"And that has to be right now? You know Tanya is still new, and Charlsie just quit, she says for good. Arlene's not as reliable as she used to be, and Holly and Danielle are still pretty shaky since the school incident."
"I'm sorry," I said. "If you want to let me go and get someone else, I'll understand." It broke my heart to say that, but in fairness to Sam, I had to.
Sam shut the trailer door behind him and stepped out on the porch. He looked hurt. "Sookie," he said, after a second, "you've been completely reliable for at least five years. You've only asked for time off maybe two or three times total. I'm not going to fire you because you need a few days."
"Oh. Well, good." I could feel my face redden. I wasn't used to praise. "Liz's daughter might be able to come help."
"I'll call down the list," he said mildly. "How are you getting to New Orleans?"
"I have a ride."
"Who with?" he asked, his voice gentle. He didn't want me to get mad at his minding my business. (I could tell that much.)
"The queen's lawyer," I said, in an even quieter voice. Though tolerant of vampires in general, the citizens of Bon Temps might get a little excitable if they knew that their state had a vampire queen, and that her secret government affected them in many ways. On the other hand, given the disrepute of Louisiana politics, they might just think it was business as usual.
"You're going to clean out Hadley's apartment?"
I'd told Sam about my cousin's second, and final, death.
"Yes. And I need to find out about whatever she left me."
"This seems real sudden." Sam looked troubled. He ran a hand over his curly red-gold hair until it stood out from his head in a wild halo. He needed a haircut.
"Yes, to me, too. Mr. Cataliades tried to tell me earlier, but the messenger was killed."
I heard Andy yelling at the television as some big play roused his excitement. Strange, I'd never thought of Andy as a sports guy, or JB either, for that matter. I'd never added up all the time I'd heard men thinking about assists and three-pointers when the women with them were talking about the need for new kitchen drapes or Rudy's bad grade in algebra. When I did add it up, I wondered if the purpose of sports wasn't to give guys a safe alternative to thornier issues.
"You shouldn't go," Sam said instantly. "It sounds like it could be dangerous."
I shrugged. "I have to," I said. "Hadley left it to me; I have to do it." I was far from as calm as I was trying to look, but it didn't seem to me like it would do any good to kick and scream about it.
Sam began to speak, then reconsidered. Finally, he said, "Is this about money, Sook? Do you need the money she left you?"
"Sam, I don't know if Hadley had a penny to her name. She was my cousin, and I have to do this for her. Besides…" I was on the verge of telling him the trip to New Orleans had to be important in some way, since someone was trying so hard to keep me from going.
But Sam tended to be a worrier, especially if I was involved, and I didn't want to get him all worked up when nothing he could say would dissuade me from going. I don't think of myself as a stubborn person, but I figured this was the last service I could perform for my cousin.
"What about taking Jason?" Sam suggested, taking my hand. "He was Hadley's cousin, too."
"Evidently, he and Hadley were on the outs toward the end," I said. "That's why she left her stuff to me. Besides, Jason's got a lot on his plate right now."
"What, something besides bossing Hoyt around and screwing every woman who'll stand still long enough?"
I stared at Sam. I'd known he was not a big fan of my brother's, but I hadn't known his dislike went this deep.
"Yes, actually," I said, my voice as cold and frosty as a beer mug. I wasn't about to explain my brother's girlfriend's miscarriage while I was standing on a doorstep, especially given Sam's antagonism.
Sam looked away, shaking his head in disgust with himself. "I'm sorry, Sookie, I'm really sorry. I just think Jason should pay more attention to the only sister he's got. You're so loyal to him."
"Well, he wouldn't let anything happen to me," I said, bewildered. "Jason would stand up for me."
Before Sam said, "Of course," I caught the flicker of doubt in his mind.
"I have to go pack," I said. I hated to walk away. No matter his feelings about Jason, Sam was important to me, and leaving him with this unhappiness between us shook me a bit. But I could hear the men roaring at some play inside the trailer, and I knew I had to let him get back to his guests and his Sunday afternoon pleasure. He gave me a kiss on the cheek.
"Call me if you need me," he said, and he looked as if he wanted to say a lot more. I nodded, turned away, and went down the steps to my car.
"Bill, you said you wanted to go to New Orleans with me when I went to close out Hadley's estate?" Finally it was full dark, and I was able to call Bill. Selah Pumphrey had answered the phone and called Bill to talk to me in a very chilly voice.
"Yes."
"Mr. Cataliades is here, and he wants to leave real shortly."
"You could have told me earlier, when you knew he was coming." But Bill didn't sound truly angry, or even surprised.
"He sent a messenger, but she was killed in my woods."
"You found the body?"
"No, a girl who came with him did. Her name's Diantha."
"Then it was Gladiola who died."
"Yes," I said, surprised. "How did you know?"
Bill said, "When you come into a state, it's only polite to check in with the queen or king if you're staying for any length of time. I saw the girls from time to time, since they function as the queen's messengers."
I looked at the telephone in my hands with as much thoughtfulness as if it'd been Bill's face. I couldn't help but think all these thoughts in quick succession. Bill wandered in my woods… Gladiola had been killed in my woods. She'd been killed without noise, efficiently and accurately, by someone well versed in the lore of the supernatural, someone who'd known to use a steel sword, someone who'd been strong enough to sweep a sword through Gladiola's entire body.
These were characteristics of a vampire—but any number of supernatural creatures could do the same.
To get close enough to wield the sword, the killer had been super quick or quite innocuous-looking. Gladiola hadn't suspected she was going to be killed.
Maybe she had known the murderer.
And the way Gladiola's little body had been left, tossed in the bushes carelessly… the killer hadn't cared if I found her body or not, though of course the demonic lack of putrefaction had played a role there. Her silence was all the killer had wanted. Why had she been killed? Her message, if I was getting the whole story from the heavy lawyer, had simply been for me to prepare for my trip to New Orleans. I was going, anyway, though she hadn't had a chance to deliver it. So what had been gained by silencing her? Two or three more days of ignorance on my part? It didn't seem to me that was much motivation.
Bill was waiting for me to end the long pause in our conversation, one of the things I'd always liked about him. He didn't feel the need to fill conversational pauses.
"They burned her in the driveway," I said.
"Of course. It's the only way to dispose of anything with demon blood," Bill said, but absently, as if he'd been thinking deep thoughts about something else.
" 'Of course? How was I supposed to know that?"
"At least you know now. Bugs won't bite them, their bodies won't corrupt, and sex with them is corrosive."
"Diantha seems so perky and obedient."
"Of course, when she's with her uncle."
"Mr. Cataliades is her uncle," I said. "Glad's uncle, too?"
"Oh, yes. Cataliades is mostly demon, but his half brother Nergal is a full demon. Nergal's had several half-human children. All by different mothers, obviously."
I wasn't sure why this was so obvious, and I wasn't about to ask him.
"You're letting Selah listen to all this?"
"No, she's in the bathroom showering."
Okay, still feeling jealous. And envious: Selah had the luxury of ignorance, while I did not. What a nicer world it was when you didn't know about the supernatural side of life.
Sure. Then you just had to worry about famine, war, serial killers, AIDS, tsunamis, old age, and the Ebola virus.
"Can it, Sookie," I said to myself, and Bill said, "Pardon me?"
I shook myself. "Listen, Bill, if you want to go to New Orleans with me and the lawyer, be over here in the next thirty minutes. Otherwise, I'll assume you have other fish to fry." I hung up. I would have a whole drive to the Big Easy to think about all this.
"He'll be here, or not, in the next thirty minutes," I called out the front door to the lawyer.
"Good to hear," Mr. Cataliades called back. He was standing by Diantha while she was hosing the black smudge off my gravel.
I trotted back to my room and packed my toothbrush. I ran down my mental checklist. I'd left a message on Jason's answering machine, I'd asked Tara if she'd mind running out to get my mail and my papers every day, I'd watered my few houseplants (my grandmother believed that plants, like birds and dogs, belonged outside; ironically enough, I'd gotten some houseplants when she died, and I was trying hard to keep them alive).
Quinn!
He wasn't with his cell phone, or wasn't answering it, at any rate. I left a voice mail message. Only our second date, and I had to cancel it.
I found it hard to figure out exactly how much to tell him. "I have to go to New Orleans to clean out my cousin's apartment," I said. "She lived in a place on Chloe Street, and I don't know if there's a phone or not. So I guess I'll just call you when I get back? I'm sorry our plans changed." I hoped he would at least be able to tell I was genuinely regretful that I wouldn't be able to eat dinner with him.
Bill arrived just as I was carrying my bag out to the car. He had a backpack, which struck me as funny. I suppressed my smile when I saw his face. Even for a vampire, Bill looked pale and drawn. He ignored me.
"Cataliades," he said, with a nod. "I'll hitch a ride with you, if that suits you. Sorry about your loss." He nodded to Diantha, who was alternating long, furious monologues in a language I didn't understand with the sort of frozen-faced stare I associated with deep shock.
"My niece died an untimely death," Cataliades said, in his deliberate way. "She will not go unavenged."
"Of course not," Bill said, in his cool voice. While Diantha reached in to pop the trunk, Bill moved to the back of the car to toss his backpack into its depths. I locked my front door behind me and hurried down the steps to put my bag in with his. I caught a glimpse of his face before he registered my approach, and that glimpse shook me.
Bill looked desperate.
* * * * *