Chapter 13
“Amelia, what works against fairies?” I asked. I’d gotten a full night’s sleep, and I was feeling much better in consequence. Amelia’s boss was out of town, so she had the afternoon off.
“You mean something that’ll act as a fairy repellent?” she asked.
“Yeah, or cause fairy death even,” I said. “That’s preferable to me getting killed. I need to defend myself.”
“I don’t know too much about fairies, since they’re so rare and secretive,” she said. “I wasn’t sure they still existed until I heard about your great-grandfather. You need something like Mace for fairies, huh?”
I had a sudden idea. “I’ve already got some, Amelia,” I said, feeling happier than I had in days. I looked in the racks on the door of the refrigerator. Sure enough, there was a bottle of ReaLemon. “Now all I got to do is buy a water pistol at Wal-Mart,” I said. “It’s not summer, but surely they’ve got some over in the toy department.”
“That works?”
“Yeah, a little-known supernatural fact. Just contact with it is fatal. I understand if it’s ingested, the result’s even quicker. If you could squirt it in a fairy’s open mouth, that would be one dead fairy.”
“Sounds like you’re in big trouble, Sookie.” Amelia had been reading, but now she laid her book on the table.
“Yeah, I am.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“It’s complicated. Hard to explain.”
“I understand the definition of ‘complicated.’”
“Sorry. Well, it might not be safe for you to learn the ins and outs of it. Can you help? Will your wards work against fairies?”
“I’ll check my sources,” Amelia said in that wise way she had when she didn’t have a clue. “I’ll call Octavia if I have to.”
“I’d appreciate it. And if you need some kind of spell-casting ingredients, money is no object.” I’d gotten a check in the mail that very morning from Sophie-Anne’s estate. Mr. Cataliades had come through with the money she’d owed me. I was going to run it to the bank this afternoon, since the drive-through would be open.
Amelia took a deep breath, stalled. I waited. Since she’s an exceptionally clear broadcaster, I knew what she wanted to talk about, but to keep our relationship on an even keel, I simply held out until she spoke out loud.
“I heard from Tray, who’s got a couple friends on the police force—though not many—that Whit and Arlene are denying up and down that they killed Crystal. They . . . Arlene says they planned on making you an example of what happens to people who hang around with the supernatural; that it was Crystal’s death that gave them the idea.”
My good mood evaporated. I felt a profound depression settle on my shoulders. Hearing this spoken out loud made it seem even more horrible. I could think of no comment to offer. “What does Tray hear about what might happen to them?” I said finally.
“Depends on whose bullet hit Agent Weiss. If it was Donny’s—well, he’s dead. Whit can say he was being shot at, so he shot back. He can say he didn’t know anything about a plan to harm you. He was visiting his girlfriend and happened to have some pieces of wood in the back of his pickup.”
“What about Helen Ellis?”
“She told Andy Bellefleur she just came to the trailer to pick up the kids because they’d done really well on their report cards, and she’d promised to take them to the Sonic for an ice cream treat. Any more than that, she doesn’t know diddly squat.” Amelia’s face expressed extreme skepticism.
“So Arlene is the only one talking.” I dried the baking sheet. I’d made biscuits that morning. Baking therapy, cheap and satisfying.
“Yeah, and she may recant any minute. She was real shaken up when she talked, but she’ll wise up. Maybe too late. At least we can hope so.”
I’d been right; Arlenewas the weakest link. “She gotten a lawyer?”
“Yeah. She couldn’t afford Sid Matt Lancaster, so she hired Melba Jennings.”
“Good move,” I said thoughtfully. Melba Jennings was only a couple of years older than me. She was the only African-American woman in Bon Temps who’d been to law school. She had a hard-as-nails facade and was confrontational in the extreme. Other lawyers had been known to take incredible detours to dodge Melba if they saw her coming. “Makes her look less of a bigot.”
“I don’t think it’s going to fool anyone, but Melba’s like a pit bull.” Melba had been in Amelia’s insurance agency on behalf of a couple of clients. “I better go make my bed,” Amelia said, standing and stretching. “Hey, Tray and I are going to the movies in Clarice tonight. Want to come?”
“You’ve really been trying to include me on your dates. You’re not getting bored with Tray already, I hope?”
“Not a bit,” Amelia said, sounding faintly surprised. “In fact, I think he’s great. Tray’s buddy Drake has been pestering him, though. Drake’s seen you in the bar, and he wants to get to know you.”
“He a Were?”
“Just a guy. Thinks you’re pretty.”
“I don’t do regular guys,” I said, smiling. “It just doesn’t work out very well.” It “worked out” disastrously, as a matter of fact. Imagine knowing what your date thinks of you every single minute.
Plus, there was the issue of Eric and our undefined but intimate relationship.
“Keep the possibility on the back burner. He’s really cute, and by cute, I mean hotter than a steam iron.”
After Amelia had tromped up the stairs, I poured myself a glass of tea. I tried to read, but I found I couldn’t concentrate on the book. Finally, I slid my paper bookmark in and stared into space, thinking about a lot of things.
I wondered where Arlene’s children were now. With Arlene’s old aunt, who lived over in Clarice? Or still with Helen Ellis? Did Helen like Arlene enough to keep Coby and Lisa?
I couldn’t rid myself of a nagging feeling of responsibility for the kids’ sad situation, but it was going to have to be one of those things I simply suffered. The person really responsible was Arlene. There was nothing I could do for them.
As if thinking of children had triggered a nerve in the universe, the phone rang. I got up and went to the wall-mounted unit in the kitchen. “Hello,” I said without enthusiasm.
“Ms. Stackhouse? Sookie?”
“Yes, this is she,” I said properly.
“This is Remy Savoy.”
My dead cousin Hadley’s ex, father of her child. “I’m glad you called. How’s Hunter?” Hunter was a “gifted” child, God bless him. He’d been “gifted” the same way I had been.
“He’s fine. Uh, about that thing.”
“Sure.” We were going to talk telepathy.
“He’s going to need some guidance soon. He’ll be starting kindergarten. They’re going to notice. I mean, it’ll take a while, but sooner or later . . .”
“Yeah, they’ll notice all right.” I opened my mouth to suggest that Remy bring Hunter over on my next day off or that I could drive to Red Ditch. But then I remembered that I was the target of a group of homicidal fairies. Not a good time for a young ’un to come visiting, and who’s to say they couldn’t follow me to Remy’s little house? So far none of them knew about Hunter. I hadn’t even told my great-grandfather about Hunter’s special talent. If Niall himself didn’t know, maybe none of the hostiles had uncovered the information.
On the whole, better to take no risks.
“I really want to meet with him and get to know him. I promise I’ll help him as much as I can,” I said. “Right now, it just isn’t possible. But since we have a little time to spare before kindergarten . . . maybe in a month or so?”
“Oh,” Remy said in a nonplussed way. “I was hoping to bring him over on my day off.”