Club Dead

been obliged to accompany me, he could have been off bounding through the woods after deer and bunnies. He shrugged my apology off. “There’ll always be tomorrow night,” he said. “That’s almost as good.” But he was humming with tension.
    Tonight I didn’t jump quite so much when the truck rolled away, apparently on its own, and I didn’t even quiver when Mr. Hob opened the door. I can’t say the goblin looked pleased to see us, but I couldn’t tell you what his ordinary facial expression really meant. So he could have been doing emotional cartwheels of joy, and I wouldn’t have known it.
    Somehow, I doubted he was that excited about my second appearance in his club. Or was he the owner? It was hard to imagine Mr. Hob naming a club “Josephine’s.” “Dead Rotten Dog,” maybe, or “Flaming Maggots,” but not “Josephine’s.”
    “We won’t have trouble tonight,” Mr. Hob told us grimly. His voice was bumpy and rusty, as if he didn’t talk much, and didn’t enjoy it when he did.
    “It wasn’t her fault,” Alcide said.
    “Nonetheless,” Hob said, and left it at that. He probably felt he didn’t need to say anything else, and he was right. The short, lumpy goblin jerked his head at a group of tables that had been pushed together. “The king is waiting for you.”
    The men stood as I reached the table. Russell Edgington and his special friend Talbot were facing the dance floor; and across from them were an older (well, he’d become undead when he was older) vampire, and a woman, who of course stayed seated. My gaze trailed over her, came back, and I shrieked with delight.
    “Tara!”
    My high school friend shrieked right back and jumped up. We gave each other a full frontal hug, rather than the slightly less enthusiastic half-hug that was our norm. We were both strangers in a strange land, here at Club Dead.
    Tara, who is several inches taller than I am, has dark hair and eyes and olive skin. She was wearing a long-sleeved gold-and-bronze dress that shimmered as she moved, and she had on high, high heels. She had attained the height of her date.
    Just as I was disengaging from the embrace and giving her a happy pat on the back, I realized that seeing Tara was the worst thing that could have happened. I went into her mind, and I saw that, sure enough, she was about to ask me why I was with someone who wasn’t Bill.
    “Come on, girlfriend, come to the ladies’ with me for a second!” I said cheerfully, and she grabbed her purse, while giving her date a perfect smile, both promising and rueful. I gave Alcide a little wave, asked the other gentlemen to excuse us, and we walked briskly to the rest rooms, which were off the passage leading to the back door. The ladies’ room was empty. I pressed my back against the door to keep other females out. Tara was facing me, her face lit up with questions.
    “Tara, please, don’t say anything about Bill or anything about Bon Temps.”
    “You want to tell me why?”
    “Just . . .” I tried to think of something reasonable, couldn’t. “Tara, it’ll cost me my life if you do.”
    She twitched, and gave me a steady stare. Who wouldn’t? But Tara had been through a lot in her life, and she was a tough, if wounded, bird. “I’m so happy to see you here,” she said. “It was lonely being in this crowd by myself. Who’s your friend? What is he?”
    I always forgot that other people couldn’t tell. And sometimes I nearly forgot that other people didn’t know about Weres and shifters. “He’s a surveyor,” I said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
    “Sorry we left so quickly,” I said, smiling brightly at all the men. “I forgot my manners.” I introduced Tara to Alcide, who looked appropriately appreciative. Then it was Tara’s turn. “Sook, this is Franklin Mott.”
    “A pleasure to meet you,” I said, and extended my hand before I realized my faux pas. Vampires don’t shake hands. “I beg your pardon,” I said hastily, and gave him a little wave instead. “Do you live here in Jackson, Mr. Mott?” I was determined not to embarrass Tara.
    “Please call me Franklin,” he said. He had a wonderful mellow voice with a light Italion accent. When he had died, he had probably been in his late fifties or early sixties; his hair and mustache were iron gray, and his face was lined. He looked vigorous and very masculine. “Yes, I do, but I own a business that has a franchise in Jackson, one in Ruston, and one in Vicksburg. I