I fought not to give in to a compulsion to turn and walk in another direction, any other direction.
Quinn took a few steps forward, and turned to regard me with some surprise, until he realized what was happening. “I forgot,” he said, that same surprise sounding in his voice. “I actually forgot you’re human.”
“That sounds like a compliment,” I said, with some effort. Even in the cool night, my forehead beaded with sweat. My right foot edged forward an inch.
“Here,” he said, and scooped me up, until he was holding me just like Rhett carried Scarlett O’Hara. As his aura wrapped around me, the unpleasant go-away compulsion eased. I drew a deep breath of relief. The magic could no longer recognize me as human, at least not decisively. Though the bar still seemed unattractive and mildly repellent, I could enter without wanting to be sick.
Maybe it was the lingering effects of the spell, but after we’d entered it, the bar still seemed unattractive and mildly repellent. I wouldn’t say all conversation ceased when we walked in, but there was a definite lull in the noise that filled the bar. A jukebox was playing “Bad Moon Rising,” which was like the Were national anthem, and the motley collection of Weres and shifters seemed to reorient themselves.
“Humans are not allowed in this place!” A very young woman leaped across the bar in one muscular surge and strode forward. She was wearing fishnet stockings and high-heeled boots, a red leather bustier—well, a bustier that wished it was made of red leather, it was probably more like Naugahyde—and a black band of cloth that I supposed she called a skirt. It was like she’d pulled a tube top on, and then worked it down. It was so tight I thought it might roll up all at once, like a window shade.
She didn’t like my smile, correctly reading it as a comment on her ensemble.
“Get your human ass out of here,” she said, and growled. Unfortunately, it didn’t sound too threatening, since she hadn’t had any practice at putting the menace into it, and I could feel my smile widen. The dress-challenged teen had the poor impulse control of the very new Were, and she pulled her hand back to punch me.
Then Quinn snarled.
The sound came from deep in his belly, and it was thunderous, the deep sound of it penetrating every corner of the bar. The bartender, a biker type with beard and hair of considerable length and tattoos that covered his bare arms, reached down below the bar. I knew he was pulling out a shotgun.
Not for the first time, I wondered if I shouldn’t start going armed everywhere I went. In my law-abiding life, I had never seen the need until the past few months. The jukebox cut off just then, and the silence of the bar was just as deafening as the noise had been.
“Please don’t get the gun out,” I said, smiling brightly at the bartender. I could feel it stretching my lips, that too-bright grin that made me look a little nuts. “We come in peace,” I added, on a crazy impulse, showing them my empty palms.
A shifter who’d been standing at the bar laughed, a sharp bark of startled amusement. The tension began to ratchet down a notch. The young woman’s hand dropped to her side, and she took a step back. Her gaze flickered from Quinn to me and back again. Both the bartender’s hands were in sight now.
“Hello, Sookie,” said a familiar voice. Amanda, the red-haired Were who’d been chauffeuring Dr. Ludwig the day before, was sitting at a table in a dark corner. (Actually, the room seemed to be full of dark corners.)
With Amanda was a husky man in his late thirties. Both were supplied with drinks and a bowl of snack mix. They had company at the table, a couple sitting with their backs to me. When they turned, I recognized Alcide and Maria-Star. They turned cautiously, as if any sudden movement might trigger violence. Maria-Star’s brain was a motley jumble of anxiety, pride, and tension. Alcide’s was just conflicted. He didn’t know how to feel.
That made two of us.
“Hey, Amanda,” I said, my voice as cheerful as my smile. It wouldn’t do to let the silence pile up.
“I’m honored to have the legendary Quinn in my bar,” Amanda said, and I realized that, whatever other jobs she might have, she owned the Hair of the Dog. “Are you two out for an evening on the town, or is there some special reason for your visit?”
Since I had no idea why we were there, I had to defer to Quinn for an answer, which didn’t make me look too good, in my opinion.
“There’s a very good reason, though I’ve long wanted to visit your bar,” Quinn said in a courtly, formal style that had come out of nowhere.
Amanda inclined her head, which seemed to be a signal for Quinn to continue.
“This evening, my date and I were attacked in a public place, with civilians all around us.”
No one seemed awfully upset or astonished by this. In fact, Miss Fashion-Challenged shrugged her bare skinny shoulders.
“We were attacked by Weres,” Quinn said.
Now we got the big reaction. Heads and hands jerked and then became still. Alcide half rose to his feet and then sat down again.
“Weres of the Long Tooth pack?” Amanda asked. Her voice was incredulous.
Quinn shrugged. “The attack was a killing one, so I didn’t stop to ask questions. Both were very young bitten Weres, and from their behavior, they were on drugs.”
More shocked reaction. We were creating quite the sensation.
“Are you hurt?” Alcide asked me, as if Quinn weren’t standing right there.
I tilted my head back so my neck would be visible. I wasn’t smiling anymore. By now the bruises left by the boy’s hands would be darkening nicely. And I’d been thinking hard. “As a friend of the pack, I didn’t expect anything to happen to me here in Shreveport,” I said.
I figured my status as friend of the pack hadn’t changed with the new regime, or at least I hoped it hadn’t. Anyway, it was my trump card, and I played it.
“Colonel Flood did say Sookie was a friend of the pack,” Amanda said unexpectedly. The Weres all looked at each other, and the moment seemed to hang in the balance.
“What happened to the cubs?” asked the biker behind the bar.
“They lived,” Quinn said, giving them the important news first. There was a general feeling that the whole bar gave a sigh; whether of relief or regret, I couldn’t tell you.
“The police have them,” Quinn continued. “Since the cubs attacked us in front of humans, there was no way around police involvement.” We’d talked about Cal Myers on our way to the bar. Quinn had caught only a glimpse of the Were cop, but of course he’d known him for what he was. I wondered if my companion would now raise the issue of Cal Myers’s presence at the station, but Quinn said nothing. And truthfully, why comment on something the Weres were sure to already know? The Were pack would stand together against outsiders, no matter how divided they were among themselves.
Police involvement in Were affairs was undesirable, obviously. Though Cal Myers’s presence on the force would help, every scrutiny raised the possibility that humans would learn of the existence of creatures that preferred anonymity. I didn’t know how they’d flown (or crawled, or loped) under the radar this long. I had a conviction that the cost in human lives had been considerable.
Alcide said, “You should take Sookie home. She’s tired.”
Quinn put his arm around me and pulled me to his side. “When we’ve received your assurance that the pack will get to the bottom of this unprovoked attack, we’ll leave.”
Neat speech. Quinn seemed to be a master of expressing himself diplomatically and firmly. He was a little overwhelming, truthfully. The power flowed from him in a steady stream, and his physical presence was undeniable.
“We’ll convey all this to the packmaster,” Amanda was saying. “He’ll investigate, I’m sure. Someone must have hired these pups.”
“Someone converted them to start with,” Quinn said. “Unless your pack has degraded to biting street punks and sending them out to scavenge?”
Okay, hostile atmosphere now. I looked up at my large companion and discover
ed that Quinn was nearasthis to losing his temper.
“Thank you all,” I said to Amanda, my bright smile again yanking at the corners of my mouth. “Alcide, Maria-Star, good to see you. We’re going to go now. Long drive back to Bon Temps.” I gave Biker Bartender and Fishnet Girl a little wave. He nodded, and she scowled. Probably she wouldn’t be interested in becoming my best friend. I wriggled out from under Quinn’s arm and linked his hand with mine.
“Come on, Quinn. Let’s hit the road.”
For a bad little moment, his eyes didn’t recognize me. Then they cleared, and he relaxed. “Sure, babe.” He said good-bye to the Weres, and we turned our backs on them to walk out. Even though the little crowd included Alcide, whom I trusted in most ways, it was an uncomfortable moment for me.
I could feel no fear, no anxiety, coming from Quinn. Either he had great focus and control, or he really wasn’t scared of a bar full of werewolves, which was admirable and all, but kind of . . . unrealistic.
The correct answer turned out to be “great focus and control.” I found out when we got to the dim parking lot. Moving quicker than I could track, I was against the car and his mouth was on mine. After a startled second, I was right in the moment. Shared danger does that, and it was the second time—on our first date—that we’d been in peril. Was that a bad omen? I dismissed that rational thought when Quinn’s lips and teeth traveled down to find that vulnerable and sensitive place where the neck curves into the shoulder. I made an incoherent noise, because along with the arousal I always felt when kissed there, I felt undeniable pain from the bruises that circled my neck. It was an uncomfortable combination.
“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered into my skin, his lips never stopping their assault. I knew if I lowered my hand, I’d be able to touch him intimately. I’m not saying I wasn’t tempted. But I was learning a little caution as I went along . . . probably not enough, I reflected with the sliver of my mind that wasn’t getting more and more involved with the heat that surged up from my lowest nerve bundle to meet the heat generated by Quinn’s lips. Oh, geez. Oh, oh, oh.
I moved against him. It was a reflex, okay? But a mistake, because his hand slipped under my breast and his thumb began stroking. I shuddered and jerked. He was doing a little gasping, too. It was like jumping onto the running board of a car that was already speeding down the dark road.
“Okay.” I breathed, pulled away a little. “Okay, let’s stop this now.”
“Ummm,” he said in my ear, his tongue flicking. I jerked.
“I’m not doing this,” I said, trying to sound definite. Then my resolve gathered. “Quinn! I’m not having sex with you in this nasty parking lot!”
“Not even a little bit of sex?”
“No. Definitely not!”
“Your mouth” (here he kissed it) “is saying one thing, but your body” (he kissed my shoulder) “is saying another.”
“Listen to the mouth, buster.”
“Buster?”
“Okay. Quinn.”
He sighed, straightened. “All right,” he said. He smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I didn’t plan on jumping you like that.”
“Going into a place where you’re not exactly welcome, and getting out unhurt, that’s some excitement,” I said.
He expelled a deep breath. “Right,” he said.
“I like you a lot,” I said. I could read his mind fairly clearly, just at this instant. He liked me, too; right at the moment, he liked me a whole bunch. He wanted to like me right up against the wall.
I battened my hatches. “But I’ve had a couple of experiences that have been warnings for me to slow down. I haven’t been going slow with you tonight. Even with the, ah, special circumstances.” I was suddenly ready to sit down in the car. My back was aching and I felt a slight cramp. I worried for a second, then thought of my monthly cycle. That was certainly enough to wear me out, coming on top of an exciting, and bruising, evening.
Quinn was looking down at me. He was wondering about me. I couldn’t tell what his exact concern was, but suddenly he asked, “Which of us was the target of that attack outside the theater?”
Okay, his mind was definitely off sex now. Good. “You think it was just one of us?”
That gave him pause. “I had assumed so,” he said.
“We also have to wonder who put them up to it. I guess they were paid, in some form—either drugs or money, or both. You think they’ll talk?”
“I don’t think they’ll survive the night in jail.”
10
THEY DIDN’T EVEN RATE THE FRONT PAGE. THEY were in the local section of the Shreveport paper, below the fold. JAILHOUSE HOMICIDES, the headline read. I sighed.
Two juveniles awaiting transport from the holding cells to the Juvenile Facility were killed last night sometime after midnight.
The newspaper was delivered every morning to the special box at the end of my driveway, right beside my mailbox. But it was getting dark by the time I saw the article, while I was sitting in my car, about to pull out onto Hummingbird Road and go to work. I hadn’t ventured out today until now. Sleeping, laundry, and a little gardening had taken up my day. No one had called, and no one had visited, just like the ads said. I’d thought Quinn might phone, just to check up on my little injuries . . . but not.
The two juveniles, brought into the police station on charges of assault and battery, were put in one of the holding cells to wait for the morning bus to arrive from the Juvenile Facility. The holding cell for juvenile offenders is out of sight from that for adult offenders, and the two were the only juveniles incarcerated during the night. At some point, the two were strangled by a person or persons unknown. No other prisoners were harmed, and all denied seeing any suspicious activity. Both the youths had extensive juvenile records. “They had had many encounters with the police,” a source close to the investigation said.
“We’re going to look into this thoroughly,” said Detective Dan Coughlin, who had responded to the original complaint and was heading the investigation of the incident for which the youths were apprehended. “They were arrested after allegedly attacking a couple in a bizarre manner, and their deaths are equally bizarre.” His partner, Cal Myers, added, “Justice will be done.”
I found that especially ominous.
Tossing the paper on the seat beside me, I pulled my sheaf of mail out of the mailbox and added it to the little pile. I’d sort through it after my shift at Merlotte’s.
I was in a thoughtful mood when I got to the bar. Preoccupied with the fate of the two assailants of the night before, I hardly flinched when I found that I would be working with Sam’s new employee. Tanya was as bright-eyed and efficient as I’d found her previously. Sam was very happy with her; in fact, the second time he told me how pleased he was, I told him a little sharply that I’d already heard about it.
I was glad to see Bill come in and sit at a table in my section. I wanted an excuse to walk away, before I would have to respond to the question forming in Sam’s head: Why don’t you like Tanya?
I don’t expect to like everyone I meet, any more than I expect everyone to like me. But I usually have a basis for disliking an individual, and it’s more than an unspecified distrust and vague distaste. Though Tanya was some kind of shape-shifter, I should have been able to read her and learn enough to either confirm or disprove my instinctive suspicion. But I couldn’t read Tanya. I’d get a word here and there, like a radio station that’s fading out. You’d think I’d be glad to find someone my own age and sex who could perhaps become a friend. Instead, I was disturbed when I realized she was a closed book. Oddly, Sam hadn’t said a word about her essential nature. He hadn’t said, “Oh, she’s a weremole,” or “She’s a true shifter, like me,” or anything like that.
I was in a troubled mood when I strode over to take Bill’s order. My bad mood compounded when I saw Selah Pumphrey standing in the doorway scanning the crowd, probably trying to locate Bill. I said a few bad words to myself, turned on my heel, and walked away.
Very unprofessional.
Selah was staring at me when I glanced at their table after a while. Arlene had gone over to take their order. I simply listened to Selah; I was in a rude mood. She was wondering why Bill always wanted to meet her here, when the natives were obviously hostile. She couldn’t believe that a discerning and sophisticated man like Bill could ever have dated a barmaid. And the way she’d heard it, I hadn’t even gone to college, and furthermore, my grandmother had gotten murdered.
That made me sleazy, I guess.
I try to take things like this with a grain of salt. After all, I could have shielded myself pretty effectively from these thoughts. People who eavesdrop seldom hear good about themselves, right? An old adage, and a true one. I told myself (about six times in row) that I had no business listening to her, that it would be too drastic a reaction to go slap her upside the head or snatch her baldheaded. But the anger swelled in me, and I couldn’t seem to get it under control. I put three beers down on the table in front of Catfish, Dago, and Hoyt with unnecessary force. They looked up at me simultaneously in astonishment.
“We do something wrong, Sook?” Catfish said. “Or is it just your time of the month?”
“You didn’t do anything,” I said. And it wasn’t my time of the month—oh. Yes, it was. I’d had the warning with the ache in my back, the heaviness in my stomach, and my swollen fingers. My little friend had come to visit, and I felt the sensation even as I realized what was contributing to my general irritation.
I glanced over at Bill and caught him staring at me, his nostrils flaring. He could smell the blood. A wave of acute embarrassment rolled over me, turning my face red. For a second, I glimpsed naked hunger on his face, and then he wiped his features clean of all expression.
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