Dead in the Family

I thought about Bill, naturally enough. He’d been a Confederate soldier. He’d survived the war only to succumb to a vampire after his return home to his wife and children, a tragic end to a hard life.
    I was glad all over again that I’d killed Lorena.
    Here’s something I didn’t like about myself: I realized I didn’t feel bad when I killed a vampire. Something inside me kept insisting they were dead already, and that the first death had been the one that was most important. When I’d killed a human I’d loathed, my reaction had been much more intense.
    Then I thought, You’d think I’d be glad that I was avoiding some pain instead of thinking I should feel worse about taking out Lorena . I hated trying to figure out what was best morally, because so often that didn’t jibe with my gut reaction.
    The bottom line of all this self-examination was that I’d killed Lorena, who could have cured Bill. Bill had gotten wounded when he came to my rescue. Clearly, I had a responsibility. I’d try to figure out what to do.
    By the time I realized I’d been alone in the dark and should have been mortally afraid (at least according to D’Eriq), I was walking into my well-lit backyard. Maybe worrying about my spiritual life was a welcome distraction from reliving physical torture. Or maybe I felt better because I’d done someone a good turn; I’d hugged Bill, and that had made him feel better. When I went to bed that night, I was able to lie on my side in my favorite position instead of tossing and turning, and I slept with no dreams—at least, none that I could remember in the morning.
    For the next week, I enjoyed untroubled sleep, and as a result I began to feel much more like my former self. It was gradual, but perceptible. I hadn’t thought of a way to help Bill, but I bought him a new CD (Beethoven) and put it where he’d find it when he got out of his daytime hiding place. Another day I sent him an e-card. Just so he knew I was thinking about him.
    Each time I saw Eric, I felt a little more cheerful. And finally, I had my very own orgasm, a moment so explosive it was like I’d been saving up for a holiday.
    “You . . . Are you all right?” Eric asked. His blue eyes looked down at me, and he was half-smiling, as if he weren’t sure whether he should be clapping or calling an ambulance.
    “I am very, very all right,” I whispered. Grammar be damned. “I’m so all right I might slide off the bed and lie in a puddle on the floor.”
    His smile became more secure. “So that was good for you? Better than it’s been?”
    “You knew that . . . ?”
    He cocked an eyebrow.
    “Well, of course you knew. I just . . . had some issues that had to work themselves out.”
    “I knew it couldn’t be my lovemaking, wife of mine,” Eric said, and though the words were cocky, his expression was definitely on the relieved side.
    “Don’t call me your wife. You know our so-called marriage is just strategy. To get back to your previous statement. A-one lovemaking, Eric.” I had to give credit where credit was due. “The no-orgasm problem was in my head. Now I’ve self-corrected.”
    “You are bullshitting me, Sookie,” he murmured. “But I’ll show you some A-one lovemaking. Because I think you can come again.”
    As it turned out, I could.

Chapter 1
    APRIL
    I love spring for all the obvious reasons. I love the flowers blooming (which happens early here in Louisiana); I love the birds twittering; I love the squirrels scampering across my yard.
    I love the sound of werewolves howling in the distance.
    No, just kidding. But the late, lamented Tray Dawson had once told me that spring is the favorite season of werewolves. There’s more prey, so the hunt is over quickly, leaving more time to eat and play. Since I’d been thinking about Weres, it wasn’t such a surprise to hear from one.
    On that sunny morning in the middle of April, I was sitting on my front porch with my second cup of coffee and a magazine, still wearing my sleep pants and my Superwoman T-shirt, when the Shreveport packleader called me on my cell phone.
    “Huh,” I said, when I recognized the number. I flipped the phone open. “Hello,” I said cautiously.
    “Sookie,” said Alcide Herveaux. I hadn’t seen Alcide in months. Alcide had ascended to the position of packleader the year before in a single evening of mayhem. “How are you?”
    “Right as rain,” I said, nearly meaning it. “Happy as a clam. Fit as a fiddle.” I