A few weeks previously, a witch had given Eric amnesia, and it had taken several days to restore his sense of identity. During that time, Pam had parked him with me to keep him concealed from the witch who'd cursed him. Lust had taken its course.Many times.
"Like riding a bicycle," Eric said, and I told myself to focus. (Though I wondered when bicycles had been invented, and if Eric had had anything to do with it.) "I did receive a call from Long Shadow's sire, an American Indian whose name seems to be Hot Rain. I'm sure you remember Long Shadow."
"I was just thinking of him," I said.
Long Shadow had been the first bartender of Fangtasia. He'd been embezzling from Eric, who had coerced me into interrogating the barmaids and other human employees until I discovered the culprit. About two seconds before Long Shadow would have ripped out my throat, Eric had executed the bartender with the traditional wooden stake. Killing another vampire is a very serious thing, I gathered, and Eric had had to pay a stiff fine—to whom, I hadn't known, though now I was sure the money had gone to Hot Rain. If Eric had killed Long Shadow without any justification, other penalties would have come into play. I was content to let those remain a mystery.
"What did Hot Rain want?" I said.
"To let me know that though I had paid him the price set by the arbitrator, he didn't consider himself satisfied."
"Did he want more money?"
"I don't think so. He seemed to think financial recompense was not all he required." Eric shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned, the matter is settled." Eric took a swallow of synthetic blood, leaned back in his chair, and looked at me with unreadable blue eyes. "And so is my little amnesia episode. The crisis is over, the witches are dead, and order is restored in my little piece of Louisiana. How have things been for you?"
"Well, I'm here on business," I said, and I put my business face on.
"What can I do for you, my Sookie?" he asked.
"Sam wants to ask you for something," I said.
"And he sends you to ask for it. Is he very clever or very stupid?" Eric asked himself out loud.
"Neither," I said, trying not to sound snippy. "He's very leg-broken. That is to say, he got his leg broken last night. He got shot."
"How did this come about?" Eric's attention sharpened.
I explained. I shivered a little when I told him Sam and I had been alone, how silent the night had been.
"Arlene was just out of the parking lot. She went on home without knowing a thing. The new cook, Sweetie—she'd just left, too. Someone shot him from the trees north of the parking lot." I shivered again, this time with fear.
"How close were you?"
"Oh," I said, and my voice shook. "I was real close. I'd just turned to . . . then he was . . . There was blood all over."
Eric's face looked hard as marble. "What did you do?"
"Sam had his cell phone in his pocket, thank God, and I held one hand over the hole in his leg and I dialed nine-one-one with the other."
"How is he?"
"Well." I took a deep breath and tried to make myself still. "He's pretty good, all things considered." I'd put that quite calmly. I was proud. "But of course, he's down for a while, and so much . . . so many odd things have been happening at the bar lately. . . . Our substitute bartender, he just can't handle it for more than a couple of nights. Terry's kind of damaged."
"So what's Sam's request?"
"Sam wants to borrow a bartender from you until his leg heals."
"Why's he making this request of me, instead of the packmaster of Shreveport?" Shifters seldom got organized, but the city werewolves had. Eric was right: It would have been far more logical for Sam to make the request of Colonel Flood.
I looked down at my hands wrapped around the ginger ale glass. "Someone's gunning for the shifters and Weres in Bon Temps," I said. I kept my voice very low. I knew he would hear me through the music and the talk of the bar.
Just then a man lurched up to the booth, a young serviceman from Barksdale Air Force Base, which is a part of the Shreveport area. (I pigeonholed him instantly from his haircut, fitness, and his running buddies, who were more or less clones.) He rocked on his heels for a long moment, looking from me to Eric.
"Hey, you," the young man said to me, poking my shoulder. I looked up at him, resigned to the inevitable. Some people court their own disaster, especially when they drink. This young man, with his buzz haircut and sturdy build, was far from home and determined to prove himself.
There's not much I dislike more than being addressed as "Hey, you" and being poked with a finger. But I tried to present a pleasant face to the young man. He had a round face and round dark eyes, a small mouth and thick brown brows. He was wearing a clean knit shirt and pressed khakis. He was also primed for a confrontation.
"I don't believe I know you," I said gently, trying to defuse the situation.
"You shouldn't be sitting with a vamp," he said. "Human girls shouldn't go with dead guys."
How often had I heard that? I'd gotten an earful of this kind of crap when I'd been dating Bill Compton.
"You should go back over there to your friends, Dave. You don't want your mama to get a phone call about you being killed in a bar fight in Louisiana. Especially not in a vampire bar, right?"
"How'd you know my name?" he asked slowly.
"Doesn't make any difference, does it?"
From the corner of my eye, I could see that Eric was shaking his head. Mild deflection was not his way of dealing with intrusion.
Abruptly, Dave began to simmer down.
"How'd you know about me?" he asked in a calmer voice.
"I have x-ray vision," I said solemnly. "I can read your driver's license in your pants."
He began to smile. "Hey, can you see other stuff through my pants?"
I smiled back at him. "You're a lucky man, Dave," I said ambiguously. "Now, I'm actually here to talk business with this guy, so if you'd excuse us . . ."
"Okay. Sorry, I . . ."
"No problem at all," I assured him. He went back to his friends, walking cocky. I was sure he'd give them a highly embellished account of the conversation.
Though everyone in the bar had tried to pretend they weren't watching the incident, which had so much potential for some juicy violence, they had to scramble to look busy when Eric's eyes swept the surrounding tables.
"You were starting to tell me something when we were so rudely interrupted," he said. Without my asking, a barmaid came up and deposited a fresh drink in front of me, whisking my old glass away. Anyone sitting with Eric got the deluxe treatment.
"Yes. Sam isn't the only shape-shifter who's been shot in Bon Temps lately. Calvin Norris was shot in the chest a few days ago. He's a werepanther. And Heather Kinman was shot before that. Heather was just nineteen, a werefox."
Eric said, "I still don't see why this is interesting."
"Eric, she was killed."
He still looked inquiring.
I clenched my teeth together so I wouldn't try to tell him what a nice girl Heather Kinman had been: She'd just graduated from high school and she was working at her first job as a clerk at Bon Temps Office Supplies. She'd been drinking a milkshake at the Sonic when she'd been shot. Today, the crime lab would be comparing the bullet that had shot Sam with the bullet that had killed Heather, and both of those with the bullet from Calvin's chest. I assumed the bullets would match.
"I'm trying to explain to you why Sam doesn't want to ask another shape-shifter or Were to step in to help," I said through clenched teeth. "He thinks that might be putting him or her in danger. And there's just not a local human who's got the qualifications for the job. So he asked me to come to you."