Dead Ever After: A True Blood Novel

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.”
    Maybe Eric’s table wasn’t my problem any longer.
    Maybe I should crawl back into my right mind instead of freaking out.
    There was a throw rug in front of the desk. Eric and I had been literally called on the carpet.
    “Looking real, Sookie,” Pam said. Of course she would comment on my waitress outfit. I probably smelled like French fries.
    “I didn’t have a choice,” I said.
    “Meees Stekhuss,” Felipe said pleasantly. “How nice to see you again.”
    “Hmmm,” Freyda said, from her chair against the wall facing the door. It seemed she disagreed.
    I glanced behind me to see that an expressionless Karin was blocking