Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set

by Charlaine Harris

  There was a heavy garbage can right by the back door, and after I’d yanked the door open—standing aside for a second to avoid anything that might dart out—I maneuvered the can to hold the door ajar. I had goose bumps all over my arms as I stepped inside.

  Windowless Fangtasia requires electric light, twenty-four /seven. Since none of these lights were on, the interior was just a dark pit. Winter daylight extended weakly down the hall that led to the bar proper. On the right were the doors to Eric’s office and the bookkeeper’s room. On the left was the door to the large storeroom, which also contained the employee bathroom. This hall ended in a heavy door to discourage any fun lovers from penetrating to the back of the club. This door, too, was open, for the first time in my memory. Beyond it lay the black silent cavern of the bar. I wondered if anything was sitting at those tables or huddled in those booths.

  I was holding my breath so I could detect the least little noise. After a few seconds, I heard a scraping movement and another sound of pain, coming from the storeroom. Its door was slightly ajar. I took four silent steps to that door. My heart was pounding all the way up in my throat as I reached into the darkness to flip the light switch.

  The glare made me blink.

  Belinda, the only half-intelligent fang-banger I’d ever met, was lying on the storeroom floor in a curiously contorted position. Her legs were bent double, her heels pressed against her hips. There was no blood—in fact, no visible mark—on her. Apparently, she was having a giant and perpetual leg cramp.

  I knelt beside Belinda, my eyes darting glances in all directions. I saw no other movement in the room, though its corners were obscured with stacks of liquor cartons and a coffin that was used as a prop in a show the vampires sometimes put on for special parties. The employee bathroom door was shut.

  “Belinda,” I whispered. “Belinda, look at me.”

  Belinda’s eyes were red and swollen behind their glasses, and her cheeks were wet with tears. She blinked and focused on my face.

  “Are they still here?” I asked, knowing she’d understand that I meant “the people who did this to you.”

  “Sookie,” she said hoarsely. Her voice was weak, and I wondered how long she’d lain there waiting for help. “Oh, thank God. Tell Master Eric we tried to hold them off.” Still role-playing, you notice, even in her agony: “Tell our chieftain we fought to the death”—you know the kind of thing.

  “Who’d you try to hold off?” I asked sharply.

  “The witches. They came in last night after we’d closed, after Pam and Chow had gone. Just Ginger and me . . .”

  “What did they want?” I had time to notice that Belinda was still wearing her filmy black waitress outfit with the slit up the long skirt, and there were still puncture marks painted on her neck.

  “They wanted to know where we’d put Master Eric. They seemed to think they’d done . . . something to him, and that we’d hidden him.” During her long pause, her face contorted, and I could tell she was in terrible pain, but I couldn’t tell what was wrong with her. “My legs,” she moaned. “Oh . . .”

  “But you didn’t know, so you couldn’t tell them.”

  “I would never betray our master.”

  And Belinda was the one with sense.

  “Was anyone here besides Ginger, Belinda?” But she was so deep into a spasm of suffering that she couldn’t answer. Her whole body was rigid with pain, that low moan tearing out of her throat again.

  I called 911 from Eric’s office, since I knew the location of the phone there. The room had been tossed, and some frisky witch had spray painted a big red pentagram on one of the walls. Eric was going to love that.

  I returned to Belinda to tell her the ambulance was coming. “What’s wrong with your legs?” I asked, scared of the answer.

  “They made the muscle in the back of my legs pull up, like it was half as long. . . .” And she began moaning again. “It’s like one of those giant cramps you get when you’re pregnant.”

  It was news to me that Belinda had ever been pregnant.

  “Where’s Ginger?” I asked, when her pain seemed to have ebbed a little.

  “She was in the bathroom.”

  Ginger, a pretty strawberry blonde, as dumb as a rock, was still there. I don’t think they’d meant to kill her. But they’d put a spell on her legs like they’d done to Belinda’s, it looked like; her legs were drawn up double in the same peculiar and painful way, even in death. Ginger had been standing in front of the sink when she’d crumpled, and her head had hit the lip of the sink on her way down. Her eyes were sightless and her hair was matted with some clotted blood that had oozed from the depression in her temple.

  There was nothing to be done. I didn’t even touch Ginger; she was so obviously dead. I didn’t say anything about her to Belinda, who was in too much agony to understand, anyway. She had a couple more moments of lucidity before I took off. I asked her where to find Pam and Chow so I could warn them, and Belinda said they just showed up at the bar when it became dark.

  She also said the woman who’d worked the spell was a witch named Hallow, and she was almost six feet tall, with short brown hair and a black design painted on her face.

  That should make her easy to identify.

  “She told me she was as strong as a vampire, too,” Belinda gasped. “You see . . .” Belinda pointed beyond me. I whirled, expecting an attack. Nothing that alarming happened, but what I saw was almost as disturbing as what I’d imagined. It was the handle of the dolly the staff used to wheel cases of drinks around. The long metal handle had been twisted into a U.

  “I know Master Eric will kill her when he returns,” Belinda said falteringly after a minute, the words coming out in jagged bursts because of the pain.

  “Sure he will,” I said stoutly. I hesitated, feeling crummy beyond words. “Belinda, I have to go because I don’t want the police to keep me here for questioning. Please don’t mention my name. Just say a passerby heard you, okay?”

  “Where’s Master Eric? Is he really missing?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, forced to lie. “I have to get out of here.”

  “Go,” Belinda said, her voice ragged. “We’re lucky you came in at all.”

  I had to get out of there. I knew nothing about what had happened at the bar, and being questioned for hours would cost me time I couldn’t afford, with my brother missing.

  Back in my car and on my way out of the shopping center, I passed the police cars and the ambulance as they headed in. I’d wiped the doorknob clean of my fingerprints. Other than that, I couldn’t think of what I’d touched and what I hadn’t, no matter how carefully I reviewed my actions. There’d be a million prints there, anyway; gosh, it was a bar.

  After a minute, I realized I was just driving with no direction. I was overwhelmingly rattled. I pulled over into yet another filling station parking lot and looked at the pay phone longingly. I could call Alcide, ask him if he knew where Pam and Chow spent their daytime hours. Then I could go there and leave a message or something, warn them about what had happened.

  I made myself take some deep breaths and think hard about what I was doing. It was extremely unlikely that the vamps would give a Were the address of their daytime resting place. This was not information that vampires passed out to anyone who asked. Alcide had no love for the vamps of Shreveport, who’d held his dad’s gambling debt over Alcide’s head until he complied with their wishes. I knew that if I called, he’d come, because he was just a nice guy. But his involvement could have serious consequences for his family and his business. However, if this Hallow really was a triple threat—a Were witch who drank vampire blood—she was very dangerous, and the Weres of Shreveport should know about her. Relieved I’d finally made up my mind, I found a pay phone that worked, and I got Alcide’s card out of its slot in my billfold.

  Alcide was in his office, which was a miracle. I described my location, and he gave me directions on how to reach his office. He offered to come get me,
but I didn’t want him to think I was an utter idiot.

  I used a calling card to phone Bud Dearborn’s office, to hear there was no news about Jason.

  Following Alcide’s directions very carefully, I arrived at Herveaux and Son in about twenty minutes. It was not too far off I-30, on the eastern edge of Shreveport, actually on my way back to Bon Temps.

  The Herveauxes owned the building, and their surveying company was its sole occupant. I parked in front of the low brick building. At the rear, I spotted Alcide’s Dodge Ram pickup in the large parking lot for employees. The one in front, for visitors, was much smaller. It was clear to see that the Herveauxes mostly went to their clients, rather than the clients coming to them.

  Feeling shy and more than a little nervous, I pushed open the front door and glanced around. There was a desk just inside the door, with a waiting area opposite. Beyond a half wall, I could see five or six workstations, three of them occupied. The woman behind the desk was in charge of routing phone calls, too. She had short dark brown hair that was carefully cut and styled, she was wearing a beautiful sweater, and she had wonderful makeup. She was probably in her forties, but it hadn’t lessened her impressiveness.

  “I’m here to see Alcide,” I said, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious.

  “Your name?” She was smiling at me, but she looked a little crisp around the edges, as if she didn’t quite approve of a young and obviously unfashionable woman showing up at Alcide’s workplace. I was wearing a bright blue-and-yellow knit top with long sleeves under my old thigh-length blue cloth coat, and aged blue jeans, and Reeboks. I’d been worried about finding my brother when I dressed, not about standing inspection by the Fashion Police.

  “Stackhouse,” I said.

  “Ms. Stackhouse here to see you,” Crispy said into an intercom.

  “Oh, good!” Alcide sounded very happy, which was a relief.

  Crispy was saying into the intercom, “Shall I send her back?” when Alcide burst through the door behind and to the left of her desk.

  “Sookie!” he said, and he beamed at me. He stopped for a second, as if he couldn’t quite decide what he should do, and then he hugged me.

  I felt like I was smiling all over. I hugged him back. I was so happy to see him! I thought he looked wonderful. Alcide is a tall man, with black hair that apparently can’t be tamed with a brush and comb, and he has a broad face and green eyes.

  We’d dumped a body together, and that creates a bond.

  He pulled gently on my braid. “Come on back,” he said in my ear, since Ms. Crispy was looking on with an indulgent smile. I was sure the indulgent part was for Alcide’s benefit. In fact, I knew it was, because she was thinking I didn’t look chic enough or polished enough to date a Herveaux, and she didn’t think Alcide’s dad (with whom she’d been sleeping for two years) would appreciate Alcide taking up with a no-account girl like me. Oops, one of those things I didn’t want to know. Obviously I wasn’t shielding myself hard enough. Bill had made me practice, and now that I didn’t see him anymore, I was getting sloppy. It wasn’t entirely my fault; Ms. Crispy was a clear broadcaster.

  Alcide was not, since he’s a werewolf.

  Alcide ushered me down a hall, which was nicely carpeted and hung with neutral pictures—insipid landscapes and garden scenes—which I figured some decorator (or maybe Ms. Crispy) had chosen. He showed me into his office, which had his name on the door. It was a big room, but not a grand or elegant one, because it was just chock-full of work stuff—plans and papers and hard hats and office equipment. Very utilitarian. A fax machine was humming, and set beside a stack of forms there was a calculator displaying figures.

  “You’re busy. I shouldn’t have called,” I said, instantly cowed.

  “Are you kidding? Your call is the best thing that’s happened to me all day!” He sounded so sincere that I had to smile again. “There’s something I have to say to you, something I didn’t tell you when I dropped your stuff off after you got hurt.” After I’d been beaten up by hired thugs. “I felt so bad about it that I’ve put off coming to Bon Temps to talk to you face-to-face.”

  Omigod, he’d gotten back with his nasty rotten fiancée, Debbie Pelt. I was getting Debbie’s name from his brain.

  “Yes?” I said, trying to look calm and open. He reached down and took my hand between his own large palms.

  “I owe you a huge apology.”

  Okay, that was unexpected. “How would that be?” I asked, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. I’d come here to spill my guts, but it was Alcide who was spilling his instead.

  “That last night, at Club Dead,” he began, “when you needed my help and protection the most, I . . .”

  I knew what was coming now. Alcide had changed into a wolf rather than staying human and helping me out of the bar after I’d gotten staked. I put my free hand across his mouth. His skin was so warm. If you’re used to touching vampires, you’ll know just how roasty a regular human can feel, and a Were even more so, since they run a few degrees hotter.

  I felt my pulse quicken, and I knew he could tell, too. Animals are good at sensing excitement. “Alcide,” I said, “never bring that up. You couldn’t help it, and it all turned out okay, anyway.” Well, more or less—other than my heart breaking at Bill’s perfidy.

  “Thanks for being so understanding,” he said, after a pause during which he looked at me intently. “I think I would have felt better if you’d been mad.” I believe he was wondering whether I was just putting a brave face on it or if I was truly sincere. I could tell he had an impulse to kiss me, but he wasn’t sure if I’d welcome such a move or even allow it.

  Well, I didn’t know what I’d do, either, so I didn’t give myself the chance to find out.

  “Okay, I’m furious with you, but I’m concealing it real well,” I said. He relaxed all over when he saw me smile, though it might be the last smile we’d share all day. “Listen, your office in the middle of day isn’t a good time and place to tell you the things I need to tell you,” I said. I spoke very levelly, so he’d realize I wasn’t coming on to him. Not only did I just plain old like Alcide, I thought he was one hell of a man—but until I was sure he was through with Debbie Pelt, he was off my list of guys I wanted to be around. The last I’d heard of Debbie, she’d been engaged to another shifter, though even that hadn’t ended her emotional involvement with Alcide.

  I was not going to get in the middle of that—not with the grief caused by Bill’s infidelity still weighing heavily on my own heart.

  “Let’s go to the Applebee’s down the road and have some coffee,” he suggested. Over the intercom, he told Crispy he was leaving. We went out through the back door.

  It was about two o’clock by then, and the restaurant was almost empty. Alcide asked the young man who seated us to put us in a booth as far away from anyone else as we could get. I scooted down the bench on one side, expecting Alcide to take the other, but he slid in beside me. “If you want to tell secrets, this is as close as we can get,” he said.

  We both ordered coffee, and Alcide asked the server to bring a small pot. I inquired after his dad while the server was puttering around, and Alcide inquired after Jason. I didn’t answer, because the mention of my brother’s name was enough to make me feel close to crying. When our coffee had come and the young man had left, Alcide said, “What’s up?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to decide where to begin. “There’s a bad witch coven in Shreveport,” I said flatly. “They drink vampire blood, and at least a few of them are shifters.”

  It was Alcide’s turn to take a deep breath.

  I help up a hand, indicating there was more to come. “They’re moving into Shreveport to take over the vampires’ financial kingdom. They put a curse or a hex or something on Eric, and it took away his memory. They raided Fangtasia, trying to discover the day resting place of the vampires. They put some kind of spell on two of the waitresses, and one of them is in the hospital. The other one is dead.”

/>   Alcide was already sliding his cell phone from his pocket.

  “Pam and Chow have hidden Eric at my house, and I have to get back before dark to take care of him. And Jason is missing. I don’t know who took him or where he is or if he’s . . .” Alive. But I couldn’t say the word.

  Alcide’s deep breath escaped in a whoosh, and he sat staring at me, the phone in his hand. He couldn’t decide whom to call first. I didn’t blame him.

  “I don’t like Eric being at your house,” he said. “It puts you in danger.”

  I was touched that his first thought was for my safety. “Jason asked for a lot of money for doing it, and Pam and Chow agreed,” I said, embarrassed.

  “But Jason isn’t there to take the heat, and you are.”

  Unanswerably true. But to give Jason credit, he certainly hadn’t planned it that way. I told Alcide about the blood on the dock. “Might be a red herring,” he said. “If the type matches Jason’s, then you can worry.” He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes focused inward. “I’ve got to make some calls,” he said.

  “Alcide, are you the packmaster for Shreveport?”

  “No, no, I’m nowhere near important enough.”

  That didn’t seem possible to me, and I said as much. He took my hand.

  “Packmasters are usually older than me,” he said. “And you have to be really tough. Really, really tough.”

  “Do you have to fight to get to be packmaster?”

  “No, you get elected, but the candidates have to be very strong and clever. There’s a sort of—well, you have a test you have to take.”

  “Written? Oral?” Alcide looked relieved when he saw I was smiling. “More like an endurance test?” I said.

  He nodded. “More like.”

  “Don’t you think your packmaster should know about this?”

  “Yes. What else?”

  “Why would they be doing this? Why pick on Shreveport? If they have that much going for them, the vampire blood and the will to do really bad things, why not set up shop in a more prosperous city?”