“No,” Alcide said. “But the packmaster sent us to find her. She missed a pack officer’s meeting last night.”
“She called me from the shop last night. She said she had an unexpected appointment with a stranger who’d called the shop right at closing time.” The woman literally wrung her hands. “I thought maybe she was meeting that witch.”
“Have you heard from her since?” I said, in the gentlest voice I could manage.
“I went to bed last night mad at her,” Verena said, looking directly at me for the first time. “I thought she’d decided to spend the night with one of her friends. One of her girl friends,” she explained, looking at me with eyebrows arched, so I’d get her drift. I nodded. “She never would tell me ahead of time, she’d just say, ‘Expect me when you see me,’ or ‘I’ll meet you at the shop tomorrow morning,’ or something.” A shudder rippled through Verena’s slim body. “But she hasn’t come home and I can’t get an answer at the shop.”
“Was she supposed to open the shop today?” Alcide asked.
“No, Wednesday’s our closed day, but she always goes in to work on the books and get paperwork out of the way. She always does,” Verena repeated.
“Why don’t Alcide and I drive over there and check the shop for you?” I said gently. “Maybe she left a note.” This was not a woman you patted on the arm, so I didn’t make that natural gesture, but I did push the glass door shut so she’d understand she had to stay there and she shouldn’t come with us. She understood all too clearly.
Verena Rose’s Bridal and Formal Shop was located in an old home on a block of similarly converted two-story houses. The building had been renovated and maintained as beautifully as the Yancys’ residence, and I wasn’t surprised it had such cachet. The white-painted brick, the dark green shutters, the glossy black ironwork of the railings on the steps, and the brass details on the door all spoke of elegance and attention to detail. I could see that if you had aspirations to class, this is where you’d come to get your wedding gear.
Set a little back from the street, with parking behind the store, the building featured one large bay window in front. In this window stood a faceless mannequin wearing a shining brown wig. Her arms were gracefully bent to hold a stunning bouquet. Even from the truck, I could see that the bridal dress, with its long embroidered train, was absolutely spectacular.
We parked in the driveway without pulling around back, and I jumped out of the pickup. Together we took the brick sidewalk that led from the drive to the front door, and as we got closer, Alcide cursed. For a moment, I imagined some kind of bug infestation had gotten into the store window and landed on the snowy dress. But after that moment, I knew the dark flecks were surely spatters of blood.
The blood had sprayed onto the white brocade and dried there. It was as if the mannequin had been wounded, and for a crazy second I wondered. I’d seen a lot of impossible things in the past few months.
“Adabelle,” Alcide said, as if he was praying.
We were standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front porch, staring into the bay window. The CLOSED sign was hanging in the middle of the glass oval inset in the door, and venetian blinds were closed behind it. There were no live brainwaves emanating from that house. I had taken the time to check. I’d discovered, the hard way, that checking was a good idea.
“Dead things,” Alcide said, his face raised to the cold breeze, his eyes shut to help him concentrate. “Dead things inside and out.”
I took hold of the curved ironwork handrail with my left hand and went up one step. I glanced around. My eyes came to rest on something in the flowerbed under the bay window, something pale that stood out against the pine bark mulch. I nudged Alcide, and I pointed silently with my free right hand.
Lying by a pruned-back azalea, there was another hand—an unattached extra. I felt a shudder run through Alcide’s body as he comprehended what he saw. There was that moment when you tried to recognize it as anything but what it was.
“Wait here,” Alcide said, his voice thick and hoarse.
That was just fine with me.
But when he opened the unlocked front door to enter the shop, I saw what lay on the floor just beyond. I had to swallow a scream.
It was lucky Alcide had his cell phone. He called Colonel Flood, told him what had happened, and asked him to go over to Mrs. Yancy’s house. Then he called the police. There was just no way around it. This was a busy area, and there was a good chance someone had noticed us going to the front door.
It was surely a day for finding bodies—for me, and for the Shreveport police department. I knew there were some vampire cops on the force, but of course the vamps had to work the night shift, so we spoke to regular old human cops. There wasn’t a Were or a shifter among ’em, not even a telepathic human. All these police officers were regular people who thought we were borderline suspicious.
“Why did you stop by here, buddy?” asked Detective Coughlin, who had brown hair, a weathered face, and a beer belly one of the Clydesdales would’ve been proud of.
Alcide looked surprised. He hadn’t thought this far, which wasn’t too amazing. I hadn’t known Adabelle when she was alive, and I hadn’t stepped inside the bridal shop as he had. I hadn’t sustained the worst shock. It was up to me to pick up the reins.
“It was my idea, Detective,” I said instantly. “My grandmother, who died last year? She always told me, ‘If you need a wedding dress, Sookie, you go to Verena Rose’s for it.’ I didn’t think to call ahead and check to see if they were open today.”
“So, you and Mr. Herveaux are going to be married?”
“Yes,” said Alcide, pulling me against him and wrapping his arms around me. “We’re headed for the altar.”
I smiled, but in an appropriately subdued way.
“Well, congratulations.” Detective Coughlin eyed us thoughtfully. “So, Miss Stackhouse, you hadn’t ever met Adabelle Yancy face-to-face?”
“I may have met the older Mrs. Yancy when I was a little girl,” I said cautiously. “But I don’t remember her. Alcide’s family knows the Yancys, of course. He’s lived here all his life.” Of course, they’re also werewolves.
Coughlin was still focused on me. “And you didn’t go in the shop none? Just Mr. Herveaux here?”
“Alcide just stepped in while I waited out here.” I tried to look delicate, which is not easy for me. I am healthy and muscular, and while I am not Emme, I’m not Kate Moss either. “I’d seen the—the hand, so I stayed out.”
“That was a good idea,” Detective Coughlin said. “What’s in there isn’t fit for people to see.” He looked about twenty years older as he said that. I felt sorry that his job was so tough. He was thinking that the savaged bodies in the house were a waste of two good lives and the work of someone he’d love to arrest. “Would either of you have any idea why anyone would want to rip up two ladies like this?”
“Two,” Alcide said slowly, stunned.
“Two?” I said, less guardedly.
“Why, yes,” the detective said heavily. He had aimed to get our reactions and now he had them; what he thought of them, I would find out.
“Poor things,” I said, and I wasn’t faking the tears that filled my eyes. It was kind of nice to have Alcide’s chest to lean against, and as if he were reading my mind he unzipped his leather jacket so I’d be closer to him, wrapping the open sides around me to keep me warmer. “But if one of them is Adabelle Yancy, who is the other?”
“There’s not much left of the other,” Coughlin said, before he told himself to shut his mouth.
“They were kind of jumbled up,” Alcide said quietly, close to my ear. He was sickened. “I didn’t know . . . I guess if I’d analyzed what I was seeing . . .”
Though I couldn’t read Alcide’s thoughts clearly, I could understand that he was thinking that Adabelle had managed to take down one of her attackers. And when the rest of the group was getting away, they hadn’t taken all the appropriate bits with
them.
“And you’re from Bon Temps, Miss Stackhouse,” the detective said, almost idly.
“Yes, sir,” I said, with a gasp. I was trying not to picture Adabelle Yancy’s last moments.
“Where you work there?”
“Merlotte’s Bar and Grill,” I said. “I wait tables.”
While he registered the difference in social status between me and Alcide, I closed my eyes and laid my head against Alcide’s warm chest. Detective Coughlin was wondering if I was pregnant; if Alcide’s dad, a well-known and well-to-do figure in Shreveport, would approve of such a marriage. He could see why I’d want an expensive wedding dress, if I were marrying a Herveaux.
“You don’t have an engagement ring, Miss Stackhouse?”
“We don’t plan on a long engagement,” Alcide said. I could hear his voice rumbling in his chest. “She’ll get her diamond the day we marry.”
“You’re so bad,” I said fondly, punching him in the ribs as hard as I could without being obvious.
“Ouch,” he said in protest.
Somehow this bit of byplay convinced Detective Coughlin that we were really engaged. He took down our phone numbers and addresses, then told us we could leave. Alcide was as relieved as I was.
We drove to the nearest place where we could pull over in privacy—a little park that was largely deserted in the cold weather—and Alcide called Colonel Flood again. I waited in the truck while Alcide, pacing in the dead grass, gesticulated and raised his voice, venting some of his horror and anger. I’d been able to feel it building up in him. Alcide had trouble articulating emotions, like lots of guys. It made him seem more familiar and dear.
Dear? I’d better stop thinking like that. The engagement had been drummed up strictly for Detective Coughlin’s benefit. If Alcide was anyone’s “dear,” it was the perfidious Debbie’s.
When Alcide climbed back into the pickup, he was scowling.
“I guess I better go back to the office and take you to your car,” he said. “I’m sorry about all this.”
“I guess I should be saying that.”
“This is a situation neither of us created,” he said firmly. “Neither of us would be involved if we could help it.”
“That’s the God’s truth.” After a minute of thinking of the complicated supernatural world, I asked Alcide what Colonel Flood’s plan was.
“We’ll take care of it,” Alcide said. “I’m sorry, Sook, I can’t tell you what we’re going to do.”
“Are you going to be in danger?” I asked, because I just couldn’t help it.
We’d gotten to the Herveaux building by then, and Alcide parked his truck by my old car. He turned a little to face me, and he reached over to take my hand. “I’m gonna be fine. Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I’ll call you.”
“Don’t forget to do that,” I said. “And I have to tell you what the witches did about trying to find Eric.” I hadn’t told Alcide about the posted pictures, the reward. He frowned even harder when he thought about the cleverness of this ploy.
“Debbie was supposed to drive over this afternoon, get here about six,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Too late to stop her coming.”
“If you’re planning a big raid, she could help,” I said.
He gave me a sharp look. Like a pointed stick he wanted to poke in my eye. “She’s a shifter, not a Were,” he reminded me defensively.
Maybe she turned into a weasel or a rat.
“Of course,” I said seriously. I literally bit my tongue so I wouldn’t make any of the remarks that waited just inside my mouth, dying to be spoken. “Alcide, do you think the other body was Adabelle’s girlfriend? Someone who just got caught at the shop with Adabelle when the witches came calling?”
“Since a lot of the second body was missing, I hope that the body was one of the witches. I hope Adabelle went down fighting.”
“I hope so, too.” I nodded, putting an end to that train of thought. “I’d better get back to Bon Temps. Eric will be waking up soon. Don’t forget to tell your dad that we’re engaged.”
His expression provided the only fun I’d had all day.
6
I THOUGHT ALL THE WAY HOME ABOUT MY DAY IN Shreveport. I’d asked Alcide to call the cops in Bon Temps from his cell phone, and he’d gotten another negative message. No, they hadn’t heard any more on Jason, and no one had called to say they’d seen him. So I didn’t stop by the police station on my way home, but I did have to go to the grocery to buy some margarine and bread, and I did have to go in the liquor store to pick up some blood.
The first thing I saw when I pushed open the door of Super Save-A-Bunch was a little display of bottled blood, which saved me a stop at the liquor store. The second thing I saw was the poster with the headshot of Eric. I assumed it was the photo Eric had had made when he opened Fangtasia, because it was a very nonthreatening picture. He was projecting winsome worldliness; any person in this universe would know that he’d never, ever bite. It was headed, “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS VAMPIRE?”
I read the text carefully. Everything Jason had said about it was true. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. That Hallow must be really nuts about Eric to pay that much, if all she wanted was a hump. It was hard to believe gaining control of Fangtasia (and having the bed services of Eric) would afford her a profit after paying out a reward that large. I was increasingly doubtful that I knew the whole story, and I was increasingly sure I was sticking my neck out and might get it bitten off.
Hoyt Fortenberry, Jason’s big buddy, was loading pizzas into his buggy in the frozen food aisle. “Hey, Sookie, where you think ole Jason got to?” he called as soon as he saw me. Hoyt, big and beefy and no rocket scientist, looked genuinely concerned.
“I wish I knew,” I said, coming closer so we could talk without everyone in the store recording every word. “I’m pretty worried.”
“You don’t think he’s just gone off with some girl he met? That girl he was with New Year’s Eve was pretty cute.”
“What was her name?”
“Crystal. Crystal Norris.”
“Where’s she from?”
“From round Hotshot, out thataway.” He nodded south.
Hotshot was even smaller than Bon Temps. It was about ten miles away and had a reputation for being a strange little community. The Hotshot kids who attended the Bon Temps school always stuck together, and they were all a smidge . . . different. It didn’t surprise me at all that Crystal lived in Hotshot.
“So,” Hoyt said, persisting in making his point, “Crystal might have asked him to come stay with her.” But his brain was saying he didn’t believe it, he was only trying to comfort me and himself. We both knew that Jason would have phoned by now, no matter how good a time he was having with any woman.
But I decided I’d give Crystal a call when I had a clear ten minutes, which might not be any time tonight. I asked Hoyt to pass on Crystal’s name to the sheriff’s department, and he said he would. He didn’t seem too happy about the idea. I could tell that if the missing man had been anyone but Jason, Hoyt would have refused. But Jason had always been Hoyt’s source of recreation and general amusement, since Jason was far more clever and inventive than the slow-moving, slow-thinking Hoyt: If Jason never reappeared, Hoyt would have a dull life.
We parted in the Super Save-A-Bunch parking lot, and I felt relieved that Hoyt hadn’t asked me about the TrueBlood I’d purchased. Neither had the cashier, though she’d handled the bottles with distaste. As I’d paid for it, I’d thought about how much I was in the hole from hosting Eric already. Clothes and blood mounted up.
It was just dark when I got to my house and pulled the plastic grocery bags out of the car. I unlocked my back door and went in, calling to Eric as I switched on the kitchen light. I didn’t hear an answer, so I put the groceries away, leaving a bottle of TrueBlood out of the refrigerator so he could have it to hand when he got hungry. I got the shotgun out of my trunk and loaded it, sticking it in the shadow of t
he water heater. I took a minute to call the sheriff’s department again. No news of Jason, said the dispatcher.
I slumped against the kitchen wall for a long moment, feeling dejected. It wasn’t a good thing to just sit around, being depressed. Maybe I’d go out to the living room and pop a movie into the VCR, as entertainment for Eric. He’d gone through all my Buffy tapes, and I didn’t have Angel. I wondered if he’d like Gone with the Wind. (For all I knew, he’d been around when they were filming it. On the other hand, he had amnesia. Anything should be new to him.)
But as I went down the hall, I heard some small movement. I pushed open the door of my old room gently, not wanting to make a big noise if my guest wasn’t yet up. Oh, but he was. Eric was pulling on his jeans, with his back to me. He hadn’t bothered with underwear, not even the itty-bitty red ones. My breath stuck in my throat. I made a sound like “Guck,” and made myself close my eyes tight. I clenched my fists.
If there were an international butt competition, Eric would win, hands down—or cheeks up. He would get a large, large trophy. I had never realized a woman could have to struggle to keep her hands off a man, but here I was, digging my nails into my palms, staring at the inside of my eyelids as though I could maybe see through them if I peered hard enough.
It was somehow degrading, craving someone so . . . so voraciously—another good calendar word—just because he was physically beautiful. I hadn’t thought that was something women did, either.
“Sookie, are you all right?” Eric asked. I floundered my way back to sanity through a swamp of lust. He was standing right in front of me, his hands resting on my shoulders. I looked up into his blue eyes, now focused on me and apparently full of nothing but concern. I was right on a level with his hard nipples. They were the size of pencil erasers. I bit the inside of my lip. I would not lean over those few inches.
“Excuse me,” I said, speaking very softly. I was scared to speak loudly, or move at all. If I did, I might knock him down. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. I should have knocked.”
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