Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set (114 page)

I was exhausted when it was over, though I’d enjoyed myself immensely. I’d heard a lot about men who didn’t care if the woman had her pleasure, or perhaps such men assumed that if they were happy, their partner was, too. But neither of the men I’d been with had been like that. I didn’t know if that was because they were vampires, or because I’d been lucky, or both.

Eric had paid me many compliments, and I realized I hadn’t said anything to him that indicated my admiration. That hardly seemed fair. He was holding me, and my head was on his shoulder. I murmured into his neck, “You are so beautiful.”

“What?” He was clearly startled.

“You’ve told me you thought my body was nice.” Of course that wasn’t the adjective he’d used, but I was embarrassed to repeat his actual words. “I just wanted you to know I think the same about you.”

I could feel his chest move as he laughed, just a little. “What part do you like best?” he asked, his voice teasing.

“Oh, your butt,” I said instantly.

“My . . . bottom?”

“Yep.”

“I would have thought of another part.”

“Well, that’s certainly . . . adequate,” I told him, burying my face in his chest. I knew immediately I’d picked the wrong word.

“Adequate?”
He took my hand, placed it on the part in question. It immediately began to stir. He moved my hand on it, and I obligingly circled it with my fingers. “This is
adequate?
”

“Maybe I should have said it’s a gracious plenty?”

“A gracious plenty. I like that,” he said.

He was ready again, and honestly, I didn’t know if I could. I was worn out to the point of wondering if I’d be walking funny the next day.

I indicated I would be pleased with an alternative by sliding down in the bed, and he seemed delighted to reciprocate. After another sublime release, I thought every muscle in my body had turned to Jell-O. I didn’t talk anymore about the worry I felt about my brother, about the terrible things that had happened in Shreveport, about anything unpleasant. We whispered some heartfelt (on my part) mutual compliments, and I was just out of it. I don’t know what Eric did for the rest of the night, because I fell asleep.

I had many worries waiting for me the next day; but thanks to Eric, for a few precious hours I just didn’t care.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, THE SUN WAS SHINING OUTSIDE when I woke. I lay in bed in a mindless pool of contentment. I was sore, but pleasantly so. I had a little bruise or two—nothing that would show. And the fang marks that were a dead giveaway (har-de-har) were not on my neck, where they’d been in the past. No casual observer was going to be able to tell I’d enjoyed a vampire’s company, and I didn’t have an appointment with a gynecologist—the only other person who’d have a reason to check that area.

Another shower was definitely called for, so I eased out of bed and wobbled across the floor to the bathroom. We’d left it in something of a mess, with towels tossed everywhere and the shower curtain half-ripped from its plastic hoops (when had
that
happened?), but I didn’t mind picking it up. I rehung the curtain with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

As the water pounded on my back, I reflected that I must be pretty simple. It didn’t take much to make me happy. A long night with a dead guy had done the trick. It wasn’t just the dynamic sex that had given me so much pleasure (though that had contained moments I’d remember till the day I died); it was the companionship. Actually, the intimacy.

Call me stereotypical. I’d spent the night with a man who’d told me I was beautiful, a man who’d enjoyed me and who’d given me intense pleasure. He had touched me and held me and laughed with me. We weren’t in danger of making a baby with our pleasures, because vampires just can’t do that. I wasn’t being disloyal to anyone (though I’ll admit I’d had a few pangs when I thought of Bill), and neither was Eric. I couldn’t see the harm.

As I brushed my teeth and put on some makeup, I had to admit to myself that I was sure that the Reverend Fullenwilder wouldn’t agree with my viewpoint.

Well, I hadn’t been going to tell him about it, anyway. It would just be between God and me. I figured God had made me with the disability of telepathy, and he could cut me a little slack on the sex thing.

I had regrets, of course. I would love to get married and have babies. I’d be faithful as can be. I’d be a good mom, too. But I couldn’t marry a regular guy, because I would always know when he lied to me, when he was angry with me, every little thought he had about me. Even dating a regular guy was more than I’d been able to manage. Vampires can’t marry, not yet, not legally; not that a vampire had asked me, I reminded myself, tossing a washcloth into the hamper a little forcefully. Perhaps I could stand a long association with a Were or a shifter, since their thoughts weren’t clear. But there again, where was the willing Were?

I had better enjoy what I had at this moment—something I’ve become quite good at doing. What I had was a handsome vampire who’d temporarily lost his memory and, along with it, a lot of his personality: a vampire who needed reassurance just as much as I did.

In fact, as I put in my earrings, I figured out that Eric had been so delighted with me for more than one reason. I could see that after days of being completely without memories of his possessions or underlings, days lacking any sense of self, last night he had gained something of his own—me. His lover.

Though I was standing in front of a mirror, I wasn’t really seeing my reflection. I was seeing, very clearly, that—at the moment—I was all in the world that Eric could think of as his own.

I had better not fail him.

I was rapidly bringing myself down from “relaxed happiness” to “guilty grim resolution,” so I was relieved when the phone rang. It had a built-in caller ID, and I noticed Sam was calling from the bar, instead of his trailer.

“Sookie?”

“Hey, Sam.”

“I’m sorry about Jason. Any news?”

“No. I called down to the sheriff’s department when I woke up, and I talked to the dispatcher. She said Alcee Beck would let me know if anything new came up. That’s what she’s said the last twenty times I’ve called.”

“Want me to get someone to take your shift?”

“No. It would be better for me to be busy, than to sit here at home. They know where to reach me if they’ve got anything to tell me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Thanks for asking, though.”

“If I can do anything to help, you let me know.”

“There is something, come to think of it.”

“Name it.”

“You remember the little shifter Jason was in the bar with New Year’s Eve?”

Sam gave it thought. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “One of the Norris girls? They live out in Hotshot.”

“That’s what Hoyt said.”

“You have to watch out for people from out there, Sookie. That’s an old settlement. An inbred settlement.”

I wasn’t sure what Sam was trying to tell me. “Could you spell that out? I’m not up to unraveling subtle hints today.”

“I can’t right now.”

“Oh, not alone?”

“No. The snack delivery guy is here. Just be careful. They’re really, really different.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, still in the dark. “I’ll be careful. See you at four-thirty,” I told him, and hung up, vaguely unhappy and quite puzzled.

I had plenty of time to go out to Hotshot and get back before I had to go to work. I pulled on some jeans, sneakers, a bright red long-sleeved T-shirt, and my old blue coat. I looked up Crystal Norris’s address in the phone book and had to get out my chamber of commerce map to track it down. I’ve lived in Renard Parish my whole life, and I thought I knew it pretty well, but the Hotshot area was a black hole in my otherwise thorough knowledge.

I drove north, and when I came to the T-junction, I turned right. I passed the lumber processing plant that was Bon Temps’s main employer, and I passed a reupholstering place, and I flew past the water department. There was a liquor store or two, and then a country store at a crossroads that had a prominent COLD BEER AND BAIT sign left over from the summer and propped up facing the road. I turned right again, to go south.

The deeper I went into the countryside, the worse the road seemed to grow. The mowing and maintenance crews hadn’t been out here since the end of summer. Either the residents of the Hotshot community had no pull whatsoever in the parish government, or they just didn’t want visitors. From time to time, the road dipped in some low-lying areas as it ran between bayous. In heavy rains, the low spots would be flooded. I wouldn’t be surprised at all to hear folks out here encountered the occasional gator.

Finally I came to another crossroads, compared to which the one with the bait shop seemed like a mall. There were a few houses scattered around, maybe eight or nine. These were small houses, none of them brick. Most of them had several cars in the front yard. Some of them sported a rusty swing set or a basketball hoop, and in a couple of yards I spotted a satellite dish. Oddly, all the houses seemed pulled away from the actual crossroads; the area directly around the road intersection was bare. It was like someone had tied a rope to a stake sunk in the middle of the crossing and drawn a circle. Within it, there was nothing. Outside it, the houses crouched.

In my experience, in a little settlement like this, you had the same kind of people you had anywhere. Some of them were poor and proud and good. Some of them were poor and mean and worthless. But all of them knew each other thoroughly, and no action went unobserved.

On this chilly day, I didn’t see a soul outdoors to let me know if this was a black community or a white community. It was unlikely to be both. I wondered if I was at the right crossroads, but my doubts were washed away when I saw an imitation green road sign, the kind you can order from a novelty company, mounted on a pole in front of one of the homes. It read, HOTSHOT.

I was in the right place. Now, to find Crystal Norris’s house.

With some difficulty, I spotted a number on one rusty mailbox, and then I saw another. By process of elimination, I figured the next house must be the one where Crystal Norris lived. The Norris house was little different from any of the others; it had a small front porch with an old armchair and two lawn chairs on it, and two cars parked in front, one a Ford Fiesta and the other an ancient Buick.

When I parked and got out, I realized what was so unusual about Hotshot.

No dogs.

Any other hamlet that looked like this would have at least twelve dogs milling around, and I’d be wondering if I could safely get out of the car. Here, not a single yip broke the winter silence.

I crossed over the hard, packed dirt of the yard, feeling as though eyes were on every step I took. I opened the torn screen door to knock on the heavier wooden door. Inset in it was a pattern of three glass panes. Dark eyes surveyed me through the lowest one.

The door opened, just when the pause was beginning to make me anxious.

Jason’s date from New Year’s Eve was less festive today, in black jeans and a cream-colored T-shirt. Her boots had come from Payless, and her short curly hair was a sort of dusty black. She was thin, intense, and though I’d carded her, she just didn’t look twenty-one.

“Crystal Norris?”

“Yeah?” She didn’t sound particularly unfriendly, but she did sound preoccupied.

“I’m Jason Stackhouse’s sister, Sookie.”

“Oh, yeah? Come in.” She stood back, and I stepped into the tiny living room. It was crowded with furniture intended for a much larger space: two recliners and a three-cushion couch of dark brown Naugahyde, the big buttons separating the vinyl into little hillocks. You’d stick to it in the summer and slide around on it in the winter. Crumbs would collect in the depression around the buttons.

There was a stained rug in dark red and yellows and browns, and there were toys strewn in an almost solid layer over it. A picture of the Last Supper hung above the television set, and the whole house smelled pleasantly of red beans and rice and cornbread.

A toddler was experimenting with Duplos in the doorway to the kitchen. I thought it was a boy, but it was hard to be sure. Overalls and a green turtleneck weren’t exactly a clue, and the baby’s wispy brown hair was neither cut short nor decorated with a bow.

“Your child?” I asked, trying to make my voice pleasant and conversational.

“No, my sister’s,” Crystal said. She gestured toward one of the recliners.

“Crystal, the reason I’m here . . . Did you know that Jason is missing?”

She was perched on the edge of the couch, and she’d been staring down at her thin hands. When I spoke, she looked into my eyes intently. This was not fresh news to her.

“Since when?” she asked. Her voice had a pleasantly hoarse sound to it; you’d listen to what this girl had to say, especially if you were a man.

“Since the night of January first. He left my house, and then the next morning he didn’t show up for work. There was some blood on that little pier out behind the house. His pickup was still in his front yard. The door to it was hanging open.”

“I don’t know nothing about it,” she said instantly.

She was lying.

“Who told you I had anything to do with this?” she asked, working up to being bitchy. “I got rights. I don’t have to talk to you.”

Sure, that was Amendment 29 to the Constitution: Shifters don’t have to talk to Sookie Stackhouse.

“Yes, you do.” Suddenly, I abandoned the nice approach. She’d hit the wrong button on me. “I’m not like you. I don’t have a sister or a nephew,” and I nodded at the toddler, figuring I had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. “I don’t have a mom or a dad or anything,
anything
, except my brother.” I took a deep breath. “I want to know where Jason is. And if you know anything, you better tell me.”