Charlaine Harris - Sookie Stackhouse 06 - Definitely Dead

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DEFINITELY DEAD Charlaine Harris
Obviously, this book was finished months before Hurricane Katrina struck
the Gulf Coast. Since much of the plot is set in New Orleans, I struggled with
whether I would leave Definitely Dead as it was, or include the catastrophe of
August and September. After much thought, since Sookie's visit takes place in
the early spring of the year, I decided to let the book remain as it was
originally written.
My heart goes out to the people of the beautiful city of New Orleans and to
all the people of the coastal areas of Mississippi, my home state. My thoughts
and prayers will be with you as you rebuild your homes and your lives.
Copyright © 2006 by Charlaine Harris Schulz.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to so many people: Jerrilyn Farmer's son's Latin teacher; Toni
L.P. Kelner and Steve Kelner, friends and sounding boards; Ivan Van Laningham,
who has both knowledge and opinions about many, many subjects; Dr. Stacy
Clanton, about whom I can say the same; Alexandre Dumas, author of the
fabulous The Three Musketeers, which everyone ought to read; Anne Rice, for
vampirizing New Orleans; and to the reader at Uncle Hugo's who guessed the
plot of this book in advance… hats off to you all!
Chapter 1
I was draped over the arm of one of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen,
and he was staring into my eyes.
"Think Brad Pitt," I whispered. The dark brown eyes still regarded me with
remote interest.
Okay, I was on the wrong track.
I pictured Claude's last lover, a bouncer at a strip joint.
"Think about Charles Bronson," I suggested. "Or, um, Edward James Olmos." I
was rewarded by the beginnings of a hot glow in those long-lashed eyes.
In a jiffy, you would've thought Claude was going to hike up my long
rustling skirt and yank down my low-cut push-up bodice and ravish me until I
begged for mercy. Unfortunately — for me, and all the other women of Louisiana
— Claude batted for another team. Bosomy and blond was not Claude's ideal;
tough, rough, and brooding, with maybe a little whisker stubble, was what lit
his fire.
"Maria-Star, reach in there and pull that lock of hair back," Alfred
Cumberland directed from behind the camera. The photographer was a heavyset
black man with graying hair and mustache. Maria-Star Cooper took a quick step
in front of the camera to rearrange a stray strand of my long blond hair. I
was bent backward over Claude's right arm, my invisible (to the camera,
anyway) left hand desperately clutching the back of his black frock coat, my
right arm raised to rest gently on his left shoulder. His left hand was at my
waist. I think the pose was meant to suggest that he was lowering me to the
ground to have his way with me.
Claude was wearing the black frock coat with black knee pants, white hose,
and a white frothy shirt. I was wearing a long blue dress with a billowing
skirt and a score of petticoats. As I've mentioned, the dress was scanty on
the topside, with the little sleeves pushed down off my shoulders. I was glad
the temperature in the studio was moderately warm. The big light (it looked to
my eyes like a satellite dish) was not as hot as I'd expected.
Al Cumberland was snapping away as Claude smoldered down at me. I did my
best to smolder right back. My personal life had been, shall we say, barren
for the past few weeks, so I was all too ready to smolder. In fact, I was
ready to burst into flames.
Maria-Star, who had beautiful light-toast skin and curly dark hair, was
standing ready with a big makeup case and brushes and combs to perform
last-minute repairs. When Claude and I had arrived at the studio, I'd been
surprised to find that I recognized the photographer's young assistant. I
hadn't seen Maria-Star since the Shreveport packleader had been chosen a few
weeks before. I hadn't had much of a chance to observe her then, since the
packmaster contest had been frightening and bloody. Today, I had the leisure
to see that Maria-Star had completely recovered from being hit by a car this
past January. Werewolves healed quickly.
Maria-Star had recognized me, too, and I'd been relieved when she smiled
back at me. My standing with the Shreveport pack was, to say the least,
uncertain. Without exactly volunteering to do so, I'd unwittingly thrown in my
lot with the unsuccessful contestant for the packleader's job. That
contestant's son, Alcide Herveaux, whom I'd counted as maybe more than a
friend, felt I'd let him down during the contest; the new packleader, Patrick
Furnan, knew I had ties to the Herveaux family. I'd been surprised when
Maria-Star chatted away while she was zipping the costume and brushing my
hair. She applied more makeup than I'd ever worn in my life, but when I stared
into the mirror I had to thank her. I looked great, though I didn't look like
Sookie Stackhouse.
If Claude hadn't been gay, he might have been impressed, too. He's the
brother of my friend Claudine, and he makes his living stripping on ladies'
night at Hooligans, a club he now owns. Claude is simply mouthwatering; six
feet tall, with rippling black hair and large brown eyes, a perfect nose, and
lips just full enough. He keeps his hair long to cover up his ears: they've
been surgically altered to look rounded like human ears, not pointed as they
originally were. If you're in the know supernaturally, you'll spot the ear
surgery, and you'll know Claude is a fairy. I'm not using the pejorative term
for his sexual orientation. I mean it literally; Claude's a fairy.
"Now the wind machine," Al instructed Maria-Star, and after a little
repositioning, she switched on a large fan. Now we appeared to be standing in
a gale. My hair billowed out in a blond sheet, though Claude's tied-back
ponytail stayed in place. After a few shots to capture that look, Maria-Star
unbound Claude's hair and directed it over one shoulder, so it would blow
forward to form a backdrop for his perfect profile.
"Wonderful," Al said, and snapped some more. Maria-Star moved the machine a
couple of times, causing the windstorm to strike from different directions.
Eventually Al told me I could stand up. I straightened gratefully.
"I hope that wasn't too hard on your arm," I told Claude, who was looking
cool and calm again.
"Nah, no problem. You have any fruit juice around?" he asked Maria-Star.
Claude was not Mr. Social Skills.
The pretty Were pointed to a little refrigerator in the corner of the
studio. "Cups are on the top," she told Claude. She followed him with her eyes
and sighed. Women frequently did that after they'd actually talked to Claude.
A "what a pity" sigh.
After checking to make sure her boss was still fiddling intently with his
gear, Maria-Star gave me a bright smile. Even though she was a Were, which
made her thoughts hard to read, I was picking up on the fact that she had
something she wanted to tell me… and she wasn't sure how I was going to take
it.
Telepathy is no fun. Your opinion of yourself suffers when you know what
others think of you. And telepathy makes it almost impossible to date regular
guys. Just think about it. (And remember, I'll know — if you are, or if you
aren't.)
"Alcide's had a hard time of it since his dad was defeated," Maria-Star
said, keeping her voice low. Claude was occupied with studying himself in a
mirror while he drank his juice. Al Cumberland had gotten a call on his cell
phone and retreated to his office to hold his conversation.
"I'm sure he has," I said. Since Jackson Herveaux's opponent had killed
him, it was only to be expected that Jackson's son was having his ups and his
downs. "I sent a memorial to the ASPCA, and I know they'll notify Alcide and
Janice," I said. (Janice was Alcide's younger sister, which made her a
non-Were. I wondered how Alcide had explained their father's death to his
sister.) In acknowledgment, I'd received a printed thank-you note, the kind
the funeral home gives you, without one personal word written on it.
"Well…" She seemed to be unable to spit it out, whatever was stuck in her
throat. I was getting a glimpse of the shape of it. Pain flickered through me
like a knife, and then I locked it down and pulled my pride around me. I'd
learned to do that all too early in life.
I picked an album of samples of Alfred's work and began to flip through
them, hardly looking at the photographs of brides and grooms, bar mitzvahs,
first communions, twenty-fifth wedding anniversaries. I closed that album and
laid it down. I was trying to look casual, but I don't think it worked.
With a bright smile that echoed Maria-Star's own expression, I said,
"Alcide and I weren't ever truly a couple, you know." I might have had
longings and hopes, but they'd never had a chance to ripen. The timing had
always been wrong.
Maria-Star's eyes, a much lighter brown than Claude's, widened in awe. Or
was it fear? "I heard you could do that," she said. "But it's hard to
believe."
"Yeah," I said wearily. "Well, I'm glad you and Alcide are dating, and I
have no right to mind, even if I did. Which I don't." That came out kind of
garbled (and it wasn't entirely true), but I think Maria-Star got my
intention: to save my face.
When I hadn't heard from Alcide in the weeks following his father's death,
I'd known that whatever feelings he'd had for me were quenched. That had been
a blow, but not a fatal one. Realistically, I hadn't expected anything more
from Alcide. But gosh darn it, I liked him, and it always smarts when you find
out you've been replaced with apparent ease. After all, before his dad's death
Alcide had suggested we live together. Now he was shacking up with this young
Were, maybe planning to have puppies with her.
I stopped that line of thought in its tracks. Shame on me! No point in
being a bitch. (Which, come to think of it, Maria-Star actually was, at least
three nights a month.)
Double shame on me.
"I hope you're very happy," I said.
She wordlessly handed me another album, this one stamped EYES only. When I
opened it, I realized that the Eyes were supernatural. Here were pictures of
ceremonies humans never got to see… a vampire couple dressed in elaborate
costume, posed before a giant ankh; a young man in the middle of changing into
a bear, presumably for the first time; a shot of a Were pack with all its
members in wolf form. Al Cumberland, photographer of the weird. No wonder he
had been Claude's first choice for his pictures, which Claude hoped would
launch him on a cover-model career.
"Next shot," called Al, as he bustled out of his office, snapping his phone
shut. "Maria-Star, we just got booked for a double wedding in Miss
Stackhouse's neck of the woods." I wondered if he'd been engaged for regular
human work or for a supernatural event, but it would be rude to ask.
Claude and I got up close and personal again. Following Al's instructions,
I pulled up the skirt to display my legs. In the era my dress represented, I
didn't think women tanned or shaved their legs, and I was brown and smooth as
a baby's bottom. But what the hey. Probably guys hadn't walked around with
their shirts unbuttoned, either.
"Raise your leg like you're going to wrap it around him," Alfred directed.
"Now Claude, this is your chance to shine. Look like you're going to pull your
pants off at any second. We want the readers to pant when they look at you!"
Claude's portfolio of shots would be used when he entered the Mr. Romance
competition, orchestrated each year by Romantic Times Bookclub magazine.
When he'd shared his ambition with Al (I gathered they'd met at a party),
Al had advised Claude to have some pictures made with the sort of woman that
often appeared on the cover of romance novels; he'd told the fairy that
Claude's dark looks would be set off by a blue-eyed blonde. I happened to be
the only bosomy blonde of Claude's acquaintance who was willing to help him
for free. Of course, Claude knew some strippers who would have done it, but
they expected to be paid. With his usual tact, Claude had told me this on our
way to the photographer's studio. Claude could have kept these details to
himself, which would have left me feeling good about helping out my friend's
brother — but in typical Claude fashion, he shared.
"Okay, Claude, now off with the shirt," Alfred called.
Claude was used to being asked to take off his clothes. He had a broad,
hairless chest with impressive musculature, so he looked very nice indeed
without his shirt. I was unmoved. Maybe I was becoming immune.
"Skirt, leg," Alfred reminded me, and I told myself that this was a job. Al
and Maria-Star were certainly professional and impersonal, and you couldn't
get cooler than Claude. But I wasn't used to pulling my skirt up in front of
people, and it felt pretty personal to me. Though I showed this much leg when
I wore shorts and never raised a blush, somehow the pulling up of the long
skirt was a little more loaded with sexuality. I clenched my teeth and hiked
up the material, tucking it at intervals so it would stay in position.
"Miss Stackhouse, you have to look like you're enjoying this," Al said. He
peered at me from around his camera, his forehead creased in a definitely
unhappy way.
I tried not to sulk. I'd told Claude I'd do him a favor, and favors should
be done willingly. I raised my leg so my thigh was parallel with the floor,
and pointed my bare toes to the floor in what I hoped was a graceful position.
I put both hands on Claude's naked shoulders and looked up at him. His skin
felt warm and smooth to the touch — not erotic or arousing.
"You look bored, Miss Stackhouse," Alfred said. "You're supposed to look
like you want to jump his bones. Maria-Star, make her look more… more." Maria
darted over to push the little puff sleeves farther down my arms. She got a
little too enthusiastic, and I was glad the bodice was tight.
The fact of the matter was, Claude could look beautiful and bare all day
long, and I still wouldn't want him. He was grumpy and he had bad manners.
Even if he'd been hetero, he wouldn't have been my cup of tea — after I'd had
ten minutes' conversation with him.
Like Claude earlier, I'd have to resort to fantasy.
I thought of Bill the vampire, my first love in every way. But instead of
lust, I felt anger. Bill was dating another woman, had been for a few weeks.
Okay, what about Eric, Bill's boss, the former Viking? Eric the vampire had
shared my house and my bed for a few days in January. Nope, that way lay
danger. Eric knew a secret I wanted to keep hidden for the rest of my days;
though, since he'd had amnesia when he'd stayed at my place, he wasn't aware
it was in his memory somewhere.
A few other faces popped into my mind — my boss, Sam Merlotte, the owner of
Merlotte's Bar. No, don't go there, thinking about your boss naked is bad.
Okay, Alcide Herveaux? Nope, that was a no-go, especially since I was in the
company of his current girlfriend… Okay, I was clean out of fantasy material
and would have to fall back on one of my old fictional favorites.
But movie stars seemed bland after the supernatural world I'd inhabited
since Bill came into Merlotte's. The last remotely erotic experience I'd had,
oddly enough, had involved my bleeding leg getting licked. That had been…
unsettling. But even under the circumstances, it had made things deep inside
me twitch. I remembered how Quinn's bald head had moved while he cleaned my
scrape in a very personal way, the firm grip his big warm fingers had had on
my leg…
"That'll do," Alfred said, and began snapping away. Claude put his hand on
my bare thigh when he could feel my muscles begin to tremble from the effort
of holding the position. Once again, a man had a hold of my leg. Claude
gripped my thigh enough to give it some support. That helped considerably, but
it wasn't a bit erotic.
"Now some bed shots," Al said, just when I'd decided I couldn't stand it
any more.
"No," Claude and I said in chorus.
"But that's part of the package," Al said. "You don't need to undress, you
know. I don't do that kind of picture. My wife would kill me. You just lie
down on the bed like you are. Claude hikes up on one elbow and looks down at
you, Miss Stackhouse."
"No," I said firmly. "Take some pictures of him standing by himself in the
water. That would be better." There was a fake pond over in the corner, and
shots of Claude, apparently naked, dripping water over his bare chest, would
be extremely appealing (to any woman who hadn't actually met him).
"How does that grab you, Claude?" Al asked.
Claude's narcissism chimed in. "I think that would be great, Al," he said,
trying not to sound too excited.
I started for the changing room, eager to shed the costume and get back
into my regular jeans. I glanced around for a clock. I was due at work at
five-thirty, and I had to drive back to Bon Temps and grab my work uniform
before I went to Merlotte's.
Claude called, "Thanks, Sookie."
"Sure, Claude. Good luck with the modeling contracts." But he was already
admiring himself in a mirror.
Maria-Star saw me out. "Goodbye, Sookie. It was good to see you again."
"You, too," I lied. Even through the reddish twisted passages of a Were
mind, I could see that Maria-Star couldn't understand why I would pass up
Alcide. After all, the Were was handsome in a rugged way, an entertaining
companion, and a hot-blooded male of the heterosexual persuasion. Also, he now
owned his own surveying company and was a wealthy man in his own right.
The answer popped into my head and I spoke before I thought. "Is anyone
still looking for Debbie Pelt?" I asked, much the same way you poke a sore
tooth. Debbie had been Alcide's longtime on-again, off-again lover. She'd been
a piece of work.
"Not the same people," Maria-Star said. Her expression darkened. Maria-Star
didn't like thinking about Debbie any more than I did, though doubtless for
different reasons. "The detectives the Pelt family hired gave up, said they'd
be fleecing the family if they'd kept on. That's what I heard. The police
didn't exactly say it, but they'd reached a dead end, too. I've only met the
Pelts once, when they came over to Shreveport right after Debbie disappeared.
They're a pretty savage couple." I blinked. This was a fairly drastic
statement, coming from a Were.
"Sandra, their daughter, is the worst. She was nuts about Debbie, and for
her sake they're still consulting people, some way-out people. Myself, I think
Debbie got abducted. Or maybe she killed herself. When Alcide abjured her,
maybe she lost it big-time."
"Maybe," I murmured, but without conviction.
"He's better off. I hope she stays missing," Maria-Star said.
My opinion had been the same, but unlike Maria-Star, I knew exactly what
had happened to Debbie; that was the wedge that had pushed Alcide and me
apart.
"I hope he never sees her again," Maria-Star said, her pretty face dark and
showing a little bit of her own savage side.
Alcide might be dating Maria-Star, but he hadn't confided in her fully.
Alcide knew for a fact that he would never see Debbie again. And that was my
fault, okay?
I'd shot her dead.
I'd more or less made my peace with my act, but the stark fact of it kept
popping back up. There's no way you can kill someone and get to the other side
of the experience unchanged. The consequences alter your life.
Two priests walked into the bar.
This sounds like the opening of a million jokes. But these priests didn't
have a kangaroo with them, and there was not a rabbi sitting at the bar, or a
blonde, either. I'd seen plenty of blondes, one kangaroo in a zoo, no rabbis.
However, I'd seen these two priests plenty of times before. They had a
standing appointment to have dinner together every other week.
Father Dan Riordan, clean shaven and ruddy, was the Catholic priest who
came to the little Bon Temps church once a week on Saturday to celebrate mass,
and Father Kempton Littrell, pale and bearded, was the Episcopal priest who
held Holy Eucharist in the tiny Episcopal church in Clarice once every two
weeks.
"Hello, Sookie," Father Riordan said. He was Irish; really Irish, not just
of Irish extraction. I loved to hear him talk. He wore thick glasses with
black frames, and he was in his forties.
"Evening, Father. And hi to you, Father Littrell. What can I get you all?"
"I'd like Scotch on the rocks, Miss Sookie. And you, Kempton?"
"Oh, I'll just have a beer. And a basket of chicken strips, please." The
Episcopal priest wore gold-rimmed glasses, and he was younger than Father
Riordan. He had a conscientious heart.
"Sure." I smiled at the two of them. Since I could read their thoughts, I
knew them both to be genuinely good men, and that made me happy. It's always
disconcerting to hear the contents of a minister's head and find out they're
no better than you, and not only that, they're not trying to be.
Since it was full dark outside, I wasn't surprised when Bill Compton walked
in. I couldn't say the same for the priests. The churches of America hadn't
come to grips with the reality of vampires. To call their policies confused
was putting it mildly. The Catholic Church was at this moment holding a
convocation to decide whether the church would declare all vampires damned and
anathema to Catholics, or accept them into the fold as potential converts. The
Episcopal Church had voted against accepting vampires as priests, though they
were allowed to take communion — but a substantial slice of the laity said
that would be over their dead bodies. Unfortunately, most of them didn't
comprehend how possible that was.
Both the priests watched unhappily as Bill gave me a quick kiss on the
cheek and settled at his favorite table. Bill barely gave them a glance, but
unfolded his newspaper and began to read. He always looked serious, as if he
were studying the financial pages or the news from Iraq; but I knew he read
the advice columns first, and then the comics, though he often didn't get the
jokes.
Bill was by himself, which was a nice change. Usually, he brought the
lovely Selah Pumphrey. I loathed her. Since Bill had been my first love and my
first lover, maybe I would never be completely over him. Maybe he didn't want
me to be. He did seem to drag Selah into Merlotte's every single date they
had. I figured he was waving her in my face. Not exactly what you did if you
didn't care any more, huh?
Without his having to ask, I took him his favorite beverage, TrueBlood type
O. I set it neatly in front of him on a napkin, and I'd turned to go when a
cool hand touched my arm. His touch always jolted me; maybe it always would.
Bill had always made it clear I aroused him, and after a lifetime of no
relationships and no sex, I began walking tall when Bill made it clear he
found me attractive. Other men had looked at me as if I'd become more
interesting, too. Now I knew why people thought about sex so much; Bill had
given me a thorough education.
"Sookie, stay for a moment." I looked down into brown eyes, which looked
all the darker in Bill's white face. His hair was brown, too, smooth and
sleek. He was slim and broad-shouldered, his arms hard with muscles, like the
farmer he had been. "How have you been?"
"I'm fine," I said, trying not to sound surprised. It wasn't often Bill
passed the time of day; small talk wasn't his strong point. Even when we'd
been a couple, he had not been what you'd call chatty. And even a vampire can
be a workaholic; Bill had become a computer geek. "Have things been well with
you?"
"Yes. When will you go to New Orleans to claim your inheritance?"
Now I was truly startled. (This is possible because I can't read vampire
minds. That's why I like vampires so much. It's wonderful to be with someone
who's a mystery to me.) My cousin had been murdered almost six weeks ago in
New Orleans, and Bill had been with me when the Queen of Louisiana's emissary
had come to tell me about it… and to deliver the murderer to me for my
judgment. "I guess I'll go through Hadley's apartment sometime in the next
month or so. I haven't talked to Sam about taking the time off."
"I'm sorry you lost your cousin. Have you been grieving?"
I hadn't seen Hadley in years, and it would have been stranger than I can
say to see her after she'd become a vampire. But as a person with very few
living relations, I hated to lose even one. "A bit," I said.
"You don't know when you might go?"
"I haven't decided. You remember her lawyer, Mr. Cataliades? He said he'd
tell me when the will had gone through probate. He promised to keep the place
intact for me, and when the queen's counselor tells you the place'll be
intact, you have to believe it'll be untouched. I haven't really been too
interested, to tell you the truth."
"I might go with you when you head to New Orleans, if you don't mind having
a traveling companion."
"Gee," I said, with just a dash of sarcasm, "Won't Selah mind? Or were you
going to bring her, too?" That would make for a merry trip.
"No." And he closed down. You just couldn't get anything out of Bill when
he was holding his mouth like that, I knew from experience. Okay, color me
confused.
"I'll let you know," I said, trying to figure him out. Though it was
painful to be in Bill's company, I trusted him. Bill would never harm me. He
wouldn't let anyone else harm me, either. But there's more than one kind of
harm.
"Sookie," Father Littrell called, and I hurried away.
I glanced back to catch Bill smiling, a small smile with a lot of
satisfaction packed into it. I wasn't sure what it meant, but I liked to see
Bill smile. Maybe he was hoping to revive our relationship?
Father Littrell said, "We weren't sure if you wanted to be interrupted or
not." I looked down at him, confused.
"We were a tad concerned to see you consorting with the vampire for so
long, and so intently," Father Riordan said. "Was the imp of hell trying to
bring you under his spell?"
Suddenly his Irish accent wasn't charming at all. I looked at Father
Riordan quizzically. "You're joking, right? You know Bill and I dated for a
good while. Obviously, you don't know much about imps from hell if you believe
Bill's anything like one." I'd seen things much darker than Bill in and about
our fair town of Bon Temps. Some of those things had been human. "Father
Riordan, I understand my own life. I understand the nature of vampires better
than you ever will. Father Littrell," I said, "you want honey mustard or
ketchup with your chicken strips?"
Father Littrell chose honey mustard, in a kind of dazed way. I walked away,
working to shrug the little incident off, wondering what the two priests would
do if they knew what had happened in this bar a couple of months before when
the bar's clientele had ganged up to rid me of someone who was trying to kill
me.
Since that someone had been a vampire, they'd probably have approved.
Before he left, Father Riordan came over to "have a word" with me. "Sookie,
I know you're not real happy with me at the moment, but I need to ask you
something on behalf of someone else. If I've made you less inclined to listen
by my behavior, please ignore that and give these people the same
consideration you would have."
I sighed. At least Father Riordan tried to be a good man. I nodded
reluctantly.
"Good girl. A family in Jackson has contacted me…"
All my alarms started going off. Debbie Pelt was from Jackson.
"The Pelt family, I know you've heard of them. They're still searching for
news of their daughter, who vanished in January. Debbie, her name was. They
called me because their priest knows me, knows I serve the Bon Temps
congregation. The Pelts would like to come to see you, Sookie. They want to
talk to everyone who saw their daughter the night she vanished, and they
feared if they just showed up on your doorstep, you might not see them.
They're afraid you're angry because their private detectives have interviewed
you, and the police have talked to you, and maybe you might be indignant about
all that."
"I don't want to see them," I said. "Father Riordan, I've told everything I
know." That was true. I just hadn't told it to the police or the Pelts. "I
don't want to talk about Debbie any more." That was also true, very true.
"Tell them, with all due respect, there's nothing left to talk about."
"I'll tell them," he said. "But I've got to say, Sookie, I'm disappointed."
"Well, I guess it's been a bad night for me all around," I said. "Losing
your good opinion, and all."
He left without another word, which was exactly what I'd wanted.
Chapter 2
It was close to closing time the next night when another odd thing
happened. Just as Sam gave us the signal to start telling our customers this
would be their last drink, someone I thought I'd never see again came into
Merlotte's.
He moved quietly for such a large man. He stood just inside the door,
looking around for a free table, and I noticed him because of the quick gleam
of the dim bar light on his shaven head. He was very tall, and very wide, with
a proud nose and big white teeth. He had full lips and an olive complexion,
and he was wearing a sort of bronze sports jacket over a black shirt and
slacks. Though he would have looked more natural in motorcycle boots, he was
wearing polished loafers.
"Quinn," Sam said quietly. His hands became still, though he'd been in the
middle of mixing a Tom Collins. "What is he doing here?"
"I didn't know you knew him," I said, feeling my face flush as I realized
I'd been thinking about the bald man only the day before. He'd been the one
who'd cleaned the blood from my leg with his tongue — an interesting
experience.
"Everyone in my world knows Quinn," Sam said, his face neutral. "But I'm
surprised you've met him, since you're not a shifter." Unlike Quinn, Sam's not
a big man; but he's very strong, as shifters tend to be, and his curly
red-gold hair haloes his head in an angelic way.
"I met Quinn at the contest for packmaster," I said. "He was the, ah,
emcee." Naturally, Sam and I had talked about the change of leadership in the
Shreveport pack. Shreveport isn't too far from Bon Temps, and what the Weres
do is pretty important if you're any kind of a shifter.
A true shape-shifter, like Sam, can change into anything, though each
shape-shifter has a favorite animal. And to confuse the issue, all those who
can change from human form to animal form call themselves shape-shifters,
though very few possess Sam's versatility. Shifters who can change to only one
animal are were-animals: weretigers (like Quinn), werebears, werewolves. The
wolves are the only ones who call themselves simply Weres, and they consider
themselves superior in toughness and culture to any of the other
shape-shifters.
Weres are also the most numerous subset of shifters, though compared to the
total vampire population, there are mighty few of them. There are several
reasons for this. The Were birthrate is low, infant mortality is higher than
in the general population of humans, and only the first child born of a pure
Were couple becomes a full Were. That happens during puberty — as if puberty
weren't bad enough already.
Shape-shifters are very secretive. It's a hard habit to break, even around
a sympathetic and strange human like me. The shifters have not come into the
public view yet, and I'm learning about their world in little increments.
Even Sam has many secrets that I don't know, and I count him as a friend.
Sam turns into a collie, and he often visits me in that form. (Sometimes he
sleeps on the rug by my bed.)
I'd only seen Quinn in his human form.
I hadn't mentioned Quinn when I told Sam about the fight between Jackson
Herveaux and Patrick Furnan for the Shreveport pack leadership. Sam was
frowning at me now, displeased that I'd kept it from him, but I hadn't done it
purposely. I glanced back at Quinn. He'd lifted his nose a little. He was
sampling the air, following a scent. Who was he trailing?
When Quinn went unerringly to a table in my section, despite the many empty
ones in the closer section that Arlene was working, I knew he was trailing me.
Okay, mixed feelings on that.
I glanced sideways at Sam to get his reaction. I had trusted him for five
years now, and he had never failed me.
Now Sam nodded at me. He didn't look happy, though. "Go see what he wants,"
he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl.
I got more and more nervous the closer I came to the new customer. I could
feel my cheeks redden. Why was I getting so flustered?
"Hello, Mr. Quinn," I said. It would be stupid to pretend I didn't
recognize him. "What can I get you? I'm afraid we're about to close, but I
have time to serve you a beer or a drink."
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if he were inhaling me. "I'd
recognize you in a pitch-black room," he said, and he smiled at me. It was a
broad and beautiful smile.
I looked off in another direction, pinching back the involuntary grin that
rose to my lips. I was acting sort of… shy.
I never acted shy. Or maybe coy would be a better term, and one I disliked.
"I guess I should say thank you," I ventured cautiously. "That's a
compliment?"
"Intended as one. Who's the dog behind the bar who's giving me the
stay-away look?"
He meant dog as a statement of fact, not as a derogatory term.
"That's my boss, Sam Merlotte."
"He has an interest in you."
"I should hope so. I've worked for him for round about five years."
"Hmmm. How about a beer?"
"Sure. What kind?"
"Bud."
"Coming right up," I said, and turned to go. I knew he watched me all the
way to the bar because I could feel his gaze. And I knew from his mind, though
his was a closely guarded shifter mind, that he was watching me with
admiration.
"What does he want?" Sam looked almost… bristly. If he'd been in dog form,
the hair on his back would have been standing up.
"A Bud," I said.
Sam scowled at me. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."
I shrugged. I had no idea what Quinn wanted.
Sam slammed the full glass down on the bar right by my fingers, making me
jump. I gave him a steady look to make sure he noted that I'd been displeased,
and then I took the beer to Quinn.
Quinn gave me the cost of the beer and a good tip — not a ridiculously high
one, which would have made me feel bought — which I slipped into my pocket. I
began making the rounds of my other tables. "You visiting someone in this
area?" I asked Quinn as I passed him on my way back from clearing another
table. Most of the patrons were paying up and drifting out of Merlotte's.
There was an afterhours place that Sam pretended he didn't know about, way out
in the country, but most of the Merlotte's regulars would be going home to
bed. If a bar could be family-oriented, Merlotte's was.
"Yes," he said. "You."
That left me with nowhere to go, conversationally.
I kept on going and unloaded the glasses from my tray so absently that I
almost dropped one. I couldn't think of when I'd been so flustered.
"Business or personal?" I asked, the next time I was close.
"Both," he said.
A little of the pleasure drained away when I heard about the business part,
but I was left with a sharpened attention… and that was a good thing. You
needed all your wits honed when you dealt with the supes. Supernatural beings
had goals and desires that regular people didn't fathom. I knew that, since
for my entire life I have been the unwilling repository for human, "normal,"
goals and desires.
When Quinn was one of the few people left in the bar — besides the other
barmaids and Sam — he stood and looked at me expectantly. I went over, smiling
brightly, as I do when I'm tense. I was interested to find that Quinn was
almost equally tense. I could feel the tightness in his brain pattern.
"I'll see you at your house, if that's agreeable to you." He looked down at
me seriously. "If that makes you nervous, we can meet somewhere else. But I
want to talk to you tonight, unless you're exhausted."
That had been put politely enough. Arlene and Danielle were trying hard not
to stare — well, they were trying hard to stare when Quinn wouldn't catch them
— but Sam had turned his back to fiddle around with something behind the bar,
ignoring the other shifter. He was behaving very badly.
Quickly I processed Quinn's request. If he came out to my house, I'd be at
his mercy. I live in a remote place. My nearest neighbor is my ex, Bill, and
he lives clear across the cemetery. On the other hand, if Quinn had been a
regular date of mine, I'd let him take me home without a second thought. From
what I could catch from his thoughts, he meant me no harm.
"All right," I said, finally. He relaxed, and smiled his big smile at me
again.
I whisked his empty glass away and became aware that three pairs of eyes
were watching me disapprovingly. Sam was disgruntled, and Danielle and Arlene
couldn't understand why anyone would prefer me to them, though Quinn gave even
those two experienced barmaids pause. Quinn gave off a whiff of otherness that
must be perceptible to even the most prosaic human. "I'll be through in just a
minute," I said.
"Take your time."
I finished filling the little china rectangle on each table with packages
of sugar and sweetener. I made sure the napkin holders were full and checked
the salt and pepper shakers. I was soon through. I gathered my purse from
Sam's office and called good-bye to him.
Quinn pulled out to follow me in a dark green pickup truck. Under the
parking lot lights, the truck looked brand spanking new, with gleaming tires
and hubcaps, an extended cab, and a covered bed. I'd bet good money it was
loaded with options. Quinn's truck was the fanciest vehicle I'd seen in a long
time. My brother, Jason, would have drooled, and he's got pink and aqua swirls
painted on the side of his truck.
I drove south on Hummingbird Road and turned left into my driveway. After
following the drive through two acres of woods, I reached the clearing where
our old family home stood. I'd turned the outside lights on before I left, and
there was a security light on the electric pole that was automatic, so the
clearing was well lit. I pulled around back to park behind the house, and
Quinn parked right beside me.
He got out of his truck and looked around him. The security light showed
him a tidy yard. The driveway was in excellent repair, and I'd recently
repainted the tool shed in the back. There was a propane tank, which no amount
of landscaping could disguise, but my grandmother had planted plenty of flower
beds to add to the ones my family had established over the
hundred-and-fifty-odd years the family had lived here. I'd lived on this land,
in this house, from age seven, and I loved it.
There's nothing grand about my home. It started out as a family farmhouse
and it's been enlarged and remodeled over the years. I keep it clean, and I
try to keep the yard in good trim. Big repairs are beyond my skills, but Jason
sometimes helps me out. He hadn't been happy when Gran left me the house and
摘要：

DEFINITELYDEADCharlaineHarrisObviously,thisbookwasfinishedmonthsbeforeHurricaneKatrinastrucktheGulfCoast.SincemuchoftheplotissetinNewOrleans,IstruggledwithwhetherIwouldleaveDefinitelyDeadasitwas,orincludethecatastropheofAugustandSeptember.Aftermuchthought,sinceSookie'svisittakesplaceintheearlyspring...

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