From Dead to Worse

head. “Miss Stackhouse,” he said, his accent strumming my name delightfully. (“Meees Stekhuss.”)
    “Yes, sir. I’m sorry to meet you and run, but it’s really cold out here and I need to get home.” I beamed at him, my lunatic beam I give when I’m really nervous. “Good-bye, Eric,” I babbled, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Give me a call when you have a minute. Unless you need me to stay, for some crazy reason?”
    “No, lover, you need to go home and get into the warmth,” Eric said, clasping both my hands in his. “I’ll call you when my work permits.”
    When he let go of me, I did an awkward sort of dip in the king’s direction (American! Not used to bowing!) and hopped into my car before either vampire could change his mind about my departure. I felt like a coward—a very relieved coward—as I backed out of my space and drove out of the parking lot. But I was already debating the wisdom of my departure as I turned onto Hummingbird Road.
    I was worried about Eric. This was a fairly new phenomenon, one that made me very uneasy, and it had started the night of the coup. Worrying about Eric was like worrying about the well-being of a rock or a tornado. When had I ever had to worry about him before? He was one of the most powerful vampires I’d ever met. But Sophie-Anne had been even more powerful and protected by the huge warrior Sigebert, and look what had happened to her. I felt abruptly, acutely miserable. What was wrong with me?
    I had a terrible idea. Maybe I was worried simply because Eric was worried? Miserable because Eric was miserable? Could I receive his emotions this strongly and from this great a distance? Should I turn around and find out what was happening? If the king was being cruel to Eric, I couldn’t possibly be of any assistance. I had to pull over to the side of the road. I couldn’t drive anymore.
    I’d never had a panic attack, but I thought I was having one now. I was paralyzed with indecision; again, not one of my usual characteristics. Struggling with myself, trying to think clearly, I realized I had to turn back whether I wanted to or not. It was an obligation I couldn’t ignore, not because I was bonded to Eric, but because I liked him.
    I turned the wheel and did a U-turn in the middle of Hummingbird Road. Since I’d seen only two cars since I’d left the bar, the maneuver was no big traffic violation. I drove back a lot faster than I’d left, and when I got to Merlotte’s, I found that the customer parking lot was completely empty. I parked in front and pulled my old softball bat out from under the seat. My grandmother had given it to me for my sixteenth birthday. It was a very good bat, though it had seen better days. I crept around the building, taking advantage of the bushes that grew at the foundation for cover. Nandinas. I hate nandinas. They’re straggly and ugly and leggy, and I’m allergic to them. Though I was covered with a Windbreaker, pants, and socks, the minute I began threading my way among the plants, my nose began to run.
    I peeked around the corner very cautiously.
    I was so shocked I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
    Sigebert, the queen’s bodyguard, had not been killed in the coup. No, sirree, he was still among the undead. And he was here in the Merlotte’s parking lot, and he was having a lot of fun with the new king, Felipe de Castro, and with Eric, and with Sam, who had been swept up in the net probably by simply leaving his bar to walk to his trailer.
    I took a deep breath—a deep but silent breath—and made myself analyze what I was seeing. Sigebert was a mountain of a man, and he’d been the queen’s muscle for centuries. His brother, Wybert, had died in the queen’s service, and I was sure Sigebert had been a target of the Nevada vamps; they’d left their mark on him. Vampires heal fast, but Sigebert had been wounded badly enough that even days after he’d fought, he was still visibly damaged. There was a huge cut across his forehead and a horrible-looking mark just above where I thought his heart would be. His clothes were ripped and stained and filthy. Maybe the Nevada vamps thought he’d disintegrated when in fact he’d managed to get away and hide. Not important, I told myself.
    The important part was that he’d succeeded in binding both Eric and Felipe de Castro with silver chains. How? Not important, I told myself again. Maybe this tendency to mentally wander was coming from Eric,