From Dead to Worse

banished him. Stupid mistake or wise decision? Verdict still out.
    Lots of Weres were dead in Shreveport because of Priscilla, and I’d watched some of them die. Believe me, that sticks with you.
    More than a few vampires were dead, too, including some I’d known fairly well.
    My brother was a devious manipulative bastard.
    My great-grandfather wasn’t ever going to take me fishing.
    Okay, now I was getting silly. Suddenly, I smiled, because I was picturing the prince of the fairies in old denim overalls and a Bon Temps Hawks baseball cap, carrying a can of worms and a couple of fishing poles.
    I caught Sam’s eye as I cleared a table of plates. I winked at him.
    He turned away, shaking his head, but I caught a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
    And just like that, my bad mood was officially over. My common sense kicked in. There was no point in lashing myself over the Hotshot incident any longer. I’d had to do what I’d had to do. Calvin understood that better than I did. My brother was an asshole, and Crystal was a whore. These were facts I had to deal with. Granted, they were both unhappy people who were acting out because they were married to the wrong spouse, but they were also both chronologically adults, and I couldn’t fix their marriage any more than I’d been able to prevent it.
    The Weres had dealt with their own problems in their own way, and I’d done my best to help them. Vampires, ditto ... sort of.
    Okay. Not all better, but enough better.
    When I got off work, I wasn’t completely annoyed to find Eric waiting by my car. He seemed to be enjoying the night, standing all by himself in the cold. I was shivering myself because I hadn’t brought a heavy jacket. My Windbreaker wasn’t enough.
    “It’s been nice to be by myself for a while,” Eric said unexpectedly.
    “I guess at Fangtasia you’re always surrounded,” I said.
    “Always surrounded by people wanting things,” he said.
    “But you enjoy that, right? Being the big kahuna?”
    Eric looked like he was mulling that over. “Yes, I like that. I like being the boss. I don’t like being ... overseen. Is that a word? I’ll be glad when Felipe de Castro and his minion Sandy take their departure. Victor will stay to take over New Orleans.”
    Eric was sharing. This was almost unprecedented. This was like a normal give-and-take between equals.
    “What’s the new king like?” Cold as I was, I couldn’t resist keeping the conversation going.
    “He’s handsome, ruthless, and clever,” Eric said.
    “Like you.” I could have slapped myself.
    Eric nodded after a moment. “But more so,” Eric said grimly. “I’ll have to keep very alert to stay ahead of him.”
    “How gratifying to hear you say so,” said an accented voice.
    This was definitely an Oh, shit! moment. (An OSM, as I called them to myself .) A gorgeous man stepped out from the trees, and I blinked as I took him in. As Eric bowed, I scanned Felipe de Castro from his gleaming shoes to his bold face. As I bowed, too, belatedly, I realized that Eric hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the new king was handsome. Felipe de Castro was a Latin male who threw Jimmy Smits into the shade, and I am a big admirer of Mr. Smits. Though perhaps five foot ten or so, Castro carried himself with such importance and straight posture that you couldn’t think of him as short— rather, he made other men look too tall. His dark thick hair was clipped close to his head, and he had a mustache and chin strip. He had caramel skin and dark eyes, strong arched eyebrows, a bold nose. The king wore a cape—no kidding, a real full-length black cape. I’ll tell you how impressive he was; I didn’t even think of giggling. Other than the cape, he seemed dressed for a night that might include flamenco dancing, with a white shirt, black vest, and black dress slacks. One of Castro’s ears was pierced, and there was a dark stone in it. The overhead security light didn’t let me get a better idea of what it might be. Ruby? Emerald?
    I’d straightened up and I was staring again. But when I glanced at Eric, I saw he was still bowing. Ah-oh. Well, I wasn’t one of his subjects and I wasn’t going to do that again. It had gone against my Americanness to do it once.
    “Hi, I’m Sookie Stackhouse,” I said, since the silence was getting awkward. I automatically held out my hand, remembered vamps didn’t shake, and snatched it back. “Excuse me,” I said.
    The king inclined his