Dead But Not Forgotten

by Charlaine Harris

  The chain saw cut out. It would have been silent—it should have been silent—except Liara’s guffaws seemed to fill the room.

  “You okay, Peaches?” Todd asked in a small voice.

  She didn’t reply, as she was intent on pulling a strand of ash-coated hair from the corner of her mouth.

  “I thought it would—”

  “Shh!” she hissed. She toed aside the desiccated corpse of a long-dead squirrel, then picked her way carefully across the minefield of broken timbers. Using the sleeve of her $2,500 jacket, she wiped the glass clean and gave in to the inclination to rest her forearm against the glass. A moment later, her head drooped to the crook of her elbow.

  “Did your maker ever talk to you before he made you into his child?” she asked over Liara’s cackles. “Did he spend any time getting to know you?”

  “None.”

  “I thought so. If he’d any inkling into what type of stubborn witch you were, he’d never have made you immortal.”

  “That’s what I thought. But he was another dickhead who only saw the surface of things. He saw me, he wanted me, he took me. He got his, though. The jerk never made it past the French Revolution. Did he have enough smarts to ditch the powdered wig? No, he kept walking up and down the Versailles Hall of Mirrors, thinking he could glamour a crowd of peasants hoisting hoes. I learned a lot from him. Either blend in or hide.”

  Bev’s fist tightened on the piece of tape. “When did you stop trying to blend in?”

  “When it got too hard. When I got too tired of feeling like I was running in a marathon that had no winner’s tape. A girl needs to be . . .”

  Appreciated, thought Bev.

  “A girl needs to claim herself. Be real,” said Liara. “At some point or another she has got to stop apologizing to the world for being who she is.”

  “What a marvelous sentiment.” Bev, the ex–chorus girl, straightened. “Too bad it’s left you living in the boonies, hiding behind a steel wall.”

  “Peaches?” Todd floated down through the hole in the ceiling, arms slightly canted from his sides. A dusty fallen angel, clad in cashmere and penitence. “Can we go back to the RV? This isn’t fun anymore.” His tongue played with the sharp edge of his fang. “Besides, I’m really hungry.”

  “We can’t do that, Toddy.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then firmed her jaw. “We live on our reputation for success. We’re only as good as the next makeover.”

  “We’ve got ratings.”

  “And I’ve been in stage productions that got gushing reviews and still folded. We can’t take anything for granted. Do you want to go back to those days where you had to cadge closet space from guys who just wanted to . . .”

  Pain in his eyes.

  She lifted a shoulder, one survivor to another. “You know what they say, Toddy.”

  “There’s no business like show business?”

  “You’re only as good as your last hit.” She took out one of those white papers they used to blot oil and pressed the cellulose with Liara’s prints sticky side down. “Take this to the RV and make a photocopy of it, okay? You can grab a couple of bottles of TrueBlood and bring them back.”

  “Okay.” He started to float toward the door, then turned in a graceful arc, a puzzled expression on his lovely face. “Why do you want me to photocopy her prints?”

  He needed her. He truly needed her. “Because a copy of them will fake out the fingerprint sensor, sweetie,” she told him in her gentle voice.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I saw it on MythBusters.”

  Case closed as far as Todd was concerned. He heaved a sigh. “All right, but this is a lot of work for a wanker like Anthony van Dyck. The guy’s so . . .”

  While Bev waited for him to find the right word, she mentally finished the statement with some of her own: fascinating, demanding, artistic, and sexy.

  Her best friend lifted his shoulders. “He’s a tool, Peaches, and he’s got no class. Not like you and me. When I knew him, his lace used to drip from his wrists.” The horror of the recollection clearly sickened Toddy, and he rubbed his flat stomach as if to soothe it. “In my time, two lengths of pearls was perfection. Three lengths and you may have well carried a sign saying, Buddy, I got no taste. Do you know that he wore five strands every day?”

  She pulled her brows together. “Five?”

  Encouraged, Toddy continued. “You know what else? He reeked of linseed oil and turpentine. And after he became one of us, he was the worst whiner.” Todd raised his voice into an uncanny mimicry of Anton’s voice. “They’ll recognize my brushstrokes. You’ve cursed me for eternity! I can never paint again!”

  Bev smiled, just faintly.

  The coffee table book had not fared well. Its glossy pages were gummed together; a layer of dust and debris coated its shiny cover. She flipped it open to the index and ran her nail down the staggering line of print until she found van Dyck, Anthony.

  She stroked the words. “I always felt small around him.”

  “He made you feel thin?”

  “No, he made me feel like a loser.”

  “But you’re no loser,” spluttered Todd. “You’re Bev.”

  “Toddy,” she murmured softly, shaking her head.

  “Bev Leveto is a star.” Toddy touched her shoulder, his fingers featherlight. “I knew that the second I saw you giving Madonna a smackdown. You shine, Peaches.”

  And there it was—the one thing that Toddy did better than anyone else. A feeling of warmth spread over her. She knew it for what it was—a phantom; a sense memory derived from the living part of her. But still, she felt contentment.

  Sweet, soft, safe.

  Toddy opened his mouth to add another comment, but whatever he was going to say to that was lost in the double click of a heavy metal lock turning. A moment later, the mirrored door swung open to reveal the interior of Liara’s safe room. Bev’s eyebrows rose as she took in the magnificence of the intended bride’s hidey-hole. Color, color, everywhere—the walls of the vault had been swagged with rich fabrics, and the result was an orgy of rich jewel tones.

  Then, without the drum roll and requisite clash of cymbals, the recluse of Vicksburg stepped out of her sanctuary.

  Bev heard Toddy’s sharp inhale of shock. And part of her wanted to chastise him—breathing was for breathers and they were so above that. But how could she? Her own mouth was gaping wider than a country hick’s at a girlie show.

  “Are you telling me that my intended is Anthony van Dyck?” Liara demanded. “The famous Flemish artist?”

  She wasn’t ugly, though her clothing choices were heinous—cheap sneakers and baggy sweats. There was material there that could be worked with. Her long hair was parted in the middle and fell in untamed ripples down her back. Her chin was childishly rounded, and her cheeks baby-smooth. Good skin’s hard to find.

  Though in Liara’s case, there was a staggering abundance of it.

  “We’re going to need a bigger pair of Spanx,” whispered Toddy. “She’s got to be a size sixteen.”

  Bev shook her head. “Fourteen, petite.”

  For a corpulent shrimp, Liara moved fast. She swarmed over to where Bev stood frozen, ripped the art book from her hand, then thumbed it open to a well-worn page. She turned the heavy book outward, holding it propped open in her arms. “You’re saying that Eric Northman has arranged for me to marry the man who painted this?”

  Bev’s gaze slowly traveled from Anton’s chubby betrothed to the book and the image of a poorly coiffed, almost naked fat woman.

  Toddy inched forward to read the small print. “The Penitent Magdalene?” He stepped back with a grimace. “At least it’s not another one of van Dyck’s self-portraits,” he said to Bev. “That guy knew Photoshop before there was Photoshop.”

  Bev hardly heard him. With one paint
ing, her world had tilted, stopped, and then reset. A score of Anton’s comments, insults delivered so delicately that the result was a vague feeling of self-dissatisfaction, had been explained. That’s what he’d wanted. She tore her gaze from the picture and moved it to Liara, where it lingered, her artist’s eye seeing the hourglass shape beneath the vamp’s clothing, the appeal of a face that belonged in a Renaissance portrait.

  Change her? Liara Giacona was every curve-loving, Baroque artist’s wet dream.

  “One century’s pinup girl is another’s poster child for obesity,” she said in a bemused tone.

  “Pooh,” said Toddy firmly.

  “Anton never really saw me,” she said, feeling her way. “Not really. All he saw was a blank canvas, waiting for him to add layers of paint to it.” Had she been that needy? That open to manipulation? Bev thought back, then shook her head, and the tight feeling inside her eased. “I’m nobody’s blank canvas. I’m my own work of art.” She waved her manicured finger in a dismissive circle at the page. “And I don’t ever want to be that girl.”

  “Who in their right mind would?” Toddy exclaimed.

  She wanted to laugh. She wanted to do her high kick—the one that made Flo Ziegfeld stroke the corner of his mouth. But she didn’t. Because she was a professional who’d learned from the best.

  “If you want to look like the woman in that painting, we can do it,” she told the vamp holding the art book as if it were last month’s Vogue. “Or we can make you look like yourself, but better. Which do you prefer?”

  “What do you think, genius?” said the vamp, combative to the end.

  A real smile curved Bev’s lips.

  “Aw, Peaches, must we?” asked Todd, warming up to a whine.

  Bev slanted her head. “We didn’t bring the right wardrobe for her.” At last, a flutter of anticipation. “The cut and the fabric is all wrong. What we really need is something that resonates with the Renaissance. High waisted and full skirted.” She licked her lip, her creative hunger rising. “With a train.”

  “Pearls, two layers short, two layers long,” murmured Todd.

  “The dress should be made of a rich fabric . . .”

  “Like velvet.”

  “Yeah, but—” She broke off, surprised by her colleague’s not-so-gentle shoulder bump.

  Toddy’s teeth gleamed in the dark night, very white, very bright. “Like the stuff she’s got on the walls of her safe room?”

  “How fast can you sew, Toddy?”

  “Faster than a June bride sprinting for the spring sales racks at Kleinfeld’s.”

  They’d found a place to park the RV upwind of the Dumpster behind Fangtasia. Toddy had celebrated by bringing home dinner. After partaking of a Bear and a Goth, they’d settled down to an evening of quiet.

  Another tradition.

  Postmakeover, you ate, you cleaned up the house, you watched the sky lighten, and then you put a half a pound of deep conditioner on your head.

  Toddy wiped his fingers. “Which shower cap, Peaches?”

  “Mmm,” she said drowsily. “Maybe the one with the sunflowers on it. I’m in the mood for some van Gogh.”

  She tilted her head to the side so that he could tuck all the soaked tendrils of her hair inside the cap. “We did good, Toddy.”

  “I wish you’d have let me talk her into the Spanx.”

  “No, it was better this way. Did you get a load of his expression?”

  “Like a man seeing his first pair of Salvatore Ferragamos.”

  Funny how thinking of Anton didn’t sting anymore. Bev pulled down the covers on her side and slipped into bed. “She never said a word, other than, ‘Uhm,’ ‘Yes,’ and ‘I do.’”

  “Starstruck,” he said, sliding in beside her.

  “That will change.” Though in the meantime, Eric was going to look like he’d finessed a marriage made in heaven for one of Felipe’s vamps.

  Politics. Give Bev fashion anytime.

  She stifled a yawn. “When do you think he’ll meet the real her?”

  “I’d say a week.” Toddy smoothed the lavender sheets so they were a perfect flat border across both their chests. With a sigh, he settled into his pillow. His shower cap crinkled in protest as he turned to gaze at her.

  “We did good,” she repeated, and she moved her arm so that it lay against the long cool length of his. Her stomach was full and her lids felt heavy.

  “We always do.” He twined his pinkie around hers. “Night, Peaches.”

  “Night, Toddy.”

  DON’T BE CRUEL

  BILL CRIDER

  Bill Crider has always been a fan of the King. The hapless entertainer, whose change into a vampire didn’t go very well, has been a recurring character in Sookie’s story. Do you remember the time he almost got crucified as entertainment for Russell Edgington and his friends? You can bet that Bubba does. And it all started with a cat.

  —

  -1-

  Bubba felt right proud of himself. He’d scoped out the territory around Russell Edgington’s mansion and located Bill Compton just like Mr. Eric and Miss Sookie had asked him to. Bill wasn’t in very good shape, but at least he was alive, and Bubba could tell that Miss Sookie was sure relieved to hear that last part. The vampires had him in an old garage that might have once been a stable but had now been converted into a series of rooms. Getting Bill loose and away from where the other vampires had him was going to be a problem, but Bubba didn’t have to worry about that. He could take orders just fine, but he wasn’t real good at planning things. His part in the rescue was over.

  He did have one contribution to make to the discussion of what to do about Bill, however. “Miss Sookie, they’ll put werewolves to guarding him during the day.”

  Miss Sookie was real interested in hearing that, and after she and Mr. Eric talked it over, they seemed to have come up with a plan to rescue Bill the next day.

  Bubba didn’t understand most of it, so he just said, “You’ll do great, Miss Sookie.” Then he looked at Mr. Eric, waiting for him to tell him what to do.

  Something had gone wrong when Bubba had been brought over, or maybe it was all the drugs in his system at the time. At any rate, his mind didn’t work exactly right. He was good at doing what he was told, though, and the other vampires who knew his story tried to take care of him and keep him out of trouble. Sometimes he wandered off and people caught sight of him, after which there’d be articles in the paper and on the news, but Bubba didn’t pay them any mind. He didn’t read the papers, and he hardly ever watched TV, though he seemed to remember that he’d once enjoyed it.

  “You need to get off this estate and go to ground, Bubba,” Mr. Eric said. “We don’t want anybody to know you’ve been here. Can you do that?”

  “Sure can,” Bubba said.

  Going to ground was another thing he was good at. He was thinking about where he might go when someone knocked at the door of the bedroom they were in. Nobody had to tell Bubba what to do in that situation. He was out the window and gone in an instant.

  Getting off the estate wouldn’t be a problem. Bubba wasn’t brilliant, but he had a certain shrewdness. He’d gotten over the wall that surrounded the place, after all, and he’d found Bill. He wasn’t worried about getting caught.

  Bubba dropped lightly down to the ground beneath the window and looked up at the big house that was lit up like some kind of party was going on. Bubba didn’t like the house. He couldn’t say exactly why, except that it reminded him of some other place, somewhere he used to live, he thought. He couldn’t remember much about that old life, and reminders of it tended to agitate him. So he turned his back on the house and started off through the shadows toward the wall.

  The wall didn’t worry Bubba. It wouldn’t give him any trouble. It was solid and high, built to keep out humans, but it didn’t mean a thing to Bub
ba or any other vampire. In less than a minute, he’d be out of there.

  And he would’ve been if it hadn’t been for the cat.

  Bubba couldn’t figure out where the cat came from. Vampires weren’t generally fond of pets, so the cat didn’t belong there.

  Bubba, on the other hand, while he wasn’t fond of pets, was mighty fond of cats. Not because he liked to hear them purr when he stroked them or because he thought they were cute when they hid in paper bags. He had other, more practical reasons for liking cats. Unlike other vampires, Bubba wasn’t much interested in human blood, but cats were another story. This one was a brindle, and Bubba particularly liked brindles. Their blood had a special tang.

  Bubba knew he should ignore the cat. He knew he should do what Eric had told him. He almost always did what he was told when he could, but impulse control wasn’t one of Bubba’s better qualities. He took off after the cat.

  Sensing trouble, the cat bristled, bushed its tail, and ran for the trees that grew near the garage where Bill was being kept. Bubba was very quick, but the cat managed to get up a tree just as Bubba made a grab for it. It scrambled up nearly to the top branches before it turned back to look down. It sat there hissing, growling, and howling.

  “Dadgum noisy cat,” Bubba said, looking up at it.

  All Bubba had to do was jump up there, something he was perfectly capable of, and grab the critter, but it was probably too late for that. The vampires guarding Bill would be wondering what all the fuss was about, and one of them might come out to check on things. Bubba sighed. He sure wanted that cat. To heck with somebody checking on things. Wouldn’t take but a second to get the cat. Bubba jumped.

  So did the cat, as soon as Bubba reached it. It jumped right at Bubba’s face and landed just right, stretching out its front legs so that its body completely covered Bubba’s eyes and reaching the legs all the way around Bubba’s head to sink its claws into the skin of his neck.