Dead to the World

workstations, three of them occupied. The woman behind the desk was in charge of routing phone calls, too. She had short dark brown hair that was carefully cut and styled, she was wearing a beautiful sweater, and she had wonderful makeup. She was probably in her forties, but it hadn’t lessened her impressiveness.
    “I’m here to see Alcide,” I said, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious.
    “Your name?” She was smiling at me, but she looked a little crisp around the edges, as if she didn’t quite approve of a young and obviously unfashionable woman showing up at Alcide’s workplace. I was wearing a bright blue-and-yellow knit top with long sleeves under my old thigh-length blue cloth coat, and aged blue jeans, and Reeboks. I’d been worried about finding my brother when I dressed, not about standing inspection by the Fashion Police.
    “Stackhouse,” I said.
    “Ms. Stackhouse here to see you,” Crispy said into an intercom.
    “Oh, good!” Alcide sounded very happy, which was a relief.
    Crispy was saying into the intercom, “Shall I send her back?” when Alcide burst through the door behind and to the left of her desk.
    “Sookie!” he said, and he beamed at me. He stopped for a second, as if he couldn’t quite decide what he should do, and then he hugged me.
    I felt like I was smiling all over. I hugged him back. I was so happy to see him! I thought he looked wonderful. Alcide is a tall man, with black hair that apparently can’t be tamed with a brush and comb, and he has a broad face and green eyes.
    We’d dumped a body together, and that creates a bond.
    He pulled gently on my braid. “Come on back,” he said in my ear, since Ms. Crispy was looking on with an indulgent smile. I was sure the indulgent part was for Alcide’s benefit. In fact, I knew it was, because she was thinking I didn’t look chic enough or polished enough to date a Herveaux, and she didn’t think Alcide’s dad (with whom she’d been sleeping for two years) would appreciate Alcide taking up with a no-account girl like me. Oops, one of those things I didn’t want to know. Obviously I wasn’t shielding myself hard enough. Bill had made me practice, and now that I didn’t see him anymore, I was getting sloppy. It wasn’t entirely my fault; Ms. Crispy was a clear broadcaster.
    Alcide was not, since he’s a werewolf.
    Alcide ushered me down a hall, which was nicely carpeted and hung with neutral pictures—insipid landscapes and garden scenes—which I figured some decorator (or maybe Ms. Crispy) had chosen. He showed me into his office, which had his name on the door. It was a big room, but not a grand or elegant one, because it was just chock-full of work stuff—plans and papers and hard hats and office equipment. Very utilitarian. A fax machine was humming, and set beside a stack of forms there was a calculator displaying figures.
    “You’re busy. I shouldn’t have called,” I said, instantly cowed.
    “Are you kidding? Your call is the best thing that’s happened to me all day!” He sounded so sincere that I had to smile again. “There’s something I have to say to you, something I didn’t tell you when I dropped your stuff off after you got hurt.” After I’d been beaten up by hired thugs. “I felt so bad about it that I’ve put off coming to Bon Temps to talk to you face-to-face.”
    Omigod, he’d gotten back with his nasty rotten fiancée, Debbie Pelt. I was getting Debbie’s name from his brain.
    “Yes?” I said, trying to look calm and open. He reached down and took my hand between his own large palms.
    “I owe you a huge apology.”
    Okay, that was unexpected. “How would that be?” I asked, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. I’d come here to spill my guts, but it was Alcide who was spilling his instead.
    “That last night, at Club Dead,” he began, “when you needed my help and protection the most, I . . .”
    I knew what was coming now. Alcide had changed into a wolf rather than staying human and helping me out of the bar after I’d gotten staked. I put my free hand across his mouth. His skin was so warm. If you’re used to touching vampires, you’ll know just how roasty a regular human can feel, and a Were even more so, since they run a few degrees hotter.
    I felt my pulse quicken, and I knew he could tell, too. Animals are good at sensing excitement. “Alcide,” I said, “never bring that up. You couldn’t help it, and it all turned out okay, anyway.” Well, more or