A Touch of Dead

you do.”

    The goblin said, “I’ve already forgotten the whole thing,” and the madwoman beside him nodded and laughed. The few other non-vamps hastily agreed.
    No one solicited my answer. I guess they were taking my silence for a given, and they were right.
    Pam drew me aside. She made an annoyed sound, like “ tchk ,” and brushed at my dress. I looked down to see a fine spray of blood had misted across the chiffon skirt. I knew immediately that I’d never wear my beloved bargain dress again.
    “Too bad, you look good in pink,” Pam said.
    I started to offer the dress to her, then thought again. I would wear it home and burn it. Vampire blood on my dress? Not a good piece of evidence to leave hanging around someone’s closet. If experience has taught me anything, it’s to dispose instantly of bloodstained clothing
    “That was a brave thing you did,” Pam said.
    “Well, he was going to bite me,” I said. “To death.”
    “Still,” she said.
    I didn’t like the calculating look in her eyes.
    “Thank you for helping Eric when I couldn’t,” Pam said. “My maker is a big idiot about the prince.”

    “I did it because he was going to suck my blood,” I told her.
    “You did some research on Vlad Tepes.”
    “Yes, I went to the library after you told me about the original Dracula, and I Googled him.”
    Pam’s eyes gleamed. “Legend has it that the original Vlad III was beheaded before he was buried.”
    “That’s just one of the stories surrounding his death,” I said.
    “True. But you know that not even a vampire can survive a beheading.”
    “I would think not.”
    “So you know the whole thing may be a crock of shit.”
    “Pam,” I said, mildly shocked. “Well, it might be. And it might not. After all, Eric talked to someone who said he was the real Dracula’s gofer.”
    “You knew that Milos wasn’t the real Dracula the minute he stepped forth.”
    I shrugged.
    Pam shook her head at me. “You’re too soft, Sookie Stackhouse. It’ll be the death of you some day.”
    “Nah, I don’t think so,” I said. I was watching Eric, his golden hair falling forward as he looked down at
the rapidly disintegrating remains of the self-styled Prince of Darkness. The thousand years of his life sat on him heavily, and for a second I saw every one of them. Then, by degrees, his face lightened, and when he looked up at me, it was with the expectancy of a child on Christmas Eve.
    “Maybe next year,” he said.

ONE WORD ANSWER

    B ubba the Vampire and I were raking up clippings from my newly trimmed bushes about midnight when the long black car pulled up. I’d been enjoying the gentle scent of the cut bushes and the songs of the crickets and frogs celebrating spring. Everything hushed with the arrival of the black limousine. Bubba vanished immediately, because he didn’t recognize the car. Since he changed over to the vampire persuasion, Bubba’s been on the shy side.
    I leaned against my rake, trying to look nonchalant. In reality, I was far from relaxed. I live pretty far out in the country, and you have to want to be at my house to find the way. There’s not a sign out at the parish road
that points down my driveway reading STACKHOUSE HOME. My home is not visible from the road, because the driveway meanders through some woods to arrive in the clearing where the core of the house has stood for a hundred and sixty years.
    Visitors are not real frequent, and I didn’t remember ever seeing a limousine before. No one got out of the long black car for a couple of minutes. I began to wonder if maybe I should have hidden myself, like Bubba. I had the outside lights on, of course, since I couldn’t see in the dark like Bubba, but the limousine windows were heavily smoked. I was real tempted to whack the shiny bumper with my rake to find out what would happen. Fortunately, the door opened while I was still thinking about it.
    A large gentleman emerged from the rear of the limousine. He was six feet tall, and he was made up of circles. The largest circle was his belly. The round head above it was almost bald, but a fringe of black hair circled it right above his ears. His little eyes were round, too, and black as his hair and his suit. His shirt was gleaming white, but his tie was black without a pattern. He looked like the director of a funeral home for the criminally insane.

    “Not too many people do their yard work at midnight,” he commented, in a surprisingly melodious voice. The