Dead But Not Forgotten (33 page)

Claude glanced at the gaudy handbag on the floor by Velva's chair. He nodded to his sister, and Claudine picked it up to hand to him.

“So if I open this, I won't find anything to connect you to Cousin Rita?” Claude grasped the bag, ready to pull it open and dump its contents on the desk.

Velva jumped up and tried to jerk the bag out of his hands. Claudine grabbed her by the neck, and Velva sputtered as her airway constricted. Claudine shoved her down in the chair, but this time she kept her hand on Velva's neck. The stripper breathed hard, her expression one of panic.

Claude opened the bag and emptied it. Loose tissues, tubes of lipstick, keys, coins, wrapped pieces of candy, a pack of gum, and other items clattered on the desk. Claude set the bag aside and surveyed the jumble.

“I bet this might tell us something.” He picked up Velva's cell phone. The stripper moaned.

Claude played with the phone, a model similar to the one Jeff had. He noticed that Velva had a new text message. He clicked on the icon and read it.

He looked up at Velva. “Interesting. You say you don't know Rita Child, but here she is, sending you text messages.” He smiled, and Velva shrank back in fear.

“Here's what Rita has to say, Claudine.
One down two to go.
” He scrolled backward through the conversation. “Here's a little tidbit from you to Rita.
Lemon juice worked like you said.
Then there is a smiley face.
Wish it worked on my freckles like it did on the fairy.
”

Velva squealed as Claudine's grip on her neck tightened once again. She started babbling, “Please don't kill me,” over and over.

“Did Rita ever tell you how she knew about us?” Claude asked when Velva's breath gave out and she stopped talking.

The stripper nodded weakly, and Claudine loosened her grip. Velva rubbed her neck. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “She spied on you. Had the dressing rooms bugged. Heard all kinds of shit about you fucking fairies.”

Claudine shared a glance with her twin. They had wondered how Rita knew enough about them and their weaknesses in order to use lemon juice to kill Claudette. They hadn't taken time to question her when she admitted to the murder, simply told her to run for her life. Thus far she had managed to elude them. Perhaps Velva's phone would be useful in their hunt, and they could deliver justice to Rita as well.

“One more question, and then we will pass judgment.” Claude picked up Jeff's handkerchief and unrolled the spray bottle, letting it drop on the desk. “You sprayed Seamus with juice from this bottle. Why did you do it on the sofa bed?”

Velva shuddered. “I said that Marlon wanted to watch him and me having sex. He liked that. Thought it was funny. I told him to open up the bed and get ready and Marlon would come along in a few minutes and catch us going at it.”

“Then what happened?”

“He, well, he laid back on the bed and looked up at me, and I squirted him right in that stupid smirking face of his.” Velva glanced fearfully back at Claudine, then at Claude.

“Did you enjoy the screams as he died?”

“No,” she whispered. She gazed at Claude, obviously terrified. “What are you going to do? Call the police?”

Claudine placed a hand on her shoulder, and Velva started.

“No,” Claudine said, smiling down at her, showing her teeth.

Claude came around the desk to join them. “No, Claudine and I will settle this ourselves.”

After Rita killed their sister, they'd given her a chance to live in return for her signing the bar over to them—if she could hide from them for a full year, they would not kill her. They would not make the same mistake with Velva. And when the flooding receded, they would hunt down Rita.

The storm raged outside, but only the fairies heard the killer scream in agony as she died.

SUZANNE MCLEOD

Suzanne McLeod's story combines characters who never met in the books. Luna Garza, shapeshifting werebat and undercover operative for the Dallas shifters, is on a flying visit to Bon Temps to look for a missing teen. She receives unexpected help from Sookie's telepathic cousin, Hunter Savoy, and his father, Remy. This story takes place between
Deadlocked
and
Dead Ever After
.

—

Luna swooped across Merlotte's mostly empty parking lot, the humidity in the early afternoon air leaving sticky, uncomfortable moisture trails along the thin membranes of her wings. A pinprick of color lit up on her mental radar, and she darted left, snagging a bug out of the air. Her nose twitched at the enticing scent of fried food wafting from the bar until the smell of stale beer, rising like a wraith from the Dumpster near the back door, curdled her appetite. There were times when having a bat's sensitive snout wasn't an advantage.

And there were times when it was. Like now as she glided over the roof of the trailer situated at the back of the bar, and her snout told her there was no one home. Hadn't been for a couple of days, maybe three, going by the way the scent of its shifter occupant was nearly as stale as the Dumpster's old-beer smell.

Which meant today's mission was a bust.

Luna hadn't really expected it to be anything else. After all, Sam hadn't answered her e-mails or texts. So he was more likely off having fun as his other-natured self. Collies, or whatever animal Sam had chosen to shift into this full moon, don't do so well with phones or computers. Of course, something could've happened to him, but then the local media would've picked up on a disappearing bar owner, shapeshifter or not. The same way the news was full of the runaway boy she and everyone else in the Dallas-area twoey coalition were looking for.

Besides, Bon Temps was way down the list of possible places the boy might head for. Far as they knew, he'd never been here, had no friends or relatives here. It had only made it on the list of places to search because Sam had been in the news a few times, and he was, like a score of other shifters, kinda high profile.

But really, for a teenage boy who'd spent his first fourteen years in Fort Worth, to head for somewhere as rural as Bon Temps and look for a shapeshifter he didn't know was as likely as Luna flying to the moon, despite being named for it. No, Dallas was where the boy had last been seen heading for. Dallas was where they'd discovered, according to the children's home files, that he had a great-uncle. And Dallas was where the coalition was concentrating the search.

Luna knew Dallas like the back of her wings, and she could've searched the city as fast as, if not faster than, any other twoey. But when the call for help went out to all the coalition members and she'd volunteered as usual (she couldn't sit on the sidelines if a twoey was in trouble, not like some), she'd been given the “safe” job. Oh, the Dallas packmaster—who'd taken the lead on this one, as he managed to do most times—had said it was because she and Sam were acquainted, but she'd known that for the excuse it was.

Damn werewolves with their delusions of superiority.

She snapped at a passing bug, tiny teeth crunching down.

Just because she was small as a woman, and even smaller as a bat, didn't mean she wasn't as capable as any of the larger, hairier, four-legged two-natured. She was so over the packmaster treating her as if she were made of spun glass; even her most exciting undercover job spying on the Fellowship of the Sun had been posing as an office worker/helper. Which had been nearly as boring as actually being one. Until Sookie Stackhouse had turned up. Things had gotten way more exciting then, and the Fellowship members had gotten their asses kicked.

Of course, now that the weres and shifters had clawed their way out of the closet and shown the world that vamps weren't the only supes, even Luna's undercover work had dried up. She needed to do something more with her life. Something that meant something. Something worthwhile.

Catching a runaway werewolf who'd attacked an adult and another teenager, and maybe killed the teen (the doctors weren't hopeful the boy would regain consciousness), before the world found out and started pointing their shotguns at the first shifter they thought they'd seen, would be a good start on that
something
.

Frustration dipped Luna's wings as she flew toward the tree-crowded end of the parking lot, heading back to her car. Maybe she should pay Merlotte's a visit, in person, as it were. Sookie might be working. It would be good to see her again, catch up on some gossip, and while Luna couldn't tell her exactly what she was doing here in Bon Temps, Sookie was a telepath and a barmaid: two things that upped the odds she might've heard something useful.

And hey, while they were chatting, there was always food to eat, and now that Luna was far enough away from the icky Dumpster, she was hungry again. She snagged another bug and was trying to think up a good enough reason to explain why she was passing through when the back door of the bar swung open. A man, holding the hand of a boy of around five, came out.

“Y'all take care now, Remy,” a breezy female voice called from inside. “Sorry I wasn't any help finding Sookie for you.”

Sookie isn't here.
Disappointment filled Luna. Even hungry as she was, the idea of a meal wasn't so good now with no chance of a friendly chat.

The man said a polite “Thank you, ma'am.”

He sounded as disappointed as Luna felt. Then the door was yanked shut, leaving him and the boy standing by the smelly Dumpster as if they'd been put out with the trash. They looked at each other, the man's face worried as if he were wondering what to do next, the boy's brows drawn in a frown that looked too old for his childish face.

Luna circled, the fact they were looking for Sookie intriguing her. She swooped back, keeping high above their heads. Fly too close to humans (and the man and boy had to be human to stay that close to the stinking Dumpster), especially in daylight, and they got silly ideas about rabies and/or using her for target practice.

Not that the man looked like he had a gun, but better safe than shot. In fact, he looked easy on the eyes, good-looking in a rugged sort of way with wide-spaced eyes, a big nose, and a cute-dimpled jaw that stuck out. His thick, blond-brown hair was long enough to brush the collar of his flannel shirt, which, like his jeans, was worn but clean and showed off his muscular build. He was obviously no office flunky but worked hard at some manual job. The boy's clothes, corduroy pants and a bright blue sweatshirt with a picture of a cartoon dog, were newer, his hair was darker, and his young face promised to be even more handsome than his dad's.
He's going to be a heartbreaker when he's older,
Luna thought.

“She wasn't really sorry, Dad.”

The boy had whispered, but despite that, Luna's sharp ears picked his words out as clear as if he'd been shouting. Curious, she dived closer.

“Shhh, son.” The man, Remy, darted a nervous glance around. “Remember what we talked about.”

“But, Dad, she was thinking rude things about how she didn't have time to talk about Aunt Sookie and wishing we would just get out of her hair already!”

Aunt Sookie?
Surprise made Luna's dive steeper than she meant, and she almost tangled in the man's thick hair before swooping up to perch on the roof of the bar. She hooked her claws into the wooden overhang, furled her wings tight about her, and hung there, listening and watching.

Remy hunkered down in front of his boy with that patient exasperated look good parents get when they're about to lay down a rule for about the millionth time. “It doesn't matter what folks are thinking, Hunter, you don't get to say anything about it unless they say it out loud, remember?”

Hunter's chin dropped contritely. “Yeah, Dad. I know. Stuff in others' heads is private.”

“That's right, son.” Remy gave him a sad smile. “We aren't supposed to talk about it, 'less they do first.”

Luna put two and two together.

Sookie was a telepath. The boy was a relative of Sookie's. It didn't take much to do the math and work out that he was a telepath, too. Woo-ee. Luna let that bombshell settle in, thinking how hard and terrifying life must be for a kid to hear all the crap adults thought about. Or really hear anyone's thoughts at all. Like
hers
. Though all her flying about and thinking hadn't seemed to catch the boy's attention. So far . . .

Luna narrowed her piercing bat eyes at the boy and mentally asked,
“Can you hear me, Hunter?”

Hunter's head jerked and he looked around as if she'd actually spoken out loud.

“You hearing someone, son?” Remy asked, his tone alert and anxious.

Hunter nodded, and his dad jumped up from his crouch, his hand on the boy's shoulder pushing the child behind his legs protectively, and did his own scan of the parking lot and the trees bordering its outskirts. Regret filled Luna that while her little experiment had gotten an interesting result, she'd scared them both.

Which, now that she thought about it, wasn't such a surprise. She knew Sookie was always being made to use her mind reading to “help” the vamps and the weres, and Luna knew firsthand how quick Sookie's “helping” could go bad. The first time she'd met her, Luna's car had been totaled, and poor Sookie had ended up with a trip to the emergency room. And that wasn't Sookie's only hospital visit, according to what Luna had heard on the shifter grapevine. With experiences like Sookie's, it was only sensible that Hunter's dad wanted to keep his son's ability a secret.

Luna stayed quiet and still, trying not to think directly at the boy, not wanting to frighten him or his father again. She'd wait till they left, then check out Merlotte's for any gossip about the runaway. She probably wouldn't find anything, but she didn't want to leave any stone unturned.

Remy made sure there was no one about, even looking up, which not many humans did (not that he saw her, hanging in the shadows of the eaves as she was), before he took Hunter's hand in a firm grip and walked them toward a faded blue pickup truck as fast as the boy's legs could go without running. The truck, like the man's clothes, had seen better days but was clean and well cared for.

Remy hoisted his son up in the cab and settled him in a booster seat.

“It wasn't like an ordinary person's voice, Dad. It was more snarly.” Hunter's whisper pricked Luna's ears. It sounded like the boy could tell the difference between hearing a shifter's and a human's thoughts.

Remy's quiet words floated up. “Was it like the other voice? The one you heard crying. The one we were going to tell Aunt Sookie about?”

“Yeah. Only this one wasn't scared, Dad.”

“Is the voice still here?” Remy said, lifting his head out of the truck and glancing around, looking pretty scared himself.

A moment's silence, then, “I'm not hearing it anymore, Dad.”

“Good.” Remy's mouth thinned in determination. “Let's see if Aunt Sookie's at home, sport. Maybe she's doing work in her yard and forgot to bring her cell with her, and that's why she's not answering.” He jogged around to the driver's side and jumped in. The engine roared to life.

Luna unfurled her wings, excitement and concern racing through her. The boy had heard another voice. One like Luna's. Did that mean he'd heard another werebat's voice? Not that there were many werebats in Louisiana; Luna knew of only one other, and she lived down in New Orleans and was old enough she wasn't going to be flying around this far from her home turf. Or maybe all shifter voices “sounded” the same in Hunter's head? So it could just be another were of some sort he'd heard. A were who was frightened and needed help. Could it be the runaway they were all searching for? Possible but doubtful. Whoever it was, he or she was in trouble. Which was all Luna needed to know. She was going to find the other twoey and help.

But to do that she needed to catch up with Remy and Hunter and get them to tell her where the boy had heard the voice.

Luna released her claws' hold on the roof and dived fast across the parking lot to the far corner where her silver Subaru was parked, almost hidden beneath a tangle of overhanging trees. She did a quick check around to make sure no one was watching, then swooped in through the half-open driver's window and burrowed into the clothes she'd left draped over the car's fabric seat. (Fabric seats made clothes-burrowing a less slippery affair.) She breathed in the citrus scent of her perfume, using it to anchor the image of her other nature in her mind, and made the decision to be human. A sharp burst of static filled her mind, and a second later her perception of the world shifted, and she was sitting behind the steering wheel with most of her clothes where they were meant to be.

She hastily adjusted her bra beneath the gypsy-style embroidered blouse (changes inside her clothes always played havoc with the fit of the lacy underwear she loved to wear), wriggled more comfortably into her jeans, pulled her socks up, and scooted her feet into her sneakers. Other weres might think a bat was only good for checking out dead ends and doing “safe” undercover work, but she was one of the few who was small enough, and had practiced enough, that she could shift without doing a bad Hulk-clothes-splitting impression, or ending up naked as a newly born babe.