Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set (105 page)

“Yeah, even though—” And here I stopped dead.

He gave every indication he was hanging on my words. “What?”

“You got one of the Jackson vampires to work on the wound, so I’d survive for sure . . . and then you gave me blood to heal me quick, so I could look for Bill at daylight.” Remembering how Eric had given me blood made my cheeks turn red, and I could only hope Eric would attribute my flush to the heat of the fire.

“And you saved Bill?” he said, moving beyond that touchy part.

“Yes, I did,” I said proudly. “I saved his ass.” I rolled onto my back and looked up at him. Gee, it was nice to have someone to talk to. I pulled up my T-shirt and inclined partially on my side to show Eric the scar, and he looked impressed. He touched the shiny area with a fingertip and shook his head. I rearranged myself.

“And what happened to the vampire ho?” he asked

I eyed him suspiciously, but he didn’t seem to be making fun of me. “Well,” I said, “um, actually, I kind of . . . She came in while I was getting Bill untied, and she attacked me, and I kind of . . . killed her.”

Eric looked at me intently. I couldn’t read his expression. “Had you ever killed anyone before?” he asked.

“Of course not!” I said indignantly. “Well, I did hurt a guy who was trying to kill me, but he didn’t die. No, I’m a
human
. I don’t have to kill anyone to live.”

“But humans kill other humans all the time. And they don’t even need to eat them or drink their blood.”

“Not
all
humans.”

“True enough,” he said. “We vampires are all murderers.”

“But in a way, you’re like lions.”

Eric looked astonished. “Lions?” he said weakly.

“Lions all kill stuff.” At the moment, this idea seemed like an inspiration. “So you’re predators, like lions and rap-tors. But you use what you kill. You have to kill to eat.”

“The catch in that comforting theory being that we look almost exactly like you. And we used to be you. And we can love you, as well as feed off you. You could hardly say the lion wanted to caress the antelope.”

Suddenly there was something in the air that hadn’t been there the moment before. I felt a little like an antelope that was being stalked—by a lion that was a deviant.

I’d felt more comfortable when I was taking care of a terrified victim.

“Eric,” I said, very cautiously, “you know you’re my guest here. And you know if I tell you to leave, which I will if you’re not straight with me, you’ll be standing out in the middle of a field somewhere in a bathrobe that’s too short for you.”

“Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?” He was (apparently) completely contrite, blue eyes blazing with sincerity. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to continue your train of thought. Do you have some more TrueBlood? What clothes did Jason get for me? Your brother is a very clever man.” He didn’t sound a hundred percent admiring when he told me this. I didn’t blame him. Jason’s cleverness might cost him thirty-five thousand dollars. I got up to fetch the Wal-Mart bag, hoping that Eric liked his new Louisiana Tech sweatshirt and cheap jeans.

I turned in about midnight, leaving Eric absorbed in my tapes of the first season of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
(Though welcome, these were actually a gag gift from Tara.) Eric thought the show was a hoot, especially the way the vampires’ foreheads bulged out when they got blood-lusty. From time to time, I could hear Eric laughing all the way back in my room. But the sound didn’t bother me. I found it reassuring to hear someone else in the house.

It took me a little longer than usual to fall asleep, because I was thinking over the things that had happened that day. Eric was in the witness protection program, in a way, and I was providing the safe house. No one in the world—well, except for Jason, Pam, and Chow—knew where the sheriff of Area Five actually was at this moment.

Which was, sliding into my bed.

I didn’t want to open my eyes and quarrel with him. I was just at that cusp between waking and dreaming. When he’d climbed in the night before, Eric had been so afraid that I’d felt quite maternal, comfortable in holding his hand to reassure him. Tonight it didn’t seem so, well, neutral, having him in the bed with me.

“Cold?” I murmured, as he huddled close.

“Um-hum,” he whispered. I was on my back, so comfortable I could not contemplate moving. He was on his side facing me, and he put an arm across my waist. But he didn’t move another inch, and he relaxed completely. After a moment’s tension, I did, too, and then I was dead to the world.

The next thing I knew, it was morning and the phone was ringing. Of course, I was by myself in bed, and through my open doorway I could see across the hall into the smaller bedroom. The closet door was open, as he’d had to leave it when dawn came and he’d lowered himself into the light-tight hole.

It was bright and warmer today, up in the forties and heading for the fifties. I felt much more cheerful than I’d felt upon waking the day before. I knew what was happening now; or at least I knew more or less what I was supposed to do, how the next few days would go. Or I thought I did. When I answered the phone, I discovered that I was way off.

“Where’s your brother?” yelled Jason’s boss, Shirley Hennessey. You thought a man named Shirley was funny only until you were face-to-face with the real deal, at which point you decided it would really be better to keep your amusement to yourself.

“How would I know?” I said reasonably. “Probably slept over at some woman’s place.” Shirley, who was universally known as Catfish, had never, ever called here before to track Jason down. In fact, I’d be surprised if he’d ever had to call anywhere. One thing Jason was good about was showing up at work on time and at least going through the motions until that time was up. In fact, Jason was pretty good at his job, which I’d never fully understood. It seemed to involve parking his fancy truck at the parish road department, getting into another truck with the Renard parish logo on the door, and driving around telling various road crews what to do. It also seemed to demand that he get out of the truck to stand with other men as they all stared into big holes in or near the road.

Catfish was knocked off balance by my frankness. “Sookie, you shouldn’t say that kind of thing,” he said, quite shocked at a single woman admitting she knew her brother wasn’t a virgin.

“Are you telling me that Jason hasn’t shown up at work? And you’ve called his house?”

“Yes and yes,” said Catfish, who in most respects was no fool. “I even sent Dago out to his place.” Dago (road crew members had to have nicknames) was Antonio Guglielmi, who had never been farther from Louisiana than Mississippi. I was pretty sure the same could be said for his parents, and possibly his grandparents, though there was rumor they’d once been to Branson to take in the shows.

“Was his truck out there?” I was beginning to have that cold creeping feeling.

“Yes,” Catfish said. “It was parked in front of his house, keys inside. Door hanging open.”

“The truck door or the house door?”

“What?”

“Hanging open. Which door?”

“Oh, the truck.”

“This is bad, Catfish,” I said. I was tingling all over with alarm.

“When you seen him last?”

“Just last night. He was over here visiting with me, and he left about . . . oh, let’s see . . . it must have been nine-thirty or ten.”

“He have anybody with him?”

“No.” He hadn’t brought anybody with him, so that was pretty much the truth.

“You think I oughta call the sheriff?” Catfish asked.

I ran a hand over my face. I wasn’t ready for that yet, no matter how off the situation seemed. “Let’s give it another hour,” I suggested. “If he hasn’t dragged into work in an hour, you let me know. If he does come in, you make him call me. I guess it’s me ought to tell the sheriff, if it comes to that.”

I hung up after Catfish had repeated everything he’d said several times, just because he hated to hang up and go back to worrying. No, I can’t read minds over the telephone line, but I could read it in his voice. I’ve known Catfish Hennessey for many years. He was a buddy of my father’s.

I carried the cordless phone into the bathroom with me while I took a shower to wake up. I didn’t wash my hair, just in case I had to go outside right away. I got dressed, made some coffee, and braided my hair in one long braid. All the time while I performed these tasks, I was thinking, which is something that’s hard for me to do when I’m sitting still.

I came up with these scenarios.

One. (This was my favorite.) Somewhere between my house and his house, my brother had met up with a woman and fallen in love so instantly and completely that he had abandoned his habit of years and forgotten all about work. At this moment, they were in a bed somewhere, having great sex.

Two. The witches, or whatever the hell they were, had somehow found out that Jason knew where Eric was, and they’d abducted him to force the information from him. (I made a mental note to learn more about witches.) How long could Jason keep the secret of Eric’s location? My brother had lots of attitude, but he actually is a brave man—or maybe stubborn is a little more accurate. He wouldn’t talk easily. Maybe a witch could spell him into talking? If the witches had him, he might be dead already, since they’d had him for hours. And if he’d talked, I was in danger and Eric was doomed. They could be coming at any minute, since witches are not bound by darkness. Eric was dead for the day, defenseless. This was definitely the worst-case scenario.

Three. Jason had returned to Shreveport with Pam and Chow. Maybe they’d decided to pay him some up-front money, or maybe Jason just wanted to visit Fangtasia because it was a popular nightspot. Once there, he could have been seduced by some vamp girl and stayed up all night with her, since Jason was like Eric in that women really, really took a shine to him. If she’d taken a little too much blood, Jason could be sleeping it off. I guess number three was really a variation on number one.

If Pam and Chow knew where Jason was but hadn’t phoned before they died for the day, I was real mad. My gut instinct was to go get the hatchet and start chopping some stakes.

Then I remembered what I was trying so hard to forget: how it had felt when the stake pushed into Lorena’s body, the expression on her face when she’d realized her long, long life was over. I shoved that thought away as hard as I could. You didn’t kill someone (even an evil vampire) without it affecting you sooner or later: at least not unless you were a complete sociopath, which I wasn’t.

Lorena would have killed me without blinking. In fact, she would have positively enjoyed it. But then, she was a vampire, and Bill never tired of telling me that vampires were different; that though they retained their human appearance (more or less), their internal functions and their personalities underwent a radical change. I believed him and took his warnings to heart, for the most part. It was just that they looked so human; it was so very easy to attribute normal human reactions and feelings to them.

The frustrating thing was, Chow and Pam wouldn’t be up until dark, and I didn’t know who—or what—I’d raise if I called Fangtasia during the day. I didn’t think the two lived at the club. I’d gotten the impression that Pam and Chow shared a house . . . or a mausoleum . . . somewhere in Shreveport.

I was fairly sure that human employees came into the club during the day to clean, but of course a human wouldn’t (couldn’t) tell me anything about vampire affairs. Humans who worked for vampires learned pretty quick to keep their mouths shut, as I could attest.

On the other hand, if I went to the club I’d have a chance to talk to
someone
face-to-face. I’d have a chance to read a human mind. I couldn’t read vampire minds, which had led to my initial attraction to Bill. Imagine the relief of silence after a lifetime of elevator music. (Now, why couldn’t I hear vampire thoughts? Here’s my big theory about that. I’m about as scientific as a Saltine, but I have read about neurons, which fire in your brain, right? When you’re thinking? Since it’s magic that animates vampires, not normal life force, their brains don’t fire. So, nothing for me to pick up—except about once every three months, I’d get a flash from a vampire. And I took great care to conceal that, because that was a sure way to court instant death.)

Oddly enough, the only vampire I’d ever “heard” twice was—you guessed it—Eric.

I’d been enjoying Eric’s recent company so much for the same reason I’d enjoyed Bill’s, quite apart from the romantic component I’d had with Bill. Even Arlene had a tendency to stop listening to me when I was talking, if she thought of something more interesting, like her children’s grades or cute things they’d said. But with Eric, he could be thinking about his car needing new windshield wipers while I was pouring my heart out, and I was none the wiser.

The hour I’d asked Catfish to give me was almost up, and all my constructive thought had dwindled into the same murky maundering I’d gone through several times. Blah blah blah. This is what happens when you talk to yourself a lot.

Okay, action time.

The phone rang right at the hour, and Catfish admitted he had no news. No one had heard from Jason or seen him; but on the other hand, Dago hadn’t seen anything suspicious at Jason’s place except the truck’s open door.

I was still reluctant to call the sheriff, but I didn’t see that I had much choice. At this point, it would seem peculiar to skip calling him.

I expected a lot of hubbub and alarm, but what I got was even worse: I got benevolent indifference. Sheriff Bud Dearborn actually laughed.

“You callin’ me because your tomcat of a brother is missing a day of work? Sookie Stackhouse, I’m surprised at you.” Bud Dearborn had a slow voice and the mashed-in face of a Pekinese, and it was all too easy to picture him snuffling into the phone.