Definitely Dead

Chapter 10

They didn't even rate the front page. They were in the local section of the Shreveport paper, below the fold. JAILHOUSE HOMICIDES, the headline read. I sighed.

Two juveniles awaiting transport from the holding cells to the Juvenile Facility were killed last night sometime after midnight.

The newspaper was delivered every morning to the special box at the end of my driveway, right beside my mailbox. But it was getting dark by the time I saw the article, while I was sitting in my car, about to pull out onto Hummingbird Road and go to work. I hadn't ventured out today until now. Sleeping, laundry, and a little gardening had taken up my day. No one had called, and no one had visited, just like the ads said. I'd thought Quinn might phone, just to check up on my little injuries… but not.

The two juveniles, brought into the police station on charges of assault and battery, were put in one of the holding cells to wait for the morning bus to arrive from the Juvenile Facility. The holding cell for juvenile offenders is out of sight from that for adult offenders, and the two were the only juveniles incarcerated during the night. At some point, the two were strangled by a person or persons unknown. No other prisoners were harmed, and all denied seeing any suspicious activity. Both the youths had extensive juvenile records. "They had had many encounters with the police," a source close to the investigation said.

"We're going to look into this thoroughly," said Detective Dan Coughlin, who had responded to the original complaint and was heading the investigation of the incident for which the youths were apprehended. "They were arrested after allegedly attacking a couple in a bizarre manner, and their deaths are equally bizarre." His partner, Cal Myers, added, "Justice will be done."

I found that especially ominous.

Tossing the paper on the seat beside me, I pulled my sheaf of mail out of the mailbox and added it to the little pile. I'd sort through it after my shift at Merlotte's.

I was in a thoughtful mood when I got to the bar. Preoccupied with the fate of the two assailants of the night before, I hardly flinched when I found that I would be working with Sam's new employee. Tanya was as bright-eyed and efficient as I'd found her previously. Sam was very happy with her; in fact, the second time he told me how pleased he was, I told him a little sharply that I'd already heard about it.

I was glad to see Bill come in and sit at a table in my section. I wanted an excuse to walk away, before I would have to respond to the question forming in Sam's head: Why don't you like Tanya?

I don't expect to like everyone I meet, any more than I expect everyone to like me. But I usually have a basis for disliking an individual, and it's more than an unspecified distrust and vague distaste. Though Tanya was some kind of shape-shifter, I should have been able to read her and learn enough to either confirm or disprove my instinctive suspicion. But I couldn't read Tanya. I'd get a word here and there, like a radio station that's fading out. You'd think I'd be glad to find someone my own age and sex who could perhaps become a friend. Instead, I was disturbed when I realized she was a closed book. Oddly, Sam hadn't said a word about her essential nature. He hadn't said, "Oh, she's a weremole," or "She's a true shifter, like me," or anything like that.

I was in a troubled mood when I strode over to take Bill's order. My bad mood compounded when I saw Selah Pumphrey standing in the doorway scanning the crowd, probably trying to locate Bill. I said a few bad words to myself, turned on my heel, and walked away. Very unprofessional.

Selah was staring at me when I glanced at their table after a while. Arlene had gone over to take their order. I simply listened to Selah; I was in a rude mood. She was wondering why Bill always wanted to meet her here, when the natives were obviously hostile. She couldn't believe that a discerning and sophisticated man like Bill could ever have dated a barmaid. And the way she'd heard it, I hadn't even gone to college, and furthermore, my grandmother had gotten murdered.

That made me sleazy, I guess.

I try to take things like this with a grain of salt. After all, I could have shielded myself pretty effectively from these thoughts. People who eavesdrop seldom hear good about themselves, right? An old adage, and a true one. I told myself (about six times in row) that I had no business listening to her, that it would be too drastic a reaction to go slap her upside the head or snatch her baldheaded. But the anger swelled in me, and I couldn't seem to get it under control. I put three beers down on the table in front of Catfish, Dago, and Hoyt with unnecessary force. They looked up at me simultaneously in astonishment.

"We do something wrong, Sook?" Catfish said. "Or is it just your time of the month?"

"You didn't do anything," I said. And it wasn't my time of the month—oh. Yes, it was. I'd had the warning with the ache in my back, the heaviness in my stomach, and my swollen fingers. My little friend had come to visit, and I felt the sensation even as I realized what was contributing to my general irritation.

I glanced over at Bill and caught him staring at me, his nostrils flaring. He could smell the blood. A wave of acute embarrassment rolled over me, turning my face red. For a second, I glimpsed naked hunger on his face, and then he wiped his features clean of all expression.

If he wasn't weeping with unrequited love on my doorstep, at least he was suffering a little. A tiny pleased smile was on my lips when I glimpsed myself in the mirror behind the bar.

A second vampire came in an hour later. She looked at Bill for a second, nodded to him, and then sat at a table in Arlene's section. Arlene hustled over to take the vamp's order. They spoke for a minute, but I was too busy to check in on them. Besides, I'd just have heard the vamp filtered through Arlene, since vampires are silent as the grave (ho ho) to me. The next thing I knew, Arlene was wending her way through the crowd to me.

"The dead gal wants to talk to you," she said, not moderating her voice in the least, and heads turned in our direction. Arlene is not long on subtlety—or tact, for that matter.

After I made sure all my customers were happy, I went to the vamp's table. "What can I do for you?" I asked, in the lowest voice I could manage. I knew the vamp could hear me; their hearing is phenomenal, and their vision is not far behind in acuity.

"You're Sookie Stackhouse?" asked the vamp. She was very tall, just under six feet, and she was of some racial blend that had turned out awfully well. Her skin was a golden color, and her hair was thick and coarse and dark. She'd had it cornrowed, and her arms were weighed down with jewelry. Her clothes, in contrast, were simple; she wore a severely tailored white blouse with long sleeves, and black leggings with black sandals.

"Yes," I said. "Can I help you?" She was looking at me with an expression I could only identify as doubtful.

"Pam sent me here," she said. "My name is Felicia." Her voice was as lilting and exotic as her appearance. It made you think about rum drinks and beaches.

"How-de-do, Felicia," I said politely. "I hope Pam is well."

Since vampires don't have variable health, this was a stumper for Felicia. "She seems all right," the vamp said uncertainly. "She has sent me here to identify myself to you."

"Okay, I know you now," I said, just as confused as Felicia had been.

"She said you had a habit of killing the bartenders of Fangtasia," Felicia said, her lovely doe eyes wide with amazement. "She said I must come to beg your mercy. But you just seem like a human, to me."

That Pam. "She was just teasing you," I said as gently as I could. I didn't think Felicia was the sharpest tool in the shed. Super hearing and super strength do not equal super intelligence. "Pam and I are friends, sort of, and she likes to embarrass me. I guess she likes to do the same thing to you, Felicia. I have no intention of harming anyone." Felicia looked skeptical. "It's true, I have a bad history with the bartenders of Fangtasia, but that's just, ah, coincidence," I babbled on. "And I am really, truly just a human."

After chewing that over for a moment, Felicia looked relieved, which made her even prettier. Pam often had multiple reasons for doing something, and I found myself wondering if she'd sent Felicia here so I could observe her attractions—which of course would be obvious to Eric. Pam might be trying to stir up trouble. She hated a dull life.

"You go back to Shreveport and have a good time with your boss," I said, trying to sound kind.

"Eric?" the lovely vampire said. She seemed startled. "He's good to work for, but I'm not a lover of men."

I glanced over at my tables, not only checking to see if anyone urgently needed a drink, but to see who'd picked up on that line of dialogue. Hoyt's tongue was practically hanging out, and Catfish looked as though he'd been caught in the headlights. Dago was happily shocked. "So, Felicia, how'd you end up in Shreveport, if you don't mind me asking?" I turned my attention back to the new vamp.

"Oh, my friend Indira asked me to come. She said servitude with Eric is not so bad." Felicia shrugged, to show how "not so bad" it was. "He doesn't demand sexual services if the woman is not so inclined, and he asks in return only a few hours in the bar and special chores from time to time."

"So he has a reputation as a good boss?"

"Oh, yes." Felicia looked almost surprised. "He's no softie, of course."

Softie was not a word you could use in the same sentence as Eric.

"And you can't cross him. He doesn't forgive that," she continued thoughtfully. "But as long as you fulfill your obligations to him, he'll do the same for you."

I nodded. That more or less fit with my impression of Eric, and I knew Eric very well in some respects… though not at all in others.

"This will be much better than Arkansas," Felicia said.

"Why'd you leave Arkansas?" I asked, because I just couldn't help it. Felicia was the simplest vampire I'd ever met.

"Peter Threadgill," she said. "The king. He just married your queen."

Sophie-Anne Leclerq of Louisiana was by no means my queen, but out of curiosity, I wanted to continue the conversation.

"What's so wrong with Peter Threadgill?"

That was a poser for Felicia. She mulled it over. "He holds grudges," she said, frowning. "He's never pleased with what he has. It's not enough that he's the oldest, strongest vampire in the state. Once he became king—and he'd schemed for years to work his way up to it—he still wasn't content. There was something wrong with the state, you see?"

"Like, 'Any state that would have me for a king isn't a good state to be king of?"

"Exactly," Felicia said, as if I were very clever to think of such a phrase. "He negotiated with Louisiana for months and months, and even Jade Flower got tired of hearing about the queen. Then she finally agreed to the alliance. After a week of celebrating, the king grew sullen again. Suddenly, that wasn't good enough. She had to love him. She had to give up everything for him." Felicia shook her head at the vagaries of royalty.

"So it wasn't a love match?"

"That's the last thing vampire kings and queens marry for," Felicia said. "Now he is having his visit with the queen in New Orleans, and I'm glad I'm at the other end of the state."

I didn't grasp the concept of a married couple visiting, but I was sure that sooner or later I'd understand.

I would have been interested in hearing more, but it was time for me to get back to my section and work. "Thanks for visiting, Felicia, and don't worry about a thing. I'm glad you're working for Eric," I said.

Felicia smiled at me, a dazzling and toothy experience. "I'm glad you don't plan on killing me," she said.

I smiled back at her, a bit hesitantly.

"I assure you, now that I know who you are, you won't get a chance to creep up on me," Felicia continued. Suddenly, the true vampire looked out from Felicia's eyes, and I shivered. It could be fatal to underestimate Felicia. Smart, no. Savage, yes.

"I don't plan on creeping up on anyone, much less a vampire," I said.

She gave me a sharp nod, and then she glided out the door as suddenly as she'd come in.

"What was all that about?" Arlene asked me, when we happened to be at the bar waiting for orders at the same time. I noticed Sam was listening, as well.

I shrugged. "She's working at Fangtasia, in Shreveport, and she just wanted to make my acquaintance."

Arlene stared at me. "They got to check in with you, now? Sookie, you need to shun the dead and involve yourself more with the living."

I stared right back. "Where'd you get an idea like that?"

"You act like I can't think for myself."

Arlene had never worked out a thought like that in her life. Arlene's middle name was tolerance, mostly because she was too easygoing to take a moral stance.

"Well, I'm surprised," I said, sharply aware of how harshly I'd just evaluated someone I'd always looked on as a friend.

"Well, I been going to church with Rafe Prudhomme."

I liked Rafe Prudhomme, a very quiet man in his forties who worked for Pelican State Title Company. But I'd never had the chance to get to know him well, never listened in to his thoughts. Maybe that had been a mistake. "What kind of church does he go to?" I said.

"He's been attending that Fellowship of the Sun, that new church."

My heart sank, almost literally. I didn't bother to point out that the Fellowship was a collection of bigots who were bound together by hatred and fear. "It's not really a church, you know. There's a branch of the Fellowship close to here?"

"Minden." Arlene looked away, the very picture of guilt. "I knew you wouldn't like that. But I saw the Catholic priest, Father Riordan, there. So even the ordained people think it's okay. We've been the past two Sunday evenings."

"And you believe that stuff?"

But one of Arlene's customers yelled for her, and she was definitely glad to walk away.

My eyes met Sam's, and we looked equally troubled. The Fellowship of the Sun was an antivampire, antitolerance organization, and its influence was spreading. Some of the Fellowship enclaves were not militant, but many of them preached hatred and fear in its most extreme form. If the Fellowship had a secret underground hit list, I was surely on it. The Fellowship founders, Steve and Sarah Newlin, had been driven out of their most lucrative church in Dallas because I'd interfered with their plans. I'd survived a couple of assassination attempts since then, but there was always the chance the Fellowship would track me down and ambush me. They'd seen me in Dallas, they'd seen me in Jackson, and sooner or later they'd figure out who I was and where I lived.

I had plenty to worry about.