A Touch of Dead

soul was, how fascinating she truly could be, how misunderstood she was.
    If I had a dime for every time I’d heard that from a teenager’s brain, I’d be as rich as John Edward, the psychic.
    I heard the bell ding in the service window, and I trotted over to get the Auberts’ order from our current cook. I loaded my arms with the plates and hustled them over to the table. I had to endure a full-body scan from Little Greg, but that was par for the course, too. Guys can’t help it. Lindsay didn’t register me at all. She was wondering why Dustin was so secretive about his daytime activities. Shouldn’t he be in school?
    Okay, now. We were getting somewhere.
    But then Lindsay began thinking about her D in algebra and how she was going to get grounded when her parents found out and then she wouldn’t get to see Dustin for a while unless she climbed out of her bedroom window at two in the morning. She was seriously considering going all the way.

    Lindsay made me feel sad and old. And very smart. By the time the Aubert family paid their bill and left, I was tired of all of them, and my head was exhausted (a weird feeling, and one I simply can’t describe).
    I plodded through work the rest of the night, glad to the very ends of my Roses on Ice toenails when I headed out the back door.
    “Psst,” said a voice from behind me while I was unlocking my car door.
    With a stifled shriek, I swung around with my keys in my hand, ready to attack.
    “It’s me,” Amelia said gleefully.
    “Dammit, Amelia, don’t sneak up on me like that!” I sagged against the car.
    “Sorry,” she said, but she didn’t sound very sorry. “Hey,” she continued, “I’ve been over by the insurance agency. Guess what!”
    “What?” My lack of enthusiasm seemed to register with Amelia.
    “You tired or something?” she asked.
    “I just had an evening of listening in on the world’s most typical family,” I said. “Greg’s worried, Christy’s worried, Little Greg is horny, and Lindsay has a secret love.”

    “I know,” Amelia said. “And guess what?”
    “He might be a vamp.”
    “Oh.” She sagged. “You already knew?”
    “Not for sure. I know other fascinating stuff, though. I know he understands Lindsay as she’s never been understood before in her whole underappreciated life, that he just might be The One, and that she’s thinking of having sex with this goober.”
    “Well, I know where he lives. Let’s go by there. You drive; I need to get some stuff ready.” We got into Amelia’s car. I took the driver’s seat. Amelia began fumbling in her purse through the many little Ziplocs that filled it. They were all full of magic ready to go: herbs and other ingredients. Bat wings, for all I knew.
    “He lives by himself in a big house with a FOR SALE sign in the front yard. No furniture. Yet he looks like he’s eighteen.” Amelia pointed at the house, which was dark and isolated.
    “Hmmm.” Our eyes met.
    “What do you think?” Amelia asked.
    “Vampire, almost surely.”
    “Could be. But why would a strange vampire be in Bon Temps? Why don’t any of the other vamps know about him?” It was all right to be a vampire in today’s
America, but the vamps were still trying to keep a low profile. They regulated themselves rigorously.
    “How do you know they don’t? Know about him, that is.”
    Good question. Would the area vampires be obliged to tell me? It wasn’t like I was an official vampire greeter or anything.
    “Amelia, you went looking around after a vampire? Not smart.”
    “It wasn’t like I knew he might be fangy when I started. I just followed him after I saw him cruising around the Auberts’ house.”
    “I think he’s in the middle of seducing Lindsay,” I said. “I better make a call.”
    “But does this have anything to do with Greg’s business?”
    “I don’t know. Where is this boy now?”
    “He’s at Lindsay’s house. He finally just parked outside. I guess he’s waiting for her to come out.”
    “Crap.” I pulled in a little way down the street from the Auberts’ ranch style. I flipped open my cell phone to call Fangtasia. Maybe it’s not a good sign when the area vampire bar is on your speed dial.
    “Fangtasia, the bar with a bite,” said an unfamiliar
voice. Just as Bon Temps and our whole area was saturated with human evacuees, the vampire community in Shreveport was, too.
    “This is Sookie Stackhouse. I need to speak with Eric, please,” I said.
    “Oh, the