Dead Ever After: A Sookie Stackhouse Novel

by Charlaine Harris

  I wasn’t convinced of that, at least about my own future, but I wasn’t going to ruin Tara’s moment. “Sure we will,” I said. I patted her hand on the steering wheel.

  For a few miles we drove in silence. I looked out the window at the fields and ditches, choked with growth, the heat hovering over them like a giant blanket. If weeds could flourish with such vigor, maybe I could, too.

  Chapter 3

  Our shopping trip jolted me out of my rut of worry. When Tara went home, I sat down to make some resolutions.

  I promised myself I would go in to work the next day, whether or not I heard from Sam. I had a part interest in the bar, and I didn’t have to get Sam’s permission to show up. I gave myself a rousing speech before I realized I was being ridiculous. Sam wasn’t denying me entrance to the bar. Sam hadn’t told me he didn’t want to see me. I had stayed at home of my own volition. Sam’s noncommunication might mean many things. I needed to get off my butt and find out.

  I heated up a DiGiorno’s that night, since no one would deliver out on Hummingbird Road. Actually, the Prescotts, my neighbors closer to town, got their pizza delivered, but no one wanted to venture onto the long, narrow driveway to my house after dark. I’d learned lately (from the thoughts of patrons at Merlotte’s) that the woods around my house and along Hummingbird Road had a reputation of being haunted by creatures frightening beyond belief.

  Actually, that was absolutely true—but the creatures that had sparked the rumor were now departed to a country I couldn’t visit. However, there was a dead man strolling through my yard as I tried to fold the cardboard disk that had been under the pizza. Those things are hell to get into kitchen garbage bags, aren’t they? I’d finally managed it by the time he reached the back door and knocked.

  “Hey, Bill,” I called. “Come on in.”

  In a second he was standing in the doorway, inhaling deeply to better catch the scent he was scouting for. It was strange to see Bill breathe. “Much better,” he said, in a voice that was almost disappointed. “Though I think your dinner had a little garlic on it.”

  “But no fairy smell?”

  “Very little.”

  The smell of a fairy is to vampires what catnip is to cats. When Dermot and Claude had been in residence, their scent had pervaded the house, lingering even when they were not actually there. But my fae kin were gone now. They’d never come back. I’d left the upstairs windows open for one whole night to dispel the lingering eau de fae, and that was no small step in this heat.

  “Good,” I said briskly. “Any gossip? Any news? Anything interesting happening at your place?” Bill was my nearest neighbor. His house lay right across the cemetery. In that cemetery was his headstone, erected by his family. They’d known Bill’s body wasn’t there (they thought he’d been eaten by a panther), but they’d given him a place of rest. It hadn’t been a panther that had attacked Bill, but something much worse.

  “Thanks for the beautiful roses,” he said. “By the way, I’ve had a visitor.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Good one? Bad one?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Depends,” he said.

  “Well, let’s go sit in the living room while you tell me about it,” I said. “Do you want a bottle of blood?”

  He shook his head. “I have an appointment with a donor later.” The Federal Bureau of Vampire Affairs had left that issue up to the individual states. Louisiana had permitted private registries first, but the state donor program was much safer for the donor and the vampire. Bill could get human blood under supervised conditions.

  “How is that? Is it creepy?” I’d wondered if it might be like making a sperm donation: necessary and even admirable, but somewhat awkward.

  “It’s a little . . . peculiar,” Bill admitted. “The element of the hunt, the seduction . . . all gone. But it’s human blood, and that’s still better than the synthetic.”

  “So you have to go to the facility, and then what?”

  “In some states they can come to you, but not in Louisiana. We make an appointment and go in and register. It’s a storefront clinic. In the back there’s a room with a couch. A big couch. And they show in the donor.”

  “You get to pick the donor?”

  “No, Louisiana BVA wants to take the personal element out of it.”

  “So why the couch?”

  “I know, mixed messages. But you know how good a bite can be, and there was going to be more than biting going on, no matter what.”

  “You ever get the same person twice?”

  “Not yet. I’m sure they keep a list, trying to keep the vampires and the humans apart after they’ve met at the bureau.”

  While we talked, Bill had taken a seat on my own couch, and I tucked my legs under me in the big old armchair that had been Gran’s favorite. It was curiously comfortable to have my first real boyfriend as a casual visitor. We’d both been through a few relationships since we’d broken up. Though Bill had told me (often) that he would be very glad to resume our intimacy, tonight that topic was not on his mind. Not that I could read Bill’s thoughts; since vampires are dead, their brains just don’t spark like human brains. But a man’s body language usually lets me know when he’s considering my womanly attributes. It was really great, really comforting, to have a friendship with Bill.

  I had switched on the overhead light, and Bill looked white as a sheet beneath its glare. His glossy dark brown hair looked even darker, his eyes almost black. He was hesitating over his next topic, and I was not as relaxed and comfortable all of a sudden.

  “Karin is in town,” he said, and looked at me solemnly.

  I could tell I was supposed to be smacked in the face with this information, but I was utterly at sea. “Who would that be?”

  “Karin is Eric’s other child,” he said, shocked. “You hadn’t ever heard her name?”

  “Why would I? And why should I be excited that she’s in town?”

  “Karin is called the Slaughterer.”

  “Well, that’s silly. ‘The Slaughterer’ is just . . . cumbersome. ‘Karin the Killer’ would be way better.”

  If Bill had been prone to such gestures, he would have rolled his eyes. “Sookie . . .”

  “Look at what a great fighter Pam is,” I said, diverted. “Eric must really like strong women who can defend themselves.”

  Bill looked at me pointedly. “Yes, he does.”

  Okay, I was going to take that as a compliment . . . maybe kind of a sad one. I hadn’t set out to kill people (or vampires or werewolves or fairies) or to conspire to kill them or even to feel like killing them . . . but I had done all those things in the course of the past two years. Since Bill had walked into Merlotte’s and I had seen him—my first vampire—I had learned more about myself and the world around me than I’d ever wanted to know. And now here we were, Bill and me, sitting in my living room like old buddies, talking about a killer vamp.

  “You think Karin might be here to hurt me?” I said. I gripped my ankle with my hand and squeezed. Just what I needed, another psycho bitch after me. Hadn’t the Weres pretty much cornered that market?

  “That’s not the feeling I get,” Bill said.

  “She’s not out to get me?” Your life was not right when you were actually surprised that someone didn’t want to kill you.

  “No. She asked me many, many questions about you, about Bon Temps, about the strong people and the weak people in your circle. She would have told me if her intent had been to harm you. Karin is not as complex as Pam . . . or Eric, for that matter.”

  I had about four instant responses to Bill’s information, but I wisely shut my mouth on all of them. “I wonder why she didn’t come right to my door to ask, if she wanted to know all that,” I contented myself with saying.

  “I believe she was gathering information for some purpose of her own.”

  Sometimes I just didn’t get vampires.

  “There are a few things you need to understand about Karin,” Bill said briskly, when I
didn’t respond out loud. “She takes . . . umbrage . . . at any perceived slight to Eric, any disparagement. She was with him for many years. She was his guard dog.”

  I was glad I always had a Word of the Day calendar on the kitchen counter. Otherwise, I’d have had to whip out a dictionary to get through that sentence. I started to ask Bill, if Karin was so hung up on Eric, why hadn’t I met her before? But I skipped that in favor of telling him, “I don’t go around disparaging Eric. I love Eric. It’s not my fault he’s upset with me. Or that his asshole of a maker engaged him to a vampire he hardly knows.” I sounded just as bitter as I felt. “She should take umbrage with that.”

  Bill looked thoughtful, which made me very nervous. He was about to say something he knew I wouldn’t like. I squeezed my ankle a little harder.

  “All the Area Five vampires know what happened at the Long Tooth pack meeting,” he said.

  That wasn’t exactly a shocker. “Eric told you.” I cast around for something else to say. “It was a horrible night,” I said honestly.

  “He returned to Fangtasia in a towering rage, but he wasn’t specific about what had made him that way. He said, ‘Damn wolves,’ a few times.” Here Bill was careful to stop. I figured Eric had added “Damn Sookie” a few times, too. Bill continued, “Palomino is still dating that Were, Roy, the one who works for Alcide.” He shrugged, as if to say there was no accounting for taste. “Since we were all naturally curious, she called Roy to discover the details. She relayed the story to us. It seemed important for us to know.” After a moment Bill added, “We’d asked Mustapha, since we could tell he’d been fighting, but he would not comment. He is very closemouthed about what’s going on in the Were world.”

  There was a long silence. I simply didn’t know how to respond, and Bill’s face at this moment didn’t give me any clues. Mostly, I was feeling a rush of appreciation for Mustapha, the Were who was Eric’s daytime guy. Mustapha was that rare thing, a person who could keep his mouth shut.

  “So,” I made myself say, “you’re thinking . . . what?”

  “Does it make any difference?” Bill asked.

  “You’re being very mysterious.”

  “You’re the one who kept a huge secret,” he pointed out. “You’re the one who had the fairy equivalent of a wishing well in your possession.”

  “Eric knew.”

  “What?” Bill was genuinely startled.

  “Eric knew I had it. Though I didn’t tell him.”

  “How did he know this?”

  “My great-grandfather,” I said. “Niall told him.”

  “Why would Niall do such a thing?” he said, after an appreciable pause.

  “Here’s Niall’s logic,” I said. “Niall thought that I needed to find out if Eric would pressure me to use the cluviel dor for Eric’s own benefit. Niall wanted it himself, but he didn’t take it because it was intended for me to use.” I shivered when I remembered how Niall’s impossibly blue eyes had blazed with desire for the enchanted object, how sharply he’d had to rein himself in.

  “So in Niall’s view, giving Eric this piece of knowledge was a test of Eric’s love for you.”

  I nodded.

  Bill contemplated the floor for a minute or two. “Far be it from me to speak in Eric’s defense,” he said at last, with a hint of a smile, “but in this instance, I will. I don’t know if Eric actually intended you to, say, wish Freyda had never been born or to wish that his maker had never met her . . . or some other wish that would have gotten him out of Freyda’s line of sight. Knowing the Viking, I’m certain he hoped you would be willing to use it on his behalf.”

  This was a conversation of significant pauses. I had to think over his words for a minute to be sure I understood what Bill was telling me. “So the cluviel dor was a test of Eric’s sincerity, in Niall’s eyes. And the cluviel dor was a test of my love for Eric, in Eric’s eyes,” I said. “And we both failed the test.”

  Bill nodded, one sharp jerk of his head.

  “He would rather I had let Sam die.”

  Bill let me see how startled he was. “Of course,” he said simply.

  “How could he think that?” I muttered, which was a stupidly obvious (and obviously stupid) question to ask myself. A much more pertinent question was, How could two people in love so misjudge each other?

  “How could Eric think that? Don’t ask me. It’s not my emotional reaction that matters,” Bill said.

  “I’d be glad to ask Eric, if he’d just sit down and talk to me,” I said. “But he turned me away from Fangtasia two nights ago.”

  Bill had known that, I could tell. “Has he gotten in touch with you since that happened?”

  “Oh, yes indeedy. He got Pam to text me to say he’d see me later.”

  Bill did a great impression of a blank wall.

  “What do you think I should do?” I asked out of sheer curiosity. “I can’t bear this halfway state. I need resolution.”

  Bill sat forward on the couch, his dark brows raised. “Ask yourself this,” he said. “Would you have used the cluviel dor if it had been—say, Terry or Calvin—who was mortally wounded?”

  I was stunned by the question. I groped for words.

  After a moment, Bill got up to leave. “I didn’t think so,” he said. I scrambled to my feet to follow him to the door.

  “It’s not that I think Terry’s life, anyone’s life, isn’t worth a sacrifice,” I said. “It’s that it might not ever have occurred to me.”

  “And I’m not saying you’re a bad woman for that hesitation, Sookie,” Bill told me, reading my face accurately. He put a cold hand to my cheek. “You’re one of the best women I’ve ever met. However, sometimes you don’t know yourself very well.”

  After he had drifted back into the woods and I had locked the house up tight, I sat in front of my computer. I had planned to check my e-mail, but instead I found myself trying to unravel Bill’s meaning. I couldn’t concentrate. Finally, without clicking on the e-mail icon, I gave up and went to bed.

  I guess it’s not too surprising that I didn’t sleep well. But I was up and out of bed by eight, utterly tired of hiding out in my house. I showered and put on my makeup and my summer work uniform—Merlotte’s T-shirt, black shorts, and New Balance walking shoes—and got in the car to drive to work. I felt much better now that I was following my normal routine. I was also very nervous as I parked on the graveled area behind the bar.

  I didn’t want to stand staring at Sam’s trailer, centered in its little yard at right angles to the bar. Sam might have been standing at a window, looking out. I averted my eyes and hurried in the employees’ entrance. Though I had my keys in my hand, I didn’t need them. Someone had gotten there before me. I went directly to my locker and opened it, wondering if I’d see Sam behind the bar, how he’d be, what he’d say. I stowed my purse and put on one of the aprons hanging from a hook. I was early. If Sam wanted to talk to me, there was time.

  But when I walked up front, the person behind the bar was Kennedy Keyes. I felt distinctly flattened. Not that there was anything wrong with Kennedy; I’d always liked her. Today she was as bright and shiny as a new penny. Her rich brown hair was glossy and hanging in loose curls across her shoulders, she was made up with great care, and her sleeveless pink tank fit very snugly, tucked into her linen slacks. (She had always insisted bartenders shouldn’t have to wear a uniform.)

  “Looking good, Kennedy,” I said, and she spun around, her phone to her ear.

  “I was talking to my honey. I didn’t hear you come in,” she said chidingly. “What have you been up to? You over ‘the flu’? I started to bring you a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle.” Kennedy couldn’t cook and was proud of it, which would have shocked my grandmother, I can tell you. And she hadn’t believed I was sick for a moment.

  “I felt awful. But I’m a lot better now.” In fact, I was. I felt surprisingly glad to be back in Merlotte’s. I’d worked here a lot longer than I’d held any other job. And now I was S
am’s partner. The bar felt like home to me. I felt as though I’d been away a month. Everything looked just the same. Terry Bellefleur had come in real early to get everything sparkling clean, as usual. I began to take the chairs off the tables where he’d put them while he mopped. Moving swiftly, with the efficiency of long practice, I got the tables squared away and began rolling silverware into napkins.

  After a few minutes, I heard the employee entrance opening. I knew the cook had arrived because I heard him singing. Antoine had worked at Merlotte’s for months now, longer than many other short-order cooks had lasted. When things were slow (or simply when the spirit moved him), he sang. Since he had a wonderful deep voice, no one minded, least of all me. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket if it were raining, so I thoroughly enjoyed his serenades.

  “Hey, Antoine,” I called.

  “Sookie!” he said, appearing in the service hatch. “Glad you back. You feeling better?”

  “Right as rain. How are your supplies holding out? Anything we need to talk about?”

  “If Sam don’t come back to work soon, we got to make a trip to Shreveport to the warehouse,” Antoine said. “I’ve got a list started. Sam still sick?”

  I borrowed a leaf from Bill’s book. I shrugged. “We’ve both had a bug,” I said. “Everything’ll be back to normal in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “That’ll be good.” He smiled and turned to get his kitchen ready. “Oh, a friend of yours come by yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I forgot,” Kennedy said. “She used to be a waitress here?”

  There were so many ex-waitresses that I’d take half an hour if I started trying to guess her name. I wasn’t interested enough to do that, at least not right then, when there was work to be done.

  Keeping the bar staffed was a constant issue. My brother’s best bud, Hoyt Fortenberry, was soon to marry a longtime Merlotte’s barmaid, Holly Cleary. Now that the wedding was close, Holly had cut back on her work hours. The week before, we’d hired tiny, bone-thin Andrea Norr. She liked to be called “An” (pronounced Ahn). An was curiously prim but attracted men like soda cans attract wasps. Though her skirts were longer and her T-shirts were looser and her boobs were smaller than all the other barmaids, men’s eyes followed the new hire every step she took. An seemed to take it for granted; we’d have known it if she hadn’t, because of all the things she liked (and by now we knew most of them), most of all she liked to talk.