“Karin, I’m working,” I said, in that sort of hiss that comes out when you’re pissed off but trying to keep your voice down. “See? Earning a living?”
She looked around her. “Here? Truly?” Her tiny white nose wrinkled.
I took hold of my temper with both hands. “Yes, here. This is my business.”
Sam came up, trying hard to act casual. “Sookie, who’s your friend?”
“Sam, this is Karin the—this is Karin Slaughter, my alibi for last night. She’s here to tell me Eric needs me in Shreveport. Now.”
Sam was trying to look genial, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Karin, nice to meet you. We’re pretty busy. Can’t Eric wait for an hour?”
“No.” Karin didn’t look stubborn or angry or impatient. She looked matter-of-fact.
We stood silently regarding each other for a long moment.
“All right, Sook, I’ll take your tables,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll manage.”
“You’re the boss, Sam.” Karin’s arctic eyes gave my boss—my partner—a laserlike examination.
“I’m the boss, Sam,” he said agreeably. “Sook, I’ll come if you need me . . .”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, though I knew that wasn’t true. “Really, don’t worry.”
Sam looked torn. A group of thirtyish women who were celebrating a divorce began hollering for a refill on their pitcher of beer. They were the deciding factor. “Will you be responsible for her safety?” Sam said to Karin.
“With my existence,” Karin said calmly.
“Let me get my purse,” I told Karin, and hurried to the lockers at the back of the storeroom. I whipped off my apron, dropped it in the “dirty” barrel, and changed into a clean T-shirt from my locker. I brushed my hair in the ladies’ room, though since it had a dent all around from the elastic band, I had to put it back up in its ponytail. At least it looked neater.
No shower, no fresh dress, no nice shoes. At least I had lipstick.
I stuck my tongue out at the mirror and slung my purse over my shoulder. Time to face the music, though I didn’t know what tune would be playing.
I didn’t know how Karin had arrived at Merlotte’s; maybe she could fly, like Eric. She rode with me in my car to Shreveport. Eric’s oldest child wasn’t much of a talker. Her only question was, “How long did it take you to learn to drive a car?” She seemed mildly interested when I told her I’d taken driver’s education in high school. After that, she stared ahead of her. She might be thinking deep thoughts about the world economy, or she might be totally miffed that she’d gotten escort detail. I had no way of knowing.
Finally, I said, “Karin, I guess you just got to Louisiana recently. How long had it been since you’d seen Eric?”
“I arrived two days ago. It had been two hundred and fifty-three years since I saw my maker.”
“I guess he hadn’t changed much,” I said, perhaps a bit sarcastically. Vampires never changed.
“No,” she said, and fell silent again.
She wasn’t going to give me a way to ease into the topic I had to broach. I simply had to take the plunge. “Karin, as I asked Mustapha to tell you, the police in Bon Temps may want to talk to you about when you saw me last night.”
Karin did turn to look at me then. Though I was watching the road, I could see the movement of her head out of the corner of my eye.
“Mustapha gave me your message, yes. What shall I say?” she asked.
“That you saw me in my house about eleven thirty or midnight, whichever it was, and that you watched the house until daybreak, so you know I didn’t leave,” I said. “Isn’t that the truth?”
Karin said, “It might be.” And then she didn’t say one more word.
Karin was pretty fucking irritating. Excuse me.
I was actually glad to get to Fangtasia. I was used to parking in the back with the staff. Just as I was about to drive around the row of stores, Karin said, “It is blocked off. You must leave your car out here.”
Since the first time I’d been here with Bill, I’d seldom parked in front with the customers. I’d been a privileged visitor for months. I’d fought and bled with the Fangtasia staff, and I’d counted some of them as my friends, or at least my allies. Now, apparently, I was one of the crowd of casual human thrill-seekers. It hurt a little bit.
I was sure that would prove to be the least of my hurts.
While I was giving myself a pep talk, I was cruising through the rows of cars looking for a space. The search took a few minutes. I could hear a faint strain of music when we got out of the car, so I knew there must be a live band tonight (“live” in the sense that they were actually onstage).
Every now and then a vampire group would play a few sets at Shreveport’s only vamp bar, and this seemed to be one of those nights. Newly turned vampires played covers of music they had loved in life, recent human music, but the old vampires would play things that living people had never heard, mixed in with some human songs they found appealing. I’d never met a vampire who didn’t love “Thriller.”
At least Karin and I were able to bypass the line waiting at the cover charge booth, which was occupied by a snarling Thalia. I was glad to see her arm had reattached, and I tapped my own right forearm and gave her a thumbs-up. Her face relaxed for a moment, which was as close as Thalia got to a smile unless flowing blood was involved.
Inside the club, the noise level was tolerable. The sensitivity of vamp hearing kept the volume at a level I could endure. Crowded together on the little music platform was a cluster of very hairy men and women. I was willing to bet they’d been turned in the sixties. The nineteen sixties. On the West Coast. It was a big clue when they ended “Honky Tonk Women” to flow into “San Francisco.” I peeked at their tattered jeans. Yep, bell-bottoms. Headbands. Flowered shirts. Flowing locks. A slice of history here in Shreveport.
And then Eric was standing beside me, and my heart gave a little leap. I didn’t know if it was happiness at his proximity, or apprehension that this might be the last time I’d see him, or simple fear. His hand touched my face as his head bent toward mine. He said into my ear, just loud enough for me to hear, “This is what has to be done, but never doubt my affection.”
He bent even closer. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he was just getting my scent. Vampires only inhale when they really want to savor a smell, and that was what he was doing.
He took my hand to lead me to the management part of the bar, to his office. He looked back at me once, and I could tell he was reminding me without words that he wanted me to remember that whatever was coming was all a show.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
Eric’s office wasn’t big, and it wasn’t grand, but it sure was crowded. Pam was leaning against a wall, looking amazingly suburban-chic in pink capris and a flowered tank, but any relief I might have experienced on seeing a familiar face was simply swamped by more apprehension when I recognized Felipe de Castro—King of Nevada, Louisiana, and Arkansas—and Freyda, Queen of Oklahoma. I’d been sure they’d be there, one or the other, but to see both . . . my heart sank.
The presence of royalty never meant anything good.
Felipe was behind the desk, sitting in Eric’s chair, naturally. He was flanked by his right hand, Horst Friedman, and his consort, Angie Weatherspoon. Angie was a leggy redhead I’d hardly exchanged two words with. I’d hate her forever because she’d danced on Eric’s favorite table while wearing spike-heeled shoes.
Maybe I would write a rap song called “Flanked by His Flunkies.”