Living Dead in Dallas

had a right to cry for the girl. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Bethany Rogers last night after she’d been led from the room at the vampire nest. If there’d been no fang marks, surely a vampire hadn’t killed her. It would be a rare vampire who could pass up the blood.
    Sniffling from repressed tears and miserable with dismay, I sat on the couch and hunted through my purse to find a pencil. At last, I unearthed a pen. I used it to scratch up under the wig. Even in the air-conditioned dark of the hotel, it itched. In thirty minutes, there was a knock at the door. Once again, I looked through the peephole. There was Arturo again, with garments draped across his arm.
    “We’ll return the ones you don’t want,” he said, handing me the bundle. He tried not to stare at my hair.
    “Thanks,” I said, and tipped him. I could get used to this in a hurry.
    It wasn’t long until I was supposed to be meeting the Ayres guy, Isabel’s honey bun. Dropping the robe where I stood, I looked at what Arturo’d brought me. The pale peachy blouse with the off-white flowers, that would do, and the skirt. . . hmmm. He hadn’t been able to find denim, apparently, and the two he’d brought were khaki. That would be all right, I figured, and I pulled one on. It looked too tight for the effect I needed, and I was glad he’d brought another style. It was just right for the image. I slid my feet into flat sandals, put some tiny earrings in my pierced ears, and I was good to go. I even had a battered straw purse to carry with the ensemble. Unfortunately, it was my regular purse. But it fit right in. I dumped out my identifying items, and wished I had thought of that earlier instead of at the last minute. I wondered what other crucial safety measures I might have forgotten.
    I stepped out into the silent corridor. It was exactly as it had been the night before. There were no mirrors and no windows, and the feeling of enclosure was complete. The dark red of the carpet and the federal blue, red, and cream of the wallpaper didn’t help. The elevator snicked open when I touched the call button, and I rode down by myself. No elevator music, even. The Silent Shore was living up to its name.
    There were armed guards on either side of the elevator, when I reached the lobby. They were looking at the main doors to the hotel. Those doors were obviously locked. There was a television set mounted by the doors, and it showed the sidewalk outside of the doors. Another television set showed a wider view.
    I thought a terrible attack must be imminent and I froze, my heart racing, but after a few seconds of calm I figured out they must be there all the time. This was why vampires stayed here, and at other similar specialty hotels. No one would get past these guards to the elevators. No one would make it into the hotel rooms where sleeping and helpless vampires lay. This was why the fee for the hotel was exorbitant. The two guards on duty at the moment were both huge, and wearing the black livery of the hotel. (Ho, hum. Everyone seemed to think vampires were obsessed with black.) The guards’ sidearms seemed gigantic to me, but then, I’m not too familiar with guns. The men glanced at me and then went back to their bored forward stare.
    Even the desk clerks were armed. There were shotguns on racks behind the counter. I wondered how far they would go to protect their guests. Would they really shoot other humans, intruders? How would the law handle it?
    A man wearing glasses sat in one of the padded chairs that punctuated the marble floor of the lobby. He was about thirty, tall and lanky, with sandy hair. He waswearing a suit, a lightweight summer khaki suit, with a conservative tie and penny loafers. The dishwasher, sure enough.
    “Hugo Ayres?” I asked.
    He sprang up to shake my hand. “You must be Sookie? But your hair . . . last night, you were blond?”
    “I am. I’m wearing a wig.”
    “It looks very natural.”
    “Good. Are you ready?”
    “My car’s outside.” He touched my back briefly to point me in the right direction, as if I wouldn’t see the doors otherwise. I appreciated the courtesy, if not the implication. I was trying to get a feel for Hugo Ayres. He wasn’t a broadcaster.
    “How long have you been dating Isabel?” I asked as we buckled up in his Caprice.
    “Ah, um, I guess about eleven months,” Hugo Ayres said. He had big hands, with freckles on the back. I was surprised he wasn’t living