Definitely Dead (Sookie Stackhouse #6)(11)
Author: Charlaine Harris

I crept back to the window, which I closed and locked. I drew the curtains, too. I’d done everything to increase my security I could do. I went back to the dishes. I got a wet circle on the front of my sleep tee because I had to lean against the edge of the sink to steady my shaking legs. But I made myself continue until all the dishes were safely in the drainer and the sink had been wiped clean.

I listened intently after that. The woods were still silent. No matter how I listened with every sense at my disposal, that faint signal did not impinge on my brain again. It was gone.

I sat in the kitchen for a while, brain still in high gear, but then I forced myself to follow my usual routine. My heart rate had returned to normal by the time I brushed my teeth, and as I climbed into bed I had almost persuaded myself that nothing had happened out there in the silent darkness. But I’m careful about being honest inside. I knew some creature had been out in my woods; and that creature had been something bigger and scarier than a raccoon.

Quite soon after I’d turned my bedside light off, I heard the bugs and the frogs resume their chorus. Finally, when it continued uninterrupted, I slept.

Chapter 4

I punched in the number of my brother’s cell phone when I got up the next morning. I hadn’t spent a very good night, but at least I’d gotten a bit of sleep. Jason answered on the second ring. He sounded a little preoccupied when he said, "Hello?"

"Hi, Brother. How’s it going?"

"Listen, I need to talk to you. I can’t right now. I’ll be there, probably in a couple of hours." He hung up without saying good-bye, and he’d sounded pretty worried about something. Good. I needed another complication.

I glanced at the clock. A couple of hours would give me enough time to get cleaned up and run into town to go to the grocery store. Jason would be getting here about noon, and if I knew him he’d expect me to feed him lunch. I yanked my hair into a ponytail and then doubled the elastic band around it, making it into a kind of topknot. I had a little fan of the ends waving above my head. Though I tried not to admit it to myself, I thought this slapdash hairstyle was fun-looking and kind of cute.

It was one of those crisp, cool March mornings, the kind that promises a warm afternoon. The sky was so bright and sunny that my spirits rose, and I drove to Bon Temps with the window rolled down, singing along with the radio at the top of my voice. I would’ve sung along with Weird Al Yankovic that morning.

I drove past woods, the occasional house, and a field full of cows (and a couple of buffalo; you never know what people will raise).

The disc jockey played "Blue Hawaii" as a golden oldie, and I wondered where Bubba was – not my own brother, but the vampire now known only as Bubba. I hadn’t seen him in three or four weeks. Maybe the vamps of Louisiana had moved him to another hiding place, or maybe he’d wandered off, as he does from time to time. That’s when you get your long articles in the papers they keep by the grocery check-out stand.

Though I was having a blissful moment of being happy and content, I had one of those stray ideas you get at odd moments. I thought, How nice it would be if Uric were here with me in the car. He’d look so good with the wind blowing his hair, and he’d enjoy the moment. Well, yeah, before he burned to a crisp.

But I realized I’d thought of Eric because it was the kind of day you wanted to share with the person you cared about, the person whose company you enjoyed the most. And that would be Eric as he’d been while he was cursed by a witch: the Eric who hadn’t been hardened by centuries of vampire politics, the Eric who had no contempt for humans and their affairs, the Eric who was not in charge of many financial enterprises and responsible for the lives and incomes of quite a few humans and vampires. In other words, Eric as he would never be again.

Ding-dong, the witch was dead, and Eric was restored to his character as it was now. The restored Eric was wary of me, was fond of me, and didn’t trust me (or his feelings) an inch.

I sighed heavily, and the song vanished from my lips. It was nearly quenched in my heart until I told myself to stop being a melancholy idiot. I was young, I was healthy. The day was beautiful. And I had an actual date for Friday night. I promised myself a big treat. Instead of going directly to the grocery store, I went by Tara’s Togs, owned and operated by my friend Tara Thornton.

I hadn’t seen Tara in a while. She’d gone on a vacation to visit an aunt in south Texas, and since she’d returned she’d been working long hours at the store. At least, that’s what she’d said when I’d called her to thank her for the car. When my kitchen had burned, my car had burned with it, and Tara had loaned me her old car, a two-year-old Malibu. She’d acquired a brand-new car (never mind how) and hadn’t gotten around to selling the Malibu.

To my astonishment, about a month ago, Tara had mailed me the title and the bill of sale, with a letter telling me the car was now mine. I’d called to protest, but she had stonewalled me, and in the end, there didn’t seem to be anything to do but accept the gift graciously.

She intended it as payment, since I’d extricated her from a terrible situation. But to help her, I’d had to indebt myself to Eric. I hadn’t minded. Tara had been my friend all my life. Now she was safe, if she was smart enough to stay away from the supernatural world.

Though I was grateful and relieved to have the newest vehicle I’d ever owned, I would have been happier to have her uninterrupted friendship. I’d stayed away, since I assumed that I reminded her of too many bad things. But I was in the mood to try to rip down that veil. Maybe Tara had had enough time.

Tara’s Togs was in a strip mall on the south side of Bon Temps. There was one other car parked in front of the store. I decided it might be good that a third party would be there; it would depersonalize the meeting.

Tara was serving Andy Bellefleur’s sister Portia when I went in, so I began flicking through the size tens, and then the eights. Portia was sitting at the Isabelle table, which was extremely interesting. Tara is the local representative for Isabelle’s Bridal, a national company that produces a catalog that’s become the bible of all things wedding-related. You can try on samples of the bridesmaid dresses at the local outlet, so you can order the right size, and each dress comes in about twenty colors. The wedding dresses are just as popular. Isabelle’s has twenty-five models. The Company also offers wedding shower invitations, decorations, garters, bridesmaids’ gifts, and any bit of wedding paraphernalia you can imagine. However, Isabelle’s was pretty much a middle-class phenomenon, and Portia was definitely an upper-class woman.

Since she lived with her grandmother and her brother in the Bellefleur mansion on Magnolia Street, Portia had grown up in a sort of decayed gothic splendor. Now that the mansion was repaired and her grandmother entertained more, Portia had looked noticeably happier when I’d glimpsed her around town. She didn’t come into Merlotte’s that much, but when she was in the bar she had more time to spare for other people, and she smiled occasionally. A plain woman just past thirty, Portia’s best feature was her thick, shining chestnut hair.