Dead in the Family (Sookie Stackhouse #10)(32)
Author: Charlaine Harris

We were a strange little family grouping: two telepaths and a fairy. During our breakfast conversation, I had to keep each male from knowing what the other was, and that was a real challenge. Hunter told me silently that Claude must be a vampire, because he couldn’t hear Claude’s thoughts, and I had to tell Hunter that there were some other people we couldn’t hear, too. I pointed out that Claude couldn’t be a vampire because it was daytime, and vampires couldn’t come out in the daytime.

"There’s a vampire in the closet," Hunter told Claude. "He can’t come out in the daytime."

"Which closet would that be?" Claude asked Hunter.

"The one in my room. You want to come see?"

"Hunter," I said, "the last thing any vampire wants is to be disturbed in the daytime. I’d leave him alone."

"Your Eric?" Claude asked. He was excited by the idea of Eric being in the house. Damn.

"Yes," I said. "You know better than to go in there, right? I mean, I don’t have to get tough with you, right?"

He smiled at me. "You, tough with me?" he said, mockingly. "Ha. I’m fae. I am stronger than any human."

I started to say, "So how come I survived the war between the fae and so many fairies didn’t?" Thank God I didn’t. The minute after, I knew how good it was that I’d choked on those words, because I could see by Claude’s face that he remembered who’d died all too well. I missed Claudine, too, and I told him so.

"You’re sad," Hunter said accurately. And he was picking up on all this, which shouldn’t be thought of in his hearing.

"Yes, we’re remembering his sister," I said. "She died and we miss her."

"Like my mom," he said. "What’s a fay?"

"Yes, like your mom." Sort of. Only in the sense that they were both dead. "And a fae is a special person, but we’re not going to talk about that right now."

It didn’t take a telepath to pick up on Claude’s interest and curiosity, and when he sauntered back down the hall to use the bathroom, I followed him. Sure enough, Claude’s steps slowed and stopped at the open door to the bedroom Hunter had used.

"Keep right on walking," I said.

"I can’t take a peek? He’ll never know. I’ve heard how handsome he is. Just a peek?"

"No," I said, knowing I’d better stay in sight of that door until Claude was out of the house. Just a peek, my round rosy ass.

"What about your ass, Aunt Sookie?"

"Oops! Sorry, Hunter. I said a bad word." Didn’t want Claude to know I’d only thought it. I heard him laughing as he shut the bathroom door.

Claude stayed in the bathroom so long that I had to let Hunter brush his teeth in mine. After I heard the squeak of the stairs and the sound of the television overhead, I was able to relax. I helped Hunter get dressed, and then I got dressed myself and put on some makeup under Hunter’s unwavering attention to the process. Evidently, Kristen had never let Hunter watch what he considered to be a fascinating procedure.

"You should come to live with us, Aunt Sookie," he said.

Thanks, Hunter, but I like to live here. I have a job.

You can get another one.

"It wouldn’t be the same. This is my house, and I love it here. I don’t want to leave."

There was a knock on the front door. Could Remy be arriving this early to collect Hunter?

But it was another surprise altogether, an unpleasant one. Special Agent Tom Lattesta stood on the front porch.

Hunter, naturally, had run to the door as fast as he could. Don’t all kids? He hadn’t thought it was his dad, because he didn’t know exactly when Remy was supposed to show up. He just liked to find out who was visiting.

"Hunter," I said, picking him up, "this is an FBI agent. His name is Tom Lattesta. Can you remember that?"

Hunter looked doubtful. He tried a couple of times to say the unfamiliar name and finally got it right.

"Good job, Hunter!" Lattesta said. He was trying to be friendly, but he wasn’t good with kids and he sounded fake. "Ms. Stackhouse, can I come in for a minute?" I looked behind him. No one else. I thought they always traveled in pairs.

"I guess so," I said, without enthusiasm. I didn’t explain who Hunter was, because it was none of Lattesta’s business, though I could tell he was curious. He’d also noticed there was another car parked outside.

"Claude," I called up the stairs. "The FBI is here." It’s good to inform unexpected company that someone else is in the house with you.

The television fell silent, and Claude came gliding down the stairs. Now he was wearing a golden brown silk T-shirt and khakis, and he looked like a poster for a wet dream. Even Lattesta’s heterosexual orientation wasn’t proof against a surge of startled admiration. "Agent Lattesta, my cousin Claude Crane," I said, trying not to smile.

Hunter and Claude and I sat on the couch while Lattesta took the La-Z-Boy. I didn’t offer him anything to drink.

"How’s Agent Weiss?" I asked. The New Orleans-based agent had brought Lattesta, based in Rhodes, out to my house last time, and in the course of many terrible events, she’d been shot.

"She’s back at work," Lattesta said. "Still on a desk job. Mr. Crane, I don’t believe I’ve met you before?"

No one forgot Claude. Of course, my cousin knew that very well. "You haven’t had the pleasure," he told the FBI man.

Lattesta spent a moment trying to figure that out before he smiled. "Right," he said. "Listen, Ms. Stackhouse, I came up here today to tell you that you’re no longer a subject for investigation."

I was stunned with the relief that swept over me. I exchanged glances with Claude. God bless my great-grandfather. I wondered how much he’d spent, how many strings he’d pulled, to make this come true.

"How come?" I asked. "Not that I’m going to miss it, you understand, but I have to wonder what’s changed."

"You seem to know people who are powerful," Lattesta said, with an unexpected depth of bitterness. "Someone in our government doesn’t want your name to come up in public."

"And you flew all the way to Louisiana to tell me that," I said, putting enough disbelief into my voice to let him know I thought that was bullshit.

"No, I flew all the way down here to go to a hearing about the shooting."

Okay. That made more sense. "And you didn’t have my phone number? To call me? You had to come here to tell me you weren’t going to investigate me, in person?"

"There’s something wrong about you," he said, and the façade was gone. It was a relief. Now his outside matched his inside. "Sara Weiss has undergone some kind of … spiritual upheaval since she met you. She goes to séances. She’s reading books about the paranormal. Her husband is worried about her. The bureau is worried about her. Her boss is having doubts about putting her back out in the field."