From Dead to Worse

despite the fact that it was hard to communicate. At least it provided a palatable explanation for the human business community as to why Sophie-Anne’s holdings were being managed by another vampire, and it was an explanation that no one would question too closely, especially since there was no body to refute the claim. To get it in today’s paper, someone must have called it in directly after she’d been killed, perhaps even before she was dead. Ugh. I shivered.
    I wondered what had really happened to Sigebert, Sophie-Anne’s devoted bodyguard. Victor had implied Sigebert had perished along with the queen, but he hadn’t definitely said so. I couldn’t believe the bodyguard could still be alive. He would never have let anyone get close enough to kill Sophie-Anne. Sigebert had been at her side for so many years, hundreds upon hundreds, that I didn’t think he could have survived her loss.
    I left the newspaper open to the obituaries and placed it on Sam’s desk, figuring the bar was too busy a place to talk about it even if we had the time. We’d had an influx of customers. I was running my feet off serving them and pocketing some good tips, too. But after the week I’d had, it was not only hard to feel normally happy about the money, it was also impossible to feel normally cheerful about being at work. I just did my best to smile and respond when I was spoken to.
    By the time I got off work, I didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything.
    But of course, I didn’t get my druthers.
    There were two women waiting in the front yard at my house, and they both radiated anger. One, I already knew: Frannie Quinn. The woman with her had to be Quinn’s mother. In the harsh glare of the security light I had a good look at the woman whose life had been such a disaster. I realized no one had ever told me her name. She was still pretty, but in a Goth sort of way that wasn’t kind to her age. She was in her forties; her face was gaunt, her eyes shadowed. She had dark hair with more than a touch of gray, and she was very tall and thin. Frannie was wearing a tank top that showed her bra, and tight jeans, and boots. Her mother was wearing pretty much the same outfit but in different colors. I guessed Frannie had charge of dressing her mother.
    I parked beside them, because I had no intention of inviting them in. I got out of my car reluctantly.
    “You bitch,” Frannie said passionately. Her young face was rigid with anger. “How could you do that to my brother? He did so much for you!”
    That was one way to look at it. “Frannie,” I said, keeping my voice as calm and level as I could, “what happens between Quinn and me is really not any of your business.”
    The front door opened, and Amelia stepped out on the porch. “Sookie, you need me?” she asked, and I smelled magic around her.
    “I’m coming in, in just a second,” I said clearly, but didn’t tell her to go back inside. Mrs. Quinn was a pureblood weretiger, and Frannie was half; they were both stronger than me.
    Mrs. Quinn stepped forward and looked at me quizzically. “You’re the one John loved,” she said. “You’re the one who broke up with him.”
    “Yes, ma’am. It just wasn’t going to work out.”
    “They say I have to go back to that place in the desert,” she said. “Where they store all the crazy Weres.”
    No shit. “Oh, do they?” I said, to make it clear I had nothing to do with it.
    “Yes,” she said, and lapsed into silence, which was kind of a big relief.
    Frannie, however, had not done with me. “I loaned you my car,” she said. “I came to warn you.”
    “And I thank you,” I said. My heart sank. I couldn’t think of any magic words to lessen the pain in the air. “Believe me, I wish things had worked out different.” Lame but true.
    “What’s wrong with my brother?” Frannie asked. “He’s handsome; he loves you; he’s got money. He’s a great guy. What’s wrong with you that you don’t want him?”
    The bald answer—that I really admired Quinn but didn’t want to play second fiddle to his family’s needs—was simply unspeakable for two reasons: it was unnecessarily hurtful, and I might be seriously injured as a result. Mrs. Quinn might not be compos mentis, but she was listening with growing agitation. If she changed to her tiger form, I had no idea what would happen. She might run off into the woods, or she might attack. All this zoomed through my mind in little pictures. I had to say