Dead to the World

good idea.
    “Dead things,” Alcide said, his face raised to the cold breeze, his eyes shut to help him concentrate. “Dead things inside and out.”
    I took hold of the curved ironwork handrail with my left hand and went up one step. I glanced around. My eyes came to rest on something in the flowerbed under the bay window, something pale that stood out against the pine bark mulch. I nudged Alcide, and I pointed silently with my free right hand.
    Lying by a pruned-back azalea, there was another hand—an unattached extra. I felt a shudder run through Alcide’s body as he comprehended what he saw. There was that moment when you tried to recognize it as anything but what it was.
    “Wait here,” Alcide said, his voice thick and hoarse.
    That was just fine with me.
    But when he opened the unlocked front door to enter the shop, I saw what lay on the floor just beyond. I had to swallow a scream.
    It was lucky Alcide had his cell phone. He called Colonel Flood, told him what had happened, and asked him to go over to Mrs. Yancy’s house. Then he called the police. There was just no way around it. This was a busy area, and there was a good chance someone had noticed us going to the front door.
    It was surely a day for finding bodies—for me, and for the Shreveport police department. I knew there were some vampire cops on the force, but of course the vamps had to work the night shift, so we spoke to regular old human cops. There wasn’t a Were or a shifter among ’em, not even a telepathic human. All these police officers were regular people who thought we were borderline suspicious.
    “Why did you stop by here, buddy?” asked Detective Coughlin, who had brown hair, a weathered face, and a beer belly one of the Clydesdales would’ve been proud of.
    Alcide looked surprised. He hadn’t thought this far, which wasn’t too amazing. I hadn’t known Adabelle when she was alive, and I hadn’t stepped inside the bridal shop as he had. I hadn’t sustained the worst shock. It was up to me to pick up the reins.
    “It was my idea, Detective,” I said instantly. “My grandmother, who died last year? She always told me, ‘If you need a wedding dress, Sookie, you go to Verena Rose’s for it.’ I didn’t think to call ahead and check to see if they were open today.”
    “So, you and Mr. Herveaux are going to be married?”
    “Yes,” said Alcide, pulling me against him and wrapping his arms around me. “We’re headed for the altar.”
    I smiled, but in an appropriately subdued way.
    “Well, congratulations.” Detective Coughlin eyed us thoughtfully. “So, Miss Stackhouse, you hadn’t ever met Adabelle Yancy face-to-face?”
    “I may have met the older Mrs. Yancy when I was a little girl,” I said cautiously. “But I don’t remember her. Alcide’s family knows the Yancys, of course. He’s lived here all his life.” Of course, they’re also werewolves.
    Coughlin was still focused on me. “And you didn’t go in the shop none? Just Mr. Herveaux here?”
    “Alcide just stepped in while I waited out here.” I tried to look delicate, which is not easy for me. I am healthy and muscular, and while I am not Emme, I’m not Kate Moss either. “I’d seen the—the hand, so I stayed out.”
    “That was a good idea,” Detective Coughlin said. “What’s in there isn’t fit for people to see.” He looked about twenty years older as he said that. I felt sorry that his job was so tough. He was thinking that the savaged bodies in the house were a waste of two good lives and the work of someone he’d love to arrest. “Would either of you have any idea why anyone would want to rip up two ladies like this?”
    “Two,” Alcide said slowly, stunned.
    “Two?” I said, less guardedly.
    “Why, yes,” the detective said heavily. He had aimed to get our reactions and now he had them; what he thought of them, I would find out.
    “Poor things,” I said, and I wasn’t faking the tears that filled my eyes. It was kind of nice to have Alcide’s chest to lean against, and as if he were reading my mind he unzipped his leather jacket so I’d be closer to him, wrapping the open sides around me to keep me warmer. “But if one of them is Adabelle Yancy, who is the other?”
    “There’s not much left of the other,” Coughlin said, before he told himself to shut his mouth.
    “They were kind of jumbled up,” Alcide said quietly, close to my ear. He was sickened. “I didn’t know . . . I guess if I’d analyzed