Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set (139 page)

“Stay away from him. Don’t talk to him, don’t cross him, and don’t try to help your friend Tara. When he was here, Mickey talked mostly to Charles. Charles tells me he is a rogue. He’s capable of . . . things that are barbarous. Don’t go around Tara.”

I opened my hands, asking Eric to explain.

“He’ll do things the rest of us won’t,” Eric said.

I stared up at Eric, shocked and deeply worried. “I can’t just ignore her situation. I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to let one go down the drain.”

“If she’s involved with Mickey, she’s just meat on the hoof,” Eric said with a brutal simplicity. He took my coat from me and held it while I slid into it. His hands massaged my shoulders after I’d buttoned it.

“It fits well,” he said. It didn’t take a mind reader to guess that he didn’t want to say any more about Mickey.

“You got my thank-you note?”

“Of course. Very, ah, seemly.”

I nodded, hoping to indicate this was the end of the subject. But, of course, it wasn’t.

“I still wonder why your old coat had bloodstains on it,” Eric murmured, and my eyes flashed up to his. I cursed my carelessness once again. When he’d come back to thank me for keeping him, he’d roamed the house while I was busy until he’d come across the coat. “What did we do, Sookie? And to whom?”

“It was chicken blood. I killed a chicken and cooked it,” I lied. I’d seen my grandmother do that when I was little, many a time, but I’d never done it myself.

“Sookie, Sookie. My bullshit meter is reading that as a ‘false,’ ” Eric said, shaking his head in a chiding way.

I was so startled I laughed. It was a good note on which to leave. I could see Charles Twining standing by the front door, thoroughly modern padded jacket at the ready. “Good-bye, Eric, and thanks for the bartender,” I said, as if Eric had loaned me some AA batteries or a cup of rice. He bent and brushed my cheek with his cool lips.

“Drive safely,” he said. “And stay away from Mickey. I need to find out why he’s in my territory. Call me if you have any problems with Charles.” (If the batteries are defective, or if the rice is full of worms.) Beyond him I could see the same woman was still sitting at the bar, the one who’d remarked that I was no maiden. She was obviously wondering what I had done to secure the attention of a vampire as ancient and attractive as Eric.

I often wondered the same thing.

T
HE DRIVE BACK TO BON TEMPS WAS PLEASANT. Vampires don’t smell like humans or act like humans, but they’re sure relaxing to my brain. Being with a vampire is almost as tension-free as being alone, except, of course, for the blood-sucking possibilities.

Charles Twining asked a few questions about the work for which he’d been hired and about the bar. My driving seemed to make him a little uneasy—though possibly his unease was due to simply being in a car. Some of the pre-Industrial Revolution vamps loathe modern transportation. His eye patch was on his left eye, on my side, which gave me the curious feeling I was invisible.

I’d run him by the vampire hostel where he’d been living so he could gather a few things. He had a sports bag with him, one large enough to hold maybe three days’ worth of clothes. He’d just moved into Shreveport, he told me, and hadn’t had time to decide where he would settle.

After we’d been on our way for about forty minutes, the vampire said, “And you, Miss Sookie? Do you live with your father and mother?”

“No, they’ve been gone since I was seven,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a hand gesture inviting me to continue. “There was a whole lot of rain in a real short time one night that spring, and my dad tried to cross a little bridge that had water already over it. They got swept away.”

I glanced to my right to see that he was nodding. People died, sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly, and sometimes for very little reason. A vampire knew that better than anyone. “My brother and I grew up with my grandmother,” I said. “She died last year. My brother has my parents’ old house, and I have my grandmother’s.”

“Lucky to have a place to live,” he commented.

In profile, his hooked nose was an elegant miniature. I wondered if he cared that the human race had gotten larger, while he had stayed the same.

“Oh, yes,” I agreed. “I’m major lucky. I’ve got a job, I’ve got my brother, I’ve got a house, I’ve got friends. And I’m healthy.”

He turned to look at me full-face, I think, but I was passing a battered Ford pickup, so I couldn’t return his gaze. “That’s interesting. Forgive me, but I was under the impression from Pam that you have some kind of disability.”

“Oh, well, yeah.”

“And that would be . . . ? You look very, ah, robust.”

“I’m a telepath.”

He mulled that over. “And that would mean?”

“I can read other humans’ minds.”

“But not vampires.”

“No, not vampires.”

“Very good.”

“Yes, I think so.” If I could read vampire minds, I’d have been dead long ago. Vampires value their privacy.

“Did you know Chow?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was my turn to be terse.

“And Long Shadow?”

“Yes.”

“As the newest bartender at Fangtasia, I have a definite interest in their deaths.”

Understandable, but I had no idea how to respond. “Okay,” I said cautiously.

“Were you there when Chow died again?” This was the way some vamps referred to the final death.

“Um . . . yes.”

“And Long Shadow?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“I would be interested in hearing what you had to say.”

“Chow died in what they’re calling the Witch War. Long Shadow was trying to kill me when Eric staked him because he’d been embezzling.”

“You’re sure that’s why Eric staked him? For embezzling?”

“I was there. I oughta know. End of subject.”

“I suppose your life has been complicated,” Charles said after a pause.

“Yes.”

“Where will I be spending the sunlight hours?”

“My boss has a place for you.”

“There is a lot of trouble at this bar?”

“Not until recently.” I hesitated.

“Your regular bouncer can’t handle shifters?”

“Our regular bouncer is the owner, Sam Merlotte. He is a shifter. Right now, he’s a shifter with a broken leg. He got shot. And he’s not the only one.”

This didn’t seem to astonish the vampire. “How many?”

“Three that I know of. A werepanther named Calvin Norris, who wasn’t mortally wounded, and then a shifter girl named Heather Kinman, who’s dead. She was shot at the Sonic. Do you know what Sonic is?” Vampires didn’t always pay attention to fast-food restaurants, because they didn’t eat. (Hey, how many blood banks can you locate off the top of your head?)

Charles nodded, his curly chestnut hair bouncing on his shoulders. “That’s the one where you eat in your car?”

“Yes, right,” I said. “Heather had been in a friend’s car, talking, and she got out to walk back to her car a few slots down. The shot came from across the street. She had a milkshake in her hand.” The melting chocolate ice cream had blended with blood on the pavement. I’d seen it in Andy Bellefleur’s mind. “It was late at night, and all the businesses on the other side of the street had been closed for hours. So the shooter got away.”

“All three shootings were at night?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if that’s significant.”

“Could be; but maybe it’s just that there’s better concealment at night.”

Charles nodded.

“Since Sam got hurt, there’s been a lot of anxiety among the shifters because it’s hard to believe three shootings could be a coincidence. And regular humans are worried because in their view three people have been shot at random, people with nothing in common and few enemies. Since everyone’s tense, there are more fights in the bar.”

“I’ve never been a bouncer before,” Charles said conversationally. “I was the youngest son of a minor baronet, so I’ve had to make my own way, and I’ve done many things. I’ve worked as a bartender before, and many years ago I was shill for a whorehouse. Stood outside, trumpeted the wares of the strumpets—that’s a neat phrase, isn’t it?—threw out men who got too rough with the whores. I suppose that’s the same as being a bouncer.”

I was speechless at this unexpected confidence.

“Of course, that was after I lost my eye, but before I became a vampire,” the vampire said.

“Of course,” I echoed weakly.

“Which was while I was a pirate,” he continued. He was smiling. I checked with a sideways glance.

“What did you, um, pirate?” I didn’t know if that was a verb or not, but he got my meaning clearly.

“Oh, we’d try to catch almost anyone unawares,” he said blithely. “Off and on I lived on the coast of America, down close to New Orleans, where we’d take small cargo ships and the like. I sailed aboard a small hoy, so we couldn’t take on too large or well defended a ship. But when we caught up with some bark, then there was fighting!” He sighed—recalling the happiness of whacking at people with a sword, I guess.

“And what happened to you?” I asked politely, meaning how did he come to depart his wonderful warm-blooded life of rapine and slaughter for the vampire edition of the same thing.

“One evening, we boarded a galleon that had no living crew,” he said. I noticed that his hands had curled into fists. His voice chilled. “We had sailed to the Tortugas. It was dusk. I was first man to go down into the hold. What was in the hold got me first.”

After that little tale, we fell silent by mutual consent.

Sam was on the couch in the living room of his trailer. Sam had had the double-wide anchored so it was at a right angle to the back of the bar. That way, at least he opened his front door to a view of the parking lot, which was better than looking at the back of the bar, with its large garbage bin between the kitchen door and the employees’ entrance.

“Well, there you are,” Sam said, and his tone was grumpy. Sam was never one for sitting still. Now that his leg was in a cast, he was fretting from the inactivity. What would he do during the next full moon? Would the leg be healed enough by then for him to change? If he changed, what would happen to the cast? I’d known other injured shape-shifters before, but I hadn’t been around for their recuperation, so this was new territory for me. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost on the way back.” Sam’s voice returned me to the here and now. It had a distinct edge.

“ ‘Gee, thanks, Sookie, I see you returned with a bouncer,’ ” I said. “ ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through the humiliating experience of asking Eric for a favor on my behalf.’ ” At that moment, I didn’t care if he was my boss or not.

Sam looked embarrassed.

“Eric agreed, then,” he said. He nodded at the pirate.

“Charles Twining, at your service,” said the vampire.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Okay. I’m Sam Merlotte, owner of the bar. I appreciate your coming to help us out here.”

“I was ordered to do so,” the vampire said coolly.

“So the deal you struck was room, board, and favor,” Sam said to me. “I owe Eric a favor.” This was said in a tone that a kind person would describe as grudging.

“Yes.” I was mad now. “You sent me to make a deal. I checked the terms with you! That’s the deal I made. You asked Eric for a favor; now he gets a favor in return. No matter what you told yourself, that’s what it boils down to.”

Sam nodded, though he didn’t look happy. “Also, I changed my mind. I think Mr. Twining, here, should stay with you.”

“And why would you think that?”

“The closet looked a little cramped. You have a light-tight place for vampires, right?”

“You didn’t ask me if that was okay.”

“You’re refusing to do it?”

“Yes! I’m not the vampire hotel keeper!”

“But you work for me, and he works for me . . .”

“Uh-huh. And would you ask Arlene or Holly to put him up?”

Sam looked even more amazed. “Well, no, but that’s because—” He stopped then.

“Can’t think of how to finish the sentence, can you?” I snarled. “Okay, buddy, I’m out of here. I spent a whole evening putting myself in an embarrassing situation for you. And what do I get?
No effing thanks!
”

I stomped out of the double-wide. I didn’t slam the door because I didn’t want to be childish. Door slamming just isn’t adult. Neither is whining. Okay, maybe stomping out isn’t, either. But it was a choice between making an emphatic verbal exit or slapping Sam. Normally Sam was one of my favorite people in the world, but tonight . . . not.

I was working the early shift for the next three days—not that I was sure I had a job anymore. When I got into Merlotte’s at eleven the next morning, dashing to the employees’ door through the pouring rain in my ugly but useful rain slicker, I was nearly sure that Sam would tell me to collect my last paycheck and hit the door. But he wasn’t there. I had a moment of what I recognized as disappointment. Maybe I’d been spoiling for another fight, which was odd.

Terry Bellefleur was standing in for Sam again, and Terry was having a bad day. It wasn’t a good idea to ask him questions or even to talk to him beyond the necessary relay of orders.

Terry particularly hated rainy weather, I’d noticed, and he also didn’t like Sheriff Bud Dearborn. I didn’t know the reason for either prejudice. Today, gray sheets of rain battered at the walls and roof, and Bud Dearborn was pontificating to five of his cronies over on the smoking side. Arlene caught my eye and widened her eyes to give me a warning.

Though Terry was pale, and perspiring, he’d zipped up the light jacket he often wore over his Merlotte’s T-shirt. I noticed his hands shaking as he pulled a draft beer. I wondered if he could last until dark.

At least there weren’t many customers, if something did go wrong. Arlene drifted over to catch up with a married couple who’d come in, friends of hers. My section was almost empty, with the exception of my brother, Jason, and his friend Hoyt.