Dead and Gone

nervously, I signed for Sam. By the time that was done and the truck had pulled out of the parking lot, Sarah Jen, the mail carrier, came by with the bar mail and Sam’s personal mail. I accepted both. Sarah Jen had her talking shoes on. She’d heard (already) that Sam’s mom was in the hospital, but I didn’t feel I had to enlighten her about the circumstances. That was Sam’s business. Sarah Jen also wanted to tell me how she wasn’t astonished at all that Sam was a wereanimal, because she’d always thought there was something strange about him.
    “He’s a nice guy,” Sarah Jen admitted. “I’m not saying he’s not. Just . . . something odd there. I wasn’t a bit surprised.”
    “Really? He’s sure said such nice things about you,” I said sweetly, looking down so the line would be a throwaway. I could see the delight flooding Sarah Jen’s head as clearly as if she’d drawn me a picture.
    “He’s always been real polite,” she said, suddenly seeing Sam in the light of a most perceptive man. “Well, I better be going. I got to finish the route. If you talk to Sam, tell him I’m thinking of his mom.”
    After I carried the mail to Sam’s desk, Amelia called from the insurance agency to tell me that Octavia had called her to ask if either of us could take her to Wal-Mart. Octavia, who’d lost most of her stuff in Katrina, was stuck out at the house without a car.
    “You’ll have to take her on your lunch hour,” I said, barely managing not to snap at Amelia. “I got a full plate today. And here comes more trouble,” I said as a car pulled up beside mine in the employee parking lot. “Here’s Eric’s daytime guy, Bobby Burnham.”
    “Oh, I meant to tell you. Octavia said Eric tried to call you at home twice. So she finally told Bobby where you were this morning,” Amelia said. “She figured it might be important. Lucky you. Okay, I’ll take care of Octavia. Somehow.”
    “Good,” I said, trying not to sound as brusque as I felt. “Talk to you later.”
    Bobby Burnham got out of his Impala and strode up to me. His boss, Eric, was bound to me in a complicated relationship that was based not only on our past history but also on the fact that we’d swapped blood several times.
    This hadn’t been an informed decision on my part.
    Bobby Burnham was an asshole. Maybe Eric had gotten him on sale?
    “Miss Stackhouse,” he said, laying the courtliness on thick. “My master asks that you come to Fangtasia tonight for a sit-down with the new king’s lieutenant.”
    This was not the summons I’d expected or the kind of conversation I’d foreseen with the vampire sheriff of Area Five. Given the fact that we had some personal issues to discuss, I’d imagined Eric would call me when things had settled down with the new regime, and we’d make some kind of appointment—or date—to talk about the several items on our mutual plate. I wasn’t pleased by this impersonal summons by a flunky.
    “You ever hear of a phone?” I said.
    “He left you messages last night. He told me to talk to you today, without fail. I’m just following orders.”
    “Eric told you to spend your time driving over here and asking me to come to his bar tonight.” Even to my own ears, I sounded unbelieving.
    “Yes. He said, ‘Track her down, deliver the message in person, and be polite.’ Here I am. Being polite.”
    He was telling me the truth, and it was just killing him. That was almost enough to make me smile. Bobby really didn’t like me. The closest I could come to defining why was that Bobby didn’t think I was worthy of Eric’s notice. He didn’t like my less-than-reverent attitude toward Eric, and he couldn’t understand why Pam, Eric’s right-hand vampire, was fond of me, when she wouldn’t give Bobby the time of day.
    There was nothing I could do to change this, even if Bobby’s dislike had worried me . . . and it didn’t. But Eric worried me plenty. I had to talk to him, and I might as well get it over with. It had been late October when I’d last seen him, and it was now mid-January. “It’ll have to be when I get off here. I’m temporarily in charge,” I said, sounding neither pleased nor gracious.
    “What time? He wants you there at seven. Victor will be there then.”
    Victor Madden was the representative of the new king, Felipe de Castro. It had been a bloody takeover, and Eric was the only sheriff of the old regime still standing. Staying in the good graces of the new