Charlaine Harris - Sookie Stackhouse 03 - Club Dead

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CLUB DEAD

Charlaine Harris

Book 3 in the Southern Vampire Series

Ace mass-market edition / May 2003

ISBN: 0-441-01051-2

This book is dedicated to my middle child,

Timothy Schulz, who told me flatly

he wanted a book all to himself.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to Lisa Weissenbuehler, Kerie L. Nickel, Marie La Salle, and the incomparable Doris

Ann Norris for their input on car trunks, great and small. My further thanks to Janet Davis, Irene, and

Sonya Stocklin, also cybercitizens of DorothyL, for their information on bars, bourree (a card game), and

the parish governments of Louisiana. Joan Coffey was most gracious with supplying information about

Jackson. The wonderful and obliging Jane Lee drove me patiently around Jackson for many hours,

entering thoroughly into the spirit of finding the perfect location for a vampire bar.

Chapter One

Bill was hunched over the computer when I let myself in his house. This was an all-too-familiar

scenario in the past month or two. He'd torn himself away from his work when I came home, until the

past couple of weeks. Now it was the keyboard that attracted him.

"Hello, sweetheart," he said absently, his gaze riveted to the screen. An empty bottle of type O

TrueBlood was on the desk beside the keyboard. At least he'd remembered to eat.

Bill, not a jeans-and-tee kind of guy, was wearing khakis and a plaid shirt in muted blue and

green. His skin was glowing, and his thick dark hair smelled like Herbal Essence. He was enough to give

any woman a hormonal surge. I kissed his neck, and he didn't react. I licked his ear. Nothing.

I'd been on my feet for six hours straight at Merlotte's Bar, and every time some customer had

under-tipped, or some fool had patted my fanny, I'd reminded myself that in a short while I'd be with my

boyfriend, having incredible sex and basking in his attention.

That didn't appear to be happening.

I inhaled slowly and steadily and glared at Bill's back. It was a wonderful back, with broad

shoulders, and I had planned on seeing it bare with my nails dug into it. I had counted on that very

strongly. I exhaled, slowly and steadily.

"Be with you in a minute," Bill said. On the screen, there was a snapshot of a distinguished man

with silver hair and a dark tan. He looked sort of Anthony Quinn-type sexy, and he looked powerful.

Under the picture was a name, and under that was some text. "Born 1756 in Sicily," it began. Just as I

opened my mouth to comment that vampires did appear in photographs despite the legend, Bill twisted

around and realized I was reading.

He hit a button and the screen went blank.

I stared at him, not quite believing what had just happened.

"Sookie," he said, attempting a smile. His fangs were retracted, so he was totally not in the mood

in which I'd hoped to find him; he wasn't thinking of me carnally. Like all vampires, his fangs are only fully

extended when he's in the mood for the sexy kind of lust, or the feeding-and-killing kind of lust.

(Sometimes, those lusts all get kind of snarled up, and you get your dead fang-bangers. But that element

of danger is what attracts most fang-bangers, if you ask me.) Though I've been accused of being one of

those pathetic creatures that hang around vampires in the hope of attracting their attention, there's only

one vampire I'm involved with (at least voluntarily) and it was the one sitting right in front of me. The one

who was keeping secrets from me. The one who wasn't nearly glad enough to see me.

"Bill," I said coldly. Something was Up, with a capital U. And it wasn't Bill's libido. (Libido had

just been on my Word-A-Day calendar.)

"You didn't see what you just saw," he said steadily. His dark brown eyes regarded me without

blinking.

"Uh-huh," I said, maybe sounding just a little sarcastic. "What are you up to?"

"I have a secret assignment."

I didn't know whether to laugh or stalk away in a snit. So I just raised my eyebrows and waited

for more. Bill was the investigator for Area 5, a vampire division of Louisiana. Eric, the head of Area 5,

had never given Bill an "assignment" that was secret from me before. In fact, I was usually an integral part

of the investigation team, however unwilling I might be.

"Eric must not know. None of the Area 5 vampires can know."

My heart sank. "So—if you're not doing a job for Eric, who are you working for?" I knelt

because my feet were so tired, and I leaned against Bill's knees.

"The queen of Louisiana," he said, almost in a whisper.

Because he looked so solemn, I tried to keep a straight face, but it was no use. I began to laugh,

little giggles that I couldn't suppress.

"You're serious?" I asked, knowing he must be. Bill was almost always a serious kind of fellow. I

buried my face on his thigh so he couldn't see my amusement. I rolled my eyes up for a quick look at his

face. He was looking pretty pissed.

"I am as serious as the grave," Bill said, and he sounded so steely, I made a major effort to

change my attitude.

"Okay, let me get this straight," I said in a reasonably level tone. I sat back on the floor,

cross-legged, and rested my hands on my knees. "You work for Eric, who is the boss of Area 5, but

there is also a queen? Of Louisiana?"

Bill nodded.

"So the state is divided up into Areas? And she's Eric's superior, since he runs a business in

Shreveport, which is in Area 5."

Again with the nod. I put my hand over my face and shook my head. "So, where does she live,

Baton Rouge?" The state capital seemed the obvious place.

"No, no. New Orleans, of course."

Of course. Vampire central. You could hardly throw a rock in the Big Easy without hitting one of

the undead, according to the papers (though only a real fool would do so). The tourist trade in New

Orleans was booming, but it was not exactly the same crowd as before, the hard-drinking, rollicking

crowd who'd filled the city to party hearty. The newer tourists were the ones who wanted to rub elbows

with the undead; patronize a vampire bar, visit a vampire prostitute, watch a vampire sex show.

This was what I'd heard; I hadn't been to New Orleans since I was little. My mother and father

had taken my brother, Jason, and me. That would have been before I was seven, because that's when

they died.

Mama and Daddy died nearly twenty years before vampires had appeared on network television

to announce the fact that they were actually present among us, an announcement that had followed on the

Japanese development of synthetic blood that actually maintained a vampire's life without the necessity of

drinking from humans.

The United States vampire community had let the Japanese vampire clans come forth first. Then,

simultaneously, in most of the nations of the world that had television—and who doesn't these

days?—the announcement had been made in hundreds of different languages, by hundreds of carefully

picked personable vampires.

That night, two and half years ago, we regular old live people learned that we had always lived

with monsters among us.

"But"—the burden of this announcement had been—"now we can come forward and join with

you in harmony. You are in no danger from us anymore. We don't need to drink from you to live."

As you can imagine, this was a night of high ratings and tremendous uproar. Reaction varied

sharply, depending on the nation.

The vampires in the predominantly Islamic nations had fared the worst. You don't even want to

know what happened to the undead spokesman in Syria, though perhaps the female vamp in Afghanistan

died an even more horrible—and final—death. (What were they thinking, selecting a female for that

particular job? Vampires could be so smart, but they sometimes didn't seem quite in touch with the

present world.)

Some nations—France, Italy, and Germany were the most notable—refused to accept vampires

as equal citizens. Many—like Bosnia, Argentina, and most of the African nations—denied any status to

the vampires, and declared them fair game for any bounty hunter. But America, England, Mexico,

Canada, Japan, Switzerland, and the Scandinavian countries adopted a more tolerant attitude.

It was hard to determine if this reaction was what the vampires had expected or not. Since they

were still struggling to maintain a foothold in the stream of the living, the vampires remained very secretive

about their organization and government, and what Bill was telling me now was the most I'd ever heard

on the subject.

"So, the Louisiana queen of the vampires has you working on a secret project," I said, trying to

sound neutral. "And this is why you have lived at your computer every waking hour for the past few

weeks."

"Yes," Bill said. He picked up the bottle of TrueBlood and tipped it up, but there were only a

couple of drops left. He went down the hall into the small kitchen area (when he'd remodeled his old

family home, he'd pretty much left out the kitchen, since he didn't need one) and extracted another bottle

from the refrigerator. I was tracking him by sound as he opened the bottle and popped it into the

microwave. The microwave went off, and he reentered, shaking the bottle with his thumb over the top so

there wouldn't be any hot spots.

"So, how much more time do you have to spend on this project?" I asked—reasonably, I

thought.

"As long as it takes," he said, less reasonably. Actually, Bill sounded downright irritable.

Hmmm. Could our honeymoon be over? Of course I mean figurative honeymoon, since Bill's a

vampire and we can't be legally married, practically anywhere in the world.

Not that he's asked me.

"Well, if you're so absorbed in your project, I'll just stay away until it's over," I said slowly.

"That might be best," Bill said, after a perceptible pause, and I felt like he'd socked me in the

stomach. In a flash, I was on my feet and pulling my coat back over my cold-weather waitress

outfit—black slacks, white boat-neck long-sleeved tee with "Merlotte's" embroidered over the left

breast. I turned my back to Bill to hide my face.

I was trying not to cry, so I didn't look at him even after I felt Bill's hand touch my shoulder.

"I have to tell you something," Bill said in his cold, smooth voice. I stopped in the middle of

pulling on my gloves, but I didn't think I could stand to see him. He could tell my backside,

"If anything happens to me," he continued (and here's where I should have begun worrying), "you

must look in the hiding place I built at your house. My computer should be in it, and some disks. Don't

tell anyone. If the computer isn't in the hiding place, come over to my house and see if it's here. Come in

the daytime, and come armed. Get the computer and any disks you can find, and hide them in my

hidey-hole, as you call it."

I nodded. He could see that from the back. I didn't trust my voice.

"If I'm not back, or if you don't get word from me, in say … eight weeks—yes, eight weeks, then

tell Eric everything I said to you today. And place yourself under his protection."

I didn't speak. I was too miserable to be furious, but it wouldn't be long before I reached

meltdown. I acknowledged his words with a jerk of my head. I could feel my ponytail switch against my

neck.

"I am going to … Seattle soon," Bill said. I could feel his cool lips touch the place my ponytail

had brushed.

He was lying.

"When I come back, we'll talk."

Somehow, that didn't sound like an entrancing prospect. Somehow, that sounded ominous.

Again I inclined my head, not risking speech because I was actually crying now. I would rather

have died than let him see the tears.

And that was how I left him, that cold December night.

***

The next day, on my way to work, I took an unwise detour. I was in that kind of mood where I

was rolling in how awful everything was. Despite a nearly sleepless night, something inside me told me I

could probably make my mood a little worse if I drove along Magnolia Creek Road: so sure enough,

that's what I did. The old Bellefleur mansion, Belle Rive, was a beehive of activity, even on a cold and

ugly day. There were vans from the pest control company, a kitchen design firm, and a siding contractor

parked at the kitchen entrance to the antebellum home. Life was just humming for Caroline Holliday

Bellefleur, the ancient lady who had ruled Belle Rive and (at least in part) Bon Temps for the past eighty

years. I wondered how Portia, a lawyer, and Andy, a detective, were enjoying all the changes at Belle

Rive. They had lived with their grandmother (as I had lived with mine) for all their adult lives. At the very

least, they had to be enjoying her pleasure in the mansion's renovation.

My own grandmother had been murdered a few months ago.

The Bellefleurs hadn't had anything to do with it, of course. And there was no reason Portia and

Andy would share the pleasure of this new affluence with me. In fact, they both avoided me like the

plague. They owed me, and they couldn't stand it. They just didn't know how much they owed me.

The Bellefleurs had received a mysterious legacy from a relative who had "died mysteriously over

in Europe somewhere," I'd heard Andy tell a fellow cop while they were drinking at Merlotte's. When

she dropped off some raffle tickets for Gethsemane Baptist Church's Ladies' Quilt, Maxine Fortenberry

told me Miss Caroline had combed every family record she could unearth to identify their benefactor,

and she was still mystified at the family's good fortune.

She didn't seem to have any qualms about spending the money, though.

Even Terry Bellefleur, Portia and Andy's cousin, had a new pickup sitting in the packed dirt yard

of his double-wide. I liked Terry, a scarred Viet Nam vet who didn't have a lot of friends, and I didn't

grudge him a new set of wheels.

But I thought about the carburetor I'd just been forced to replace in my old car. I'd paid for the

work in full, though I'd considered asking Jim Downey if I could just pay half and get the rest together

over the next two months. But Jim had a wife and three kids. Just this morning I'd been thinking of asking

my boss, Sam Merlotte, if he could add to my hours at the bar. Especially with Bill gone to "Seattle," I

could just about live at Merlotte's, if Sam could use me. I sure needed the money.

I tried real hard not to be bitter as I drove away from Belle Rive. I went south out of town and

then turned left onto Hummingbird Road on my way to Merlotte's. I tried to pretend that all was well;

that on his return from Seattle—or wherever—Bill would be a passionate lover again, and Bill would

treasure me and make me feel valuable once more. I would again have that feeling of belonging with

someone, instead of being alone.

Of course, I had my brother, Jason. Though as far as intimacy and companionship goes, I had to

admit that he hardly counted.

But the pain in my middle was the unmistakable pain of rejection. I knew the feeling so well, it

was like a second skin.

I sure hated to crawl back inside it.

Chapter Two

I tested the doorknob to make sure I'd locked it, turned around, and out of the corner of my eye

glimpsed a figure sitting in the swing on my front porch. I stifled a shriek as he rose. Then I recognized

him.

I was wearing a heavy coat, but he was in a tank top; that didn't surprise me, really.

"El—" Uh-oh, close call. "Bubba, how are you?" I was trying to sound casual, carefree. I failed,

but Bubba wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. The vampires admitted that bringing him over, when he'd

been so very close to death and so saturated with drugs, had been a big mistake. The night he'd been

brought in, one of the morgue attendants happened to be one of the undead, and also happened to be a

huge fan. With a hastily constructed and elaborate plot involving a murder or two, the attendant had

"brought him over"—made Bubba a vampire. But the process doesn't always go right, you know. Since

then, he's been passed around like idiot royalty. Louisiana had been hosting him for the past year.

"Miss Sookie, how you doin'?" His accent was still thick and his face still handsome, in a jowly

kind of way. The dark hair tumbled over his forehead in a carefully careless style. The heavy sideburns

were brushed. Some undead fan had groomed him for the evening.

"I'm just fine, thank you," I said politely, grinning from ear to ear. I do that when I'm nervous. "I

was just fixing to go to work," I added, wondering if it was possible I would be able to simply get in my

car and drive away. I thought not.

"Well, Miss Sookie, I been sent to guard you tonight."

"You have? By who?"

"By Eric," he said proudly. "I was the only one in the office when he got a phone call. He tole me

to get my ass over here."

"What's the danger?" I peered around the clearing in the woods in which my old house stood.

Bubba's news made me very nervous.

"I don't know, Miss Sookie. Eric, he tole me to watch you tonight till one of them from Fangtasia

gets here—Eric, or Chow, or Miss Pam, or even Clancy. So if you go to work, I go with you. And I

take care of anyone who bothers you."

There was no point in questioning Bubba further, putting strain on that fragile brain. He'd just get

upset, and you didn't want to see that happen. That was why you had to remember not to call him by his

former name … though every now and then he would sing, and that was a moment to remember.

"You can't come in the bar," I said bluntly. That would be a disaster. The clientele of Merlotte's is

used to the occasional vampire, sure, but I couldn't warn everyone not to say his name. Eric must have

been desperate; the vampire community kept mistakes like Bubba out of sight, though from time to time

he'd take it in his head to wander off on his own. Then you got a "sighting," and the tabloids went crazy.

"Maybe you could sit in my car while I work?" The cold wouldn't affect Bubba.

"I got to be closer than that," he said, and he sounded immovable.

"Okay, then, how about my boss's office? It's right off the bar, and you can hear me if I yell."

Bubba still didn't look satisfied, but finally, he nodded. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been

holding. It would be easiest for me to stay home, call in sick. However, not only did Sam expect me to

show up, but also, I needed the paycheck.

The car felt a little small with Bubba in the front seat beside me. As we bumped off my property,

through the woods and out to the parish road, I made a mental note to get the gravel company to come

dump some more gravel on my long, meandering driveway. Then I canceled that order, also mentally. I

couldn't afford that right now. It'd have to wait until spring. Or summer.

We turned right to drive the few miles to Merlotte's, the bar where I work as a waitress when I'm

not doing Heap Big Secret Stuff for the vampires. It occurred to me when we were about halfway there

that I hadn't seen a car Bubba could've used to drive to my house. Maybe he'd flown? Some vamps

could. Though Bubba was the least talented vampire I'd met, maybe he had a flair for it.

A year ago I would've asked him, but not now. I'm used to hanging around with the undead now.

Not that I'm a vampire. I'm a telepath. My life was hell on wheels until I met a man whose mind I couldn't

read. Unfortunately, I couldn't read his mind because he was dead. But Bill and I had been together for

several months now, and until recently, our relationship had been real good. And the other vampires need

me, so I'm safe—to a certain extent. Mostly. Sometimes.

Merlotte's didn't look too busy, judging from the half-empty parking lot. Sam had bought the bar

about five years ago. It had been failing—maybe because it had been cut out of the forest, which loomed

all around the parking lot. Or maybe the former owner just hadn't found the right combination of drinks,

food, and service.

Somehow, after he renamed the place and renovated it, Sam had turned balance sheets around.

He made a nice living off it now. But tonight was a Monday night, not a big drinking night in our neck of

the woods, which happened to be in northern Louisiana. I pulled around to the employee parking lot,

which was right in front of Sam Merlotte's trailer, which itself is behind and at right angles to the

employee entrance to the bar. I hopped out of the driver's seat, trotted through the storeroom, and

peeked through the glass pane in the door to check the short hall with its doors to the rest rooms and

Sam's office. Empty. Good. And when I knocked on Sam's door, he was behind his desk, which was

even better.

Sam is not a big man, but he's very strong. He's a strawberry blond with blue eyes, and he's

maybe three years older than my twenty-six. I've worked for him for about that many years. I'm fond of

Sam, and he's starred in some of my favorite fantasies; but since he dated a beautiful but homicidal

creature a couple of months before, my enthusiasm has somewhat faded. He's for sure my friend, though.

"'Scuse me, Sam," I said, smiling like an idiot.

"What's up?" He closed the catalog of bar supplies he'd been studying.

"I need to stash someone in here for a little while."

Sam didn't look altogether happy. "Who? Has Bill gotten back?"

"No, he's still traveling." My smile got even brighter. "But, um, they sent another vampire to sort

of guard me? And I need to stow him in here while I work, if that's okay with you."

"Why do you need to be guarded? And why can't he just sit out in the bar? We have plenty of

TrueBlood." TrueBlood was definitely proving to be the front-runner among competing blood

replacements. "Next best to the drink of life," its first ad had read, and vampires had responded to the ad

campaign.

I heard the tiniest of sounds behind me, and I sighed. Bubba had gotten impatient.

"Now, I asked you—" I began, starting to turn, but never got further. A hand grasped my

shoulder and whirled me around. I was facing a man I'd never seen before. He was cocking his fist to

punch me in the head.

Though the vampire blood I had ingested a few months ago (to save my life, let me point out) has

mostly worn off—I barely glow in the dark at all now—I'm still quicker than most people. I dropped and

rolled into the man's legs, which made him stagger, which made it easier for Bubba to grab him and crush

his throat.

I scrambled to my feet and Sam rushed out of his office. We stared at each other, Bubba, and

the dead man.

Well, now we were really in a pickle.

"I've kilt him," Bubba said proudly. "I saved you, Miss Sookie."

Having the Man from Memphis appear in your bar, realizing he's become a vampire, and

watching him kill a would-be assailant—well, that was a lot to absorb in a couple of minutes, even for

Sam, though he himself was more than he appeared.

"Well, so you have," Sam said to Bubba in a soothing voice. "Do you know who he was?"

I had never seen a dead man—outside of visitation at the local funeral home—until I'd started

dating Bill (who of course was technically dead, but I mean human dead people).

It seems I run across them now quite often. Lucky I'm not too squeamish.

This particular dead man had been in his forties, and every year of that had been hard. He had

tattoos all over his arms, mostly of the poor quality you get in jail, and he was missing some crucial teeth.

He was dressed in what I thought of as biker clothes: greasy blue jeans and a leather vest, with an

obscene T-shirt underneath.

"What's on the back of the vest?" Sam asked, as if that would have significance for him.

Bubba obligingly squatted and rolled the man to his side. The way the man's hand flopped at the

end of his arm made me feel pretty queasy. But I forced myself to look at the vest. The back was

decorated with a wolf's head insignia. The wolf was in profile, and seemed to be howling. The head was

silhouetted against a white circle, which I decided was supposed to be the moon. Sam looked even more

worried when he saw the insignia. "Werewolf," he said tersely. That explained a lot.

The weather was too chilly for a man wearing only a vest, if he wasn't a vampire. Weres ran a

little hotter than regular people, but mostly they were careful to wear coats in cold weather, since Were

society was still secret from the human race (except for lucky, lucky me, and probably a few hundred

others). I wondered if the dead man had left a coat out in the bar hanging on the hooks by the main

entrance; in which case, he'd been back here hiding in the men's room, waiting for me to appear. Or

maybe he'd come through the back door right after me. Maybe his coat was in his vehicle.

"You see him come in?" I asked Bubba. I was maybe just a little light-headed.

"Yes, ma'am. He must have been waiting in the big parking lot for you. He drove around the

corner, got out of his car, and went in the back just a minute after you did. You hightailed it through the

door, and then he went in. And I followed him. You mighty lucky you had me with you."

"Thank you, Bubba. You're right; I'm lucky to have you. I wonder what he planned to do with

me." I felt cold all over as I thought about it. Had he just been looking for a lone woman to grab, or did

he plan on grabbing me specifically? Then I realized that was dumb thinking. If Eric had been alarmed

enough to send a bodyguard, he must have known there was a threat, which pretty much ruled out me

being targeted at random. Without comment, Bubba strode out the back door. He returned in just a

minute.

"He's got him some duct tape and gags on the front seat of his car," Bubba said. "That's where

his coat is. I brought it to put under his head." He bent to arrange the heavily padded camouflage jacket

around the dead man's face and neck. Wrapping the head was a real good idea, since the man was

leaking a little bit. When he had finished his task, Bubba licked his fingers.

Sam put an arm around me because I had started shaking.

"This is strange, though," I was saying, when the door to the hall from the bar began to open. I

glimpsed Kevin Pryor's face. Kevin is a sweet guy, but he's a cop, and that's the last thing we needed.

"Sorry, toilet's back-flowing," I said, and pushed the door shut on his narrow, astonished, face.

"Listen, fellas, why don't I hold this door shut while you two take this guy and put him in his car? Then we

can figure out what to do with him." The floor of the hall would need swabbing. I discovered the hall door

actually locked. I'd never realized that.

Sam was doubtful. "Sookie, don't you think that we should call the police?" he asked.

A year ago I would have been on the phone dialing 911 before the corpse even hit the floor. But

that year had been one long learning curve. I caught Sam's eye and inclined my head toward Bubba.

"How do you think he'd handle jail?" I murmured. Bubba was humming the opening line to "Blue

Christmas." "Our hands are hardly strong enough to have done this," I pointed out.

After a moment of indecision, Sam nodded, resigned to the inevitable. "Okay, Bubba, let's you

and me tote this guy out to his car."

I ran to get a mop while the men—well, the vampire and the shape-shifter—carried Biker Boy

out the back door. By the time Sam and Bubba returned, bringing a gust of cold air in their wake, I had

mopped the hall and the men's bathroom (as I would if there really had been an overflow). I sprayed

some air freshener in the hall to improve the environment.

It was a good thing we'd acted quickly, because Kevin was pushing open the door as soon as I'd

unlocked it.

"Everything okay back here?" he asked. Kevin is a runner, so he has almost no body fat, and he's

not a big guy. He looks kind of like a sheep, and he still lives with his mom. But for all that, he's nobody's

fool. In the past, whenever I'd listened to his thoughts, they were either on police work, or his black

amazon of a partner, Kenya Jones. Right now, his thoughts ran more to the suspicious.

"I think we got it fixed," Sam said. "Watch your feet, we just mopped. Don't slip and sue me!"

He smiled at Kevin.

"Someone in your office?" Kevin asked, nodding his head toward the closed door.

"One of Sookie's friends," Sam said.

"I better get out there and hustle some drinks," I said cheerfully, beaming at them both. I reached

up to check that my ponytail was smooth, and then I made my Reeboks move. The bar was almost

empty, and the woman I was replacing (Charlsie Tooten) looked relieved. "This is one slow night," she

muttered to me. "The guys at table six have been nursing that pitcher for an hour, and Jane Bodehouse

has tried to pick up every man who's come in. Kevin's been writing something in a notebook all night."

I glanced at the only female customer in the bar, trying to keep the distaste off my face. Every

drinking establishment has its share of alcoholic customers, people who open and close the place. Jane

Bodehouse was one of ours. Normally, Jane drank by herself at home, but every two weeks or so she'd

take it into her head to come in and pick up a man. The pickup process was getting more and more iffy,

since not only was Jane in her fifties, but lack of regular sleep and proper nutrition had been taking a toll

for the past ten years.

This particular night, I noticed that when Jane had applied her makeup, she had missed the actual

perimeters of her eyebrows and lips. The result was pretty unsettling. We'd have to call her son to come

get her. I could tell at a glance she couldn't drive.

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[FrontTeaser][VersionHistory]CLUBDEADCharlaineHarrisBook3intheSouthernVampireSeriesAcemass-marketedition/May2003Copyright©2003byCharlaineHarris.ISBN:0-441-01051-2Thisbookisdedicatedtomymiddlechild,TimothySchulz,whotoldmeflatlyhewantedabookalltohimself.ACKNOWLEDGMENTSMythankstoLisaWeissenbuehler,Keri...

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