Dead Ever After: A True Blood Novel

by Charlaine Harris

  The tall man debated, staring angrily at his companion. But it had been days since he’d talked to anyone. At last, he opted for the truth. “I’m listening to a sermon,” he said.

  The medium man exhibited only mild surprise. “Really? A sermon? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a man of the cloth.” But his smile said otherwise. The tall man began to feel uneasy. He began to think of the gun in his backpack, less than an arm’s length away. At least he’d opened the buckles when he’d put it down.

  “You’re wrong, but God won’t punish you for it,” the tall man said calmly, his own smile genial. “I’m listening to one of my own old sermons. I spoke God’s truth to the multitudes.”

  “Did no one believe you?” The medium man cocked his head curiously.

  “Many believed me. Many. I was attracting quite a following. But a girl named . . . A girl brought about my downfall. And put my wife in jail, too, in a way.”

  “Would that girl’s name have been Sookie Stackhouse?” asked the medium man, removing his sunglasses to reveal remarkably pale eyes.

  The taller man’s head snapped in his direction. “How’d you know?” he said.

  JUNE

  The devil was eating beignets, fastidiously, when the businessman walked up to the outside table. The devil noticed the spring in Copley Carmichael’s step. He looked even more prosperous than he had when he was broke. Carmichael was in the business section of the newspaper frequently these days. An infusion of capital had reestablished him very quickly as an economic force in New Orleans, and his political clout had expanded along with the money he pumped into New Orleans’s sputtering economy, which had been dealt a crippling blow by Katrina. Which, the devil pointed out quickly to anyone who asked, he’d had simply nothing to do with.

  Today Carmichael looked healthy and vigorous, ten years younger than he actually was. He sat at the devil’s table without any greeting.

  “Where’s your man, Mr. Carmichael?” asked the devil, after a sip of his coffee.

  Carmichael was busy placing a drink order with the waiter, but when the young man was gone, he said, “Tyrese has trouble these days, and I gave him some time off.”

  “The young woman? Gypsy?”

  “Of course,” said Carmichael, not quite sneering. “I knew if he asked for her, he wouldn’t be pleased with the results, but he was so sure that true love would win in the end.”

  “And it hasn’t?”

  “Oh, yes, she’s crazy about him. She loves him so much she has sex with him all the time. She couldn’t stop herself, even though she knew she was HIV positive . . . a fact she didn’t share with Tyrese.”

  “Ah,” the devil said. “Not my work, that virus. So how is Tyrese faring?”

  “He’s HIV positive, too,” Carmichael said, shrugging. “He’s getting treatment, and it’s not the instant death sentence it used to be. But he’s very emotional about it.” Carmichael shook his head. “I always thought he had better sense.”

  “I understand you wish to ask for your signing bonus,” the devil said. Carmichael saw no connection between the two ideas.

  “Yes,” Copley Carmichael said. He grinned at the devil and leaned forward confidentially. In a barely audible whisper he said, “I know exactly what I want. I want you to find me a cluviel dor.”

  The devil looked genuinely surprised. “How did you learn of the existence of such a rare item?”

  “My daughter brought it up in conversation,” Carmichael said, without a hint of shame. “It sounded interesting, but she stopped talking before she told me the name of the person who supposedly has one. So I had a man I know hack into her e-mail. I should have done that earlier. It’s been illuminating. She’s living with a fellow I don’t trust. After our last conversation, she got so angry with me that she’s refused to see me. Now I can keep tabs on her without her knowing, so I can protect her from her own bad judgment.”

  He was absolutely sincere when he made this statement. The devil saw that Carmichael believed that he loved his daughter, that he knew what was best for her under any circumstance.

  “So Amelia had been talking to someone about a cluviel dor,” the devil said. “That led her to bring it up with you. How interesting. No one’s had one for . . . well, in my memory. A cluviel dor would have been made by the fae . . . and you understand, they are not tiny, cute creatures with wings.”

  Carmichael nodded. “I’m astounded to discover what exists out there,” he said. “I have to believe in fairies now. And I have to consider that maybe my daughter isn’t such a screwball after all. Though I think she’s deluded about her own power.”

  The devil raised his perfect eyebrows. There seemed to be more than one deluded person in the Carmichael family. “About the cluviel dor . . . the fae used them all. I don’t believe there are any left on earth, and I can’t go into Faery since the upheaval. A thing or two has been expelled out of Faery . . . but nothing goes in.” He looked mildly regretful.

  “There is one cluviel dor available, and from what I can tell, it’s being concealed by a friend of my daughter’s,” Copley Carmichael said. “I know you can find it.”

  “Fascinating,” the devil said, quite sincerely. “And what do you want it for? After I find it?”

  “I want my daughter back,” Carmichael said. His intensity was almost palpable. “I want the power to change her life. So I know what I’ll wish for when you track it down for me. The woman who knows where it is . . . she’s not likely to give it up. It was a legacy from her grandmother, and she’s not a big fan of mine.”

  The devil turned his face to the morning sun, and his eyes glowed red briefly. “Imagine that. I’ll set things in motion. The name of your daughter’s friend, the one who may know the whereabouts of the cluviel dor?”

  “She’s in Bon Temps. It’s up north, not too far from Shreveport. Sookie Stackhouse.”

  The devil nodded slowly. “I’ve heard the name.”

  JULY

  The next time the devil met with Copley Carmichael, three days after their conversation at Café du Monde, he dropped by Carmichael’s table at Commander’s Palace. Carmichael was waiting for his dinner and busy on his cell phone with a contractor who wanted to extend his credit line. Carmichael was unwilling, and he explained why in no uncertain terms. When he looked up, the devil was standing there in the same suit he’d worn when they’d met the first time. He looked cool and impeccable.

  As Carmichael put the phone down, the devil slid into the chair across from his.

  Carmichael had jumped when he recognized the devil. And since he hated being surprised, he was unwise. He snarled, “What the hell do you mean coming here? I didn’t ask you to visit!”

  “What the hell, indeed,” said the devil, who didn’t seem to take offense. He ordered a single malt whiskey from the waiter who’d materialized at his elbow. “I assumed you’d want to hear the news of your cluviel dor.”

  Carmichael’s expression changed instantly. “You found it! You have it!”

  “Sadly, Mr. Carmichael, I do not,” said the devil. (He did not sound sad.) “Something rather unexpected has thwarted our plans.” The waiter deposited the whiskey with some ceremony, and the devil took a sip and nodded.

  “What?” Carmichael said, almost unable to speak for anger.

  “Miss Stackhouse used the cluviel dor, and its magic has been expended.”

  There was a moment of silence fraught with all the emotions the devil enjoyed.

  “I’ll see her ruined,” said Copley Carmichael venomously, keeping his voice down with a supreme effort. “You’ll help me. That’s what I’ll take instead of the cluviel dor.”

  “Oh my goodness. You’ve used your signing bonus, Mr. Carmichael. Mustn’t get greedy.”

  “But you didn’t get me the cluviel dor!” Even though he was an experienced businessman, Carmichael was astonished and outraged.

  “I found it and was ready to take it from her pocket,” said the devil.

  “I entered
the body of someone standing behind her. But she used it before I could extract it. Finding it was the favor you requested. You used those words twice, and ‘track it down’ once. Our dealings are concluded.” He tossed back his drink.

  “At least help me get back at her,” Carmichael said, his face red with rage. “She crossed us both.”

  “Not me,” said the devil. “I’ve seen Miss Stackhouse up close and talked to many people who know her. She seems like an interesting woman. I have no cause to do her harm.” He stood up. “In fact, if I may advise you, walk away from this. She has some powerful friends, among them your daughter.”

  “My daughter is a woman who runs around with witches,” Carmichael said. “She’s never been able to make her own living, not completely. I’ve been researching her ‘friends,’ very discreetly.” He sighed, sounding both angry and exasperated. “I understand their powers exist. I believe that now. Reluctantly. But what have they done with those powers? The strongest among them lives in a shack.” Carmichael’s knuckles rapped against the table. “My daughter could be a force in society in this town. She could work for me and do all kinds of charity stuff, but instead she lives in her own little world with her loser boyfriend. Like her friend Sookie. But I’ll even the score there. How many powerful friends could a waitress have?”

  The devil glanced over to his left. Two tables away sat a very round man with dark hair, who was by himself at a table laden with food. The very round man met the devil’s eyes without blinking or looking away, which few men could do. After a long moment, the two nodded at each other.

  Carmichael was glaring at the devil.

  “I owe you nothing for Tyrese any longer,” said the devil. “And you are mine forever. Given your present course, I may have you sooner than I’d expected.” He smiled, a chilling expression on his smooth face, and he rose from the table and left.

  Carmichael was even angrier when he had to pay for the devil’s whiskey. He never even noticed the very round man. But the very round man noticed him.

  Chapter 1

  The morning after I raised my boss from the dead, I got up to find him sitting half-dressed in my backyard on my chaise lounge. It was about ten a.m. on a July day, and the sun was bathing the backyard in brilliant heat. Sam’s hair was turned into a bright tangle of red and gold. He opened his eyes as I came down the back steps and crossed the yard. I was still in my nightshirt, and I didn’t even want to think about my own hair. It was pretty much one big snarl.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked very quietly. My throat was sore from the screaming I’d done the night before when I’d seen Sam bleeding out on the ground in the backyard of the country farmhouse Alcide Herveaux had inherited from his father. Sam drew up his legs to give me room to sit on the chaise. His jeans were spattered with his dried blood. His chest was bare; his shirt must have been too nasty to touch.

  Sam didn’t answer for a long time. Though he’d given his tacit permission for me to sit with him, he didn’t seem to embrace my presence. Finally, he said, “I don’t know how I feel. I don’t feel like myself. It’s like something inside me changed.”

  I cringed. I’d feared this. “I know . . . that is, I was told . . . that there’s always a price for magic,” I said. “I thought I’d be the one paying it, though. I’m sorry.”

  “You brought me back,” he said, without emotion. “I think that’s worth a little adjustment period.” He didn’t smile.

  I shifted uneasily. “How long have you been out here?” I asked. “Can I get you some orange juice or coffee? Breakfast?”

  “I came out here a few hours ago,” he said. “I lay on the ground. I needed to get back in touch.”

  “With what?” I may not have been as awake as I thought I was.

  “With my natural side,” he said, very slowly and deliberately. “Shapeshifters are nature’s children. Since we can turn into so many things. That’s our mythology. Back before we blended into the human race, we used to say that when we were created, the mother of all the earth wanted a creature so versatile it could replace any race that died out. And that creature was a shapeshifter. I could look at a picture of a saber-toothed tiger and be one. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I think I’ll go home. I’ll go to my trailer and . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “And what?”

  “Find a shirt,” he said, finally. “I do feel strange. Your yard is amazing.”

  I was confused and not a little worried. Part of me could see that Sam would need some alone time to recover from the trauma of dying and coming back. But the other part of me, the one that had known Sam for years, was upset that he sounded so un-Sam. I’d been Sam’s friend, employee, occasional date, and business partner—all those things and more—for the past few years. I would have sworn he couldn’t surprise me.

  I watched him, narrow-eyed, as he worked his keys out of his jeans pocket. I got up to give him room to slide off the chaise and walk to his truck. He climbed into the cab and looked at me through the windshield for a long moment. Then he turned the key in the ignition. He raised his hand, and I felt a surge of pleasure. He’d lower his window. He’d call me over to say good-bye. But then Sam backed out, turned around, and went slowly down the driveway to Hummingbird Road. He left without a word. Not “See you later,” “Thanks a lot,” or “Kiss my foot.”

  And what had he meant about my yard being amazing? He’d been in my yard dozens of times.

  At least I solved that puzzlement quickly. As I turned to trudge inside—through some extraordinarily green grass—I noticed that my three tomato plants, which I’d put in weeks ago, were heavily laden with ripe red fruit. The sight stopped me in my tracks. When had that happened? The last time I’d noticed them, maybe a week ago, they’d looked scraggly and in dire need of water and fertilizer. The one on the left had seemed on its last legs (if a plant can have legs). Now all three plants were lush and green-leafed, sagging against their frames with the sheer weight of the fruit. It was like someone had dosed them with an elevated version of Miracle-Gro.

  With my mouth hanging open, I rotated to check out all the other flowers and bushes in the yard, and there were plenty of them. Many of the Stackhouse women had been ardent gardeners, and they’d planted roses, daisies, hydrangeas, pear trees . . . so many blooming and green things, planted by generations of Stackhouse women. And I’d been doing a poor job of keeping them in good trim.

  But . . . what the hell? While I’d been sunk in gloom the past few days, the whole yard had taken steroids. Or maybe the Jolly Green Giant had paid a visit. Everything that was supposed to be blooming was laden with brilliant flowers, and everything that was supposed to bear fruit was heavy with it. Everything else was green and glossy and thick. How had this come about?

  I plucked a couple of especially ripe and round tomatoes to take in the house. I could see that a bacon-and-tomato sandwich would be my lunch choice, but before that I had a few things to accomplish.

  I found my cell phone and checked my list of contacts. Yes, I had Bernadette Merlotte’s number. Bernadette, called Bernie, was Sam’s shapeshifter mom. Though my own mother had passed when I was seven (so maybe I wasn’t the best judge), Sam seemed to have a good relationship with Bernie. If there ever was a time to call in a mom, this was it.

  I won’t say we had a comfortable conversation, and it was shorter than it should have been, but by the time I hung up, Bernie Merlotte was packing a bag to come to Bon Temps. She’d arrive in the late afternoon.

  Had I done the right thing? After I’d hashed the issue over with myself, I decided I had, and I further decided I had to have a day off. Maybe more than one. I called Merlotte’s and told Kennedy that I had the flu. She agreed they’d call me in a crisis, but otherwise they’d leave me alone to recover.

  “I didn’t think anyone got the flu in July. But Sam called in to say the same thing,” Kennedy said with a smile in her voice.

  I thought, Dammit.


  “Maybe y’all gave it to each other?” she suggested archly.

  I didn’t say a word.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll only call if the place is on fire,” she said. “You have a good time getting over the flu.”

  I refused to worry about the rumors that would undoubtedly start making the rounds. I slept a lot and wept a lot. I cleaned out all the drawers in my bedroom: night table, dressing table, chest of drawers. I pitched useless things and grouped other items together in a way that seemed sensible. And I waited to hear . . . from anyone.

  But the phone didn’t ring. I heard a lot of nothing. I had a lot of nothing, except tomatoes. I had them on sandwiches, and the minute the red ones were gone, the plants were hung with green ones. I fried a few of the green ones, and when the rest were red, I made my own salsa for the first time ever. The flowers bloomed and bloomed and bloomed, until I had a vase full in almost every room in the house. I even walked through the cemetery to leave some on Gran’s grave, and I put a bouquet on Bill’s porch. If I could have eaten them, I’d have had a full plate at every meal.

  ELSEWHERE

  The red-haired woman came out of the prison door slowly and suspiciously, as if she suspected a practical joke. She blinked in the brilliant sun and began walking toward the road. There was a car parked there, but she didn’t pay it any attention. It never occurred to the red-haired woman that its occupants were waiting for her.

  A medium man got out of the front passenger seat. That was how she thought of him: medium. His hair was medium brown, he was medium tall, he was medium built, and he had a medium smile. His teeth, however, were gleaming white and perfect. Dark glasses hid his eyes. “Miss Fowler,” he called. “We’ve come to pick you up.”

  She turned toward him, hesitating. The sun was in her eyes, and she squinted. She’d survived so much—broken marriages, broken relationships, single motherhood, betrayals, a bullet wound. She was not of a mind to be an easy target now.