Dead But Not Forgotten

by Charlaine Harris

  “Visiting hours are over. Back to work, Lily.”

  “You’re a real prick, you know?” I stood up, furious and foolish enough to take him on. I might not win, but he’d know he’d been in a battle.

  “In fifty more years, Lily can call her time her own.”

  “You have a lot to learn about your responsibilities as her master. It goes both ways, Morgan.”

  “Time for you to run along now, Miss Ravenscroft. Your huffing and puffing and strutting do not impress me, and Northman wouldn’t like it if you forced me to rebuke you in a permanent fashion. Take your cheap sentiment and be gone.”

  “Not cheap. Not sentiment. I gave my word.”

  Lily looked up. “Go now, Pam.” She stood suddenly, almost faster than I could see, and was holding the door open. “You’re not making things better by being here.”

  I sent purple hyacinths, white poppies, and crimson roses to her. In my Victorian world, it meant, “I am sorry. Be consoled in mourning.”

  I hadn’t seen her again until tonight, when she betrayed me.

  There is torchlight everywhere as we enter the staging area, the better to set the air of fantasy Quinn has set up. Our hostess, Missy Van Pelt, was making a dramatic point about how hard she was, because fire is one of our few vulnerabilities. My eyes adjust quickly and I can see the layout: The small backstage area leads to an arena where the other meals are displayed. The rest were already out there. Just ahead of me I saw identical twins with an orangutan, all in matching harlequin; a pixieish fairy—not one of those big, evil fuckers, but fluttery, like Tinkerbell—with a poodle on a leash, and in its mouth was another leash, holding a submissive in full bondage gear, complete with a full mask and ball gag.

  I admire a skillful tableau vivant and don’t mind ostentation. I pride myself on setting a nice table. Anyone can serve blood in the skull of an enemy; it’s been done to death. Yawn. Much more attractive to have the top of the skull carved into a proper cup, and then add a nice stem.

  All this is pretty enough, but lacks a certain je ne sais quoi, and I tell the tiger so. I begin to describe the ball I attended in—

  He responds with a growl only I can hear. I can feel it as well, and it is a memorable moment. I admire animal pelts—one could hardly live for decades with Eric and not develop a taste for furs, a little touch of the barbaric. But I have never ridden a tiger in what could only be described as a too-short skirt and petticoat, a garter belt, and not much more in the way of underthings. Those big back muscles between my thighs, the pacing gait, is inspiring. The rumble of his protest adds an unexpected extra vibration. It’s been years since I’ve been surprised by anything so carnal.

  “Ooh, you great, nasty pussy. Do that again!” I whisper, wriggling around. “Growl again!”

  Any life is too short, I say. Take your pleasures while you can.

  Quinn turns and snaps at me, which inspires another frisson. The look in his eyes is sobering, and I get the impression that if he could, he’d say, I will dump your skinny blond ass right now if you don’t shut up.

  “My apologies, Quinn.” I lean down and whisper to him. “We’re here for work, and you’re doing me a favor. It’s just that going into battle makes me a little—” I dig my fingers into the soft fur behind the tufted ears on his massive head and growl back at him.

  Another snap of those giant teeth, and I collect my capricious thoughts. “Right. It’s showtime.”

  We are preceded by a half dozen doxies in eighteenth-century dress; there are gory bandages across their white faces, as if they’ve been blinded. They carry matching white Persian cats. And suddenly I am the main event. Main course. Vampires like shiny and tawdry, and we get bored quickly; hence the display. The only thing left on Quinn’s rack that would fit me was a short pink dress and a blue pinafore, meant for a living “doll” who hadn’t shown up. I’d been told over and over, in three different centuries, that I resemble the Tenniel drawings of Lewis Carroll’s Alice. Through the looking glass, indeed—an hour ago, I was bashing out the brains of two flunkies. Now my hair, pulled back with a headband, is brushed to a gleaming gold that cascades down my shoulders. The abbreviated petticoat flares prettily out at my knees, giving tantalizing glimpses of striped stockings and boots. And as I ride in on the back of the tiger, I have to admit, it’s a nicely aesthetic moment. I would have chosen to have it rendered by Burne-Jones, or perhaps Maxfield Parrish, but—

  But they are dead and I have killing to do.

  “Go quickly and smoothly, please, Quinn. Two circuits of the arena, and on the second, I’ll strike.”

  Quinn chuffs quietly, and I sense his big golden eyes picking out Missy and her progeny; he’ll want to know what they knew about using his event as an ambush.

  I stand on the tiger’s back, finding my balance easily enough. A slight “ooh” from the crowd tells me I am making the picture I wanted. I keep my face pretty and blank, all the while projecting my worry and excitement to Eric.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him carefully set down his blood and lean back as if enjoying the spectacle.

  Good. He understands something isn’t right and will watch for a cue.

  As we pass the halfway mark in our circuits, I throw my head and arms back, the picture of rapturous abandon. The audience tenses, waiting for what I’ll bring next.

  Quinn picks up the pace, but I have the trick of it now. As we pass the last torch, I grab it. Before anyone has the chance to gasp, I spring from the tiger’s back, screaming.

  “Eric! Beware Morgan!”

  I’m quite certain that the poor human Happy Meals are terribly confused. It must be a bit of a blur to everyone but us vampires.

  It’s a shame they should miss any of it. I am wonderful.

  As I swing the torch at Morgan, who is outraged to see me free, Lily is instantly there.

  Lily is what I most fear. Most crave.

  Time stops while I drink her in.

  She is tricked out in black leather slashed with scarlet. Her dark hair is streaked with cobalt blue, razor-cut, asymmetrical. She’s a blur of midnight colors and I approve.

  I don’t much approve of the fucking katana she’s flashing, though. I’m sure it’s an ancient masterpiece and probably was given a name—Lily still likes nice things—and that some believe it would be a privilege to die by its blade.

  Only one of us can walk away alive. She won’t break her word to Morgan and I must protect Eric. As much as I don’t want to kill Lily, I don’t want to die, either. A good, honorable death someday, defending Eric, perhaps, but right now I’m not done living. Not by a long shot.

  I’m more than spoiling for a fight now and thankful that I might save Eric. There’s a growing sadness that I will have to kill my darling to do it.

  The choice is made. No time for regret. If I must kill Lily, I shall make it a masterpiece.

  Time starts up again.

  I can’t change my trajectory, but I can change my target. I adjust my swing so that I catch Lily in the gut with the torch.

  The leather keeps her from burning but it doesn’t protect her from the blow, which is so great it tears the torch from my hands. She screams and sprawls on the floor of the arena; her sword sings as it flies from her grasp. She leaps back up at me, hissing, her face contorted.

  I dive into a roll, snatch up the katana. She grabs my shoulders. Even as I swing around to slam my elbow into her face, I hear her whisper, “Pam, my darling.”

  I know how fierce Lily is, how loyal and passionate. I don’t expect tenderness, so I won’t fall for it. She punches me, hard, in the neck. I stagger back, but her face is a mask of blood.

  It would take only one swing—

  My eyes might be blurred with bloody tears, but my hearing is as acute as ever. She shrieks, and it carries over the mayhem and confusion in the audience. “You can try, Pa
m Ravenscroft, but I’ll kill you as quickly as I snuffed out that little bitch in Scotland!”

  The words race through my brain. The girl in Scotland died slowly, watching helplessly while we fucked in the snow. Lily is giving me a signal.

  One of the reasons I am so fond of Sookie Stackhouse is that despite her ridiculous refusal to let Eric turn her, she makes the most of her opportunities. It’s a quality we share, and it’s what attracted me to Lily close to a century ago.

  Go.

  I step forward, and Lily does, too. It feels as if we are both moving in slow motion. While she would never break her word to Morgan, Lily might well engineer a situation where someone else must kill him. And while it might make sense for Morgan to bring his best troops with him, only Lily could have arranged such runts to guard me and given me a too-small dose of silver. If Morgan succeeds, Lily will get more power as his fortunes improve; if he fails, she’ll be free of him, one way or another.

  I have to decide how much I can trust my instincts. Trust her love.

  I bring the sword down. It bites deep into her shoulder. I hear it cleave through muscle and bone.

  It’s a magnificent blade; the balance is perfection. I don’t take her head, but it looks as if I’m fighting for my life. Even if I’m wrong about her, Lily won’t be able to follow me.

  She collapses. When I see the faint smile on her face and her hand twitch, I know for sure. I follow the direction she indicates, out through the confusion; the animals are yowling and scattering, the vampires fighting, and the orangutan is shitting all over the place as it bites the guy in the gimp suit. I need to get out front, because Eric and Morgan have disappeared and that’s where they’ll be heading.

  I find something unexpected at the top of the stairs off the arena. Scarcely believing that I correctly interpreted Lily’s plans, I pull the tarp from it. Something small and light falls as I do.

  Underneath the tarp is a gleaming red motorcycle.

  I bend down to retrieve what has fallen. A sprig of bluebell tied up with a stem of lavender. Gratitude and faith, in the language of flowers.

  This is a gift, a fast exit for me and Eric. This is Lily’s good-bye.

  I tuck the flowers into my pinafore and start the bike. It thunders to life, as beautiful and deadly as Lily herself.

  As I reach the front of the venue, the crotch rocket swerves dangerously. I fight to keep from ditching, feeling my fangs poking out. It’s almost as exciting as a tiger between my legs.

  Chaos: I see Quinn, still a tiger, batting combatants apart. I see Eric tangled with Morgan.

  I love to watch Eric fight; you can see his Viking heritage in his berserker glee. Eric is my everything: sun, moon, and stars.

  Lily is the perfect reflection of my joy in being a vampire.

  But I’m the one who should kill Morgan.

  Eric lands a crushing blow—he’s using a stanchion to beat the shit out of Morgan—and draws back for another.

  “He’s mine!” I shout. Eric cocks his head at my costume and my demand, then nods graciously. He steps back and pulls out his phone.

  I stand and raise Lily’s sword.

  I swing, screaming her name.

  I let the blade have its way now. When it strikes, Morgan’s battered and bloodied head comes off cleanly, suspended in the air a fraction of a second before it goes to goo.

  I hear a click, somewhere beyond the roar of the engine, the screaming.

  Eric has taken a picture of me as I kill Morgan. A blood-streaked, katana-wielding Alice wreaking vengeance astride a Ducati.

  I adore Eric. He has as much an eye for a moment as I do. As much a taste for retribution, too.

  But my inattention means I lose control over the motorcycle. I vault away, before it crashes into a wall and bursts into flame. You have to admire such a grand finale to the party.

  I tumble and roll. I’m careful to protect the katana, because when the dust settles, and Morgan’s treachery is revealed, Lily will be gone, fleeing the memory of her ill use by Morgan. But someday she might seek me out, and if she does, she will certainly want the sword back.

  Until she claims it, however, her katana—like her heart—belongs to me.

  WIDOWER’S WALK

  MARYJANICE DAVIDSON

  MaryJanice Davidson was always an Eric appreciator; he’s the man with the plan. Her story “Widower’s Walk” takes place 201 years after the events of Dead Ever After. Eric is nursing a drink and musing over life, death, the state of the world, and the repercussions of love and sacrifice. Since he’s a multitasker, he’s going to flirt with yet another waitress . . . and keep an eye on the assassin targeting Sookie’s descendants.

  —

  When is a betrayal not a betrayal?

  When it’s not a betrayal.

  He’s been here before, except he hasn’t. Two hundred one years ago, Louisiana was a different place, which stands to follow as it was also a different time. The bar was here, but now it’s called Were About. There are still waitresses here, but instead of leaving tips on tables customers use the datpads to send credits wherever the waitress (petcash, savings, WorldTax, 401K, direct-to-IRS) wants them. There are blond waitresses here with big eyes and sweet smiles, but they aren’t Sookie. There are bad people here.

  Of course.

  Eric Northman waits for a waitress (not for the first time) and ponders the nature of change. It would be difficult not to, since everywhere he looks he is reminded. Whoever wrote “The more things change, the more they stay the same,” he thinks, had a brain tumor. Because the more things change, the more things change. Even the youngsters can see it.

  Louisiana, as a starting point. Because first it was known for its mound complexes and status as a de rigueur Native American paradise and then it was known for the bow-and-arrow welcome that hostile tribes gave the Spanish (perhaps they saw their future once Europeans hit the shore?) and then the French got their claws in and hung on until it became Slavery Central and then England spanked the French and took some of Louisiana as a penalty/prize and Spain snatched the rest, which only increased the slave population (Louisiana by now being, essentially, the Walmart of slavery), and then Napoleon more or less declared, “You know what France would like back? Louisiana. Cough it up, bitches,” but then changed his mind and sold it to the United States, which knew the deal of the century when they got it and never once had buyer’s remorse.

  And then things settled down but not really and Louisiana was known for exporting sugar and cotton and a bunch of rich guys decided to secede (“Um, if there’s no slavery, who’s gonna build levees? Besides us? Which, obviously, is not acceptable. Who’s ready to throw a secession soiree?”), which did not work out at all, and then the whole Reconstruction thing happened and the slaves were free and the supplanted planters took it pretty well (except for the KKK, the White League, and, um, the Colfax Massacre)—okay, pretty well might be an exaggeration—and then the state was known for the rabid discouragement of African Americans registering to vote and then it was known for a sizable section of the population moving to California and then it was known for civil rights and then it was known for the Hurricane Katrina clusterfuck and then it was known for its seafood export (until they lost New Orleans to the hurricane that made Katrina look like a spring breeze) and then it was known for its petrochemical industries and now it isn’t.

  Now Louisiana is primarily known for (1) tech and (2) paranormal inhabitants. And Eric isn’t there for a computer upgrade.

  Shaking his head, he thinks, I have been spending too much time in the Wikipedia archives.

  He considers the cars and trucks in the parking lot, and the fact that at least four-fifths of them are solar-powered or electric. It’s still legal to own and operate gasoline-fueled engines, but only for so many hours a week, only for specific jobs (for example, farm equipment), and it’s generally
understood that even those will be phased out within twenty years.

  Which is fine with him. He knew electric cars would kill petroleum-fueled anything back in 1995, for God’s sake, and planned (and invested) accordingly. It was all well and good to be proved right, and it was even better to get rich doing so. Besides, it’s much easier to make mischief when you have the checkbook (not that anyone used those anymore) to back it up.

  “Hi, welcome to Were About.”

  “How too cute,” he replies, almost-but-not-quite bored. She’s cute, too. Blond, but then, he has a thing for them. “TrueBlood, please, straight.” No ice, God forbid, no cinnamon sprinkle, no salted rim. After fixing the ozone dilemma and developing the prostate cancer vaccine, as far as Eric was concerned the greatest accomplishment over the past few centuries has been engineering TrueBlood as a palatable drink. The downside to that? People who weren’t vampires now drank it, which caused all sorts of trouble. “Passing” was becoming a problem. Not since the dark days of the Twilight franchise had it been so trendy to be dead.

  The waitress walked away, hips rolling beneath her uniform, and he watched for a second and then decided, No, too small. And too blond. She didn’t have to come over to take his order; he didn’t have to speak to place it; this wasn’t the twentieth century. It was all done by Net, like everything else. But Were About prided itself on being quaint. No, that wasn’t right. Retro, was that the word?

  Retro, ha. The new Louisiana, on the surface of things, could almost pass for the old, except for the fact that for the first time in an age the state doesn’t have a vampire king, but a human queen: thirty-two-year-old Adele Merlotte, of the famed and formidable Stackhouse-Merlotte clan.

  Eric smiles in spite of himself and glances down at the table. Headlines and a stock stream flick past, as well as inane “news” about whatever celebrity delivered a baby, got married, or was torn apart by a shrieking mob the night before. And supe news, of course, always. Which vampire was running for reelection, which shifter was stepping down, which norm came out about not actually being a supe (would that be coming out about coming out?), et cetera, et cetera, boring boring boring. He can get more details by tapping the table but doesn’t bother. It just reinforces what he already finds hilarious: Humanity was so busy worrying about vampires, they never saw the shifters coming.