Dead and Gone

"Amelia, what works against fairies?" I asked. I'd gotten a full night's sleep, and I was feeling much better in consequence. Amelia's boss was out of town, so she had the afternoon off.

"You mean something that'll act as a fairy repellent?" she asked.

"Yeah, or cause fairy death even," I said. "That's preferable to me getting killed. I need to defend myself."

"I don't know too much about fairies, since they're so rare and secretive," she said. "I wasn't sure they still existed until I heard about your great-grandfather. You need something like Mace for fairies, huh?"

I had a sudden idea. "I've already got some, Amelia," I said, feeling happier than I had in days. I looked in the racks on the door of the refrigerator. Sure enough, there was a bottle of ReaLemon. "Now all I got to do is buy a water pistol at Wal-Mart," I said. "It's not summer, but surely they've got some over in the toy department."

"That works?"

"Yeah, a little-known supernatural fact. Just contact with it is fatal. I understand if it's ingested, the result's even quicker. If you could squirt it in a fairy's open mouth, that would be one dead fairy."

"Sounds like you're in big trouble, Sookie." Amelia had been reading, but now she laid her book on the table.

"Yeah, I am."

"You want to talk about it?"

"It's complicated. Hard to explain."

"I understand the definition of 'complicated.'"

"Sorry. Well, it might not be safe for you to learn the ins and outs of it. Can you help? Will your wards work against fairies?"

"I'll check my sources," Amelia said in that wise way she had when she didn't have a clue. "I'll call Octavia if I have to."

"I'd appreciate it. And if you need some kind of spell-casting ingredients, money is no object." I'd gotten a check in the mail that very morning from Sophie-Anne's estate. Mr. Cataliades had come through with the money she'd owed me. I was going to run it to the bank this afternoon, since the drive-through would be open.

Amelia took a deep breath, stalled. I waited. Since she's an exceptionally clear broadcaster, I knew what she wanted to talk about, but to keep our relationship on an even keel, I simply held out until she spoke out loud.

"I heard from Tray, who's got a couple friends on the police force - though not many - that Whit and Arlene are denying up and down that they killed Crystal. They ... Arlene says they planned on making you an example of what happens to people who hang around with the supernatural; that it was Crystal's death that gave them the idea."

My good mood evaporated. I felt a profound depression settle on my shoulders. Hearing this spoken out loud made it seem even more horrible. I could think of no comment to offer. "What does Tray hear about what might happen to them?" I said finally.

"Depends on whose bullet hit Agent Weiss. If it was Donny's - well, he's dead. Whit can say he was being shot at, so he shot back. He can say he didn't know anything about a plan to harm you. He was visiting his girlfriend and happened to have some pieces of wood in the back of his pickup."

"What about Helen Ellis?"

"She told Andy Bellefleur she just came to the trailer to pick up the kids because they'd done really well on their report cards, and she'd promised to take them to the Sonic for an ice cream treat. Any more than that, she doesn't know diddly squat." Amelia's face expressed extreme skepticism.

"So Arlene is the only one talking." I dried the baking sheet. I'd made biscuits that morning. Baking therapy, cheap and satisfying.

"Yeah, and she may recant any minute. She was real shaken up when she talked, but she'll wise up. Maybe too late. At least we can hope so."

I'd been right; Arlene was the weakest link. "She gotten a lawyer?"

"Yeah. She couldn't afford Sid Matt Lancaster, so she hired Melba Jennings."

"Good move," I said thoughtfully. Melba Jennings was only a couple of years older than me. She was the only African-American woman in Bon Temps who'd been to law school. She had a hard-as-nails facade and was confrontational in the extreme. Other lawyers had been known to take incredible detours to dodge Melba if they saw her coming. "Makes her look less of a bigot."

"I don't think it's going to fool anyone, but Melba's like a pit bull." Melba had been in Amelia's insurance agency on behalf of a couple of clients. "I better go make my bed," Amelia said, standing and stretching. "Hey, Tray and I are going to the movies in Clarice tonight. Want to come?"

"You've really been trying to include me on your dates. You're not getting bored with Tray already, I hope?"

"Not a bit," Amelia said, sounding faintly surprised. "In fact, I think he's great. Tray's buddy Drake has been pestering him, though. Drake's seen you in the bar, and he wants to get to know you."

"He a Were?"

"Just a guy. Thinks you're pretty."

"I don't do regular guys," I said, smiling. "It just doesn't work out very well." It "worked out" disastrously, as a matter of fact. Imagine knowing what your date thinks of you every single minute.

Plus, there was the issue of Eric and our undefined but intimate relationship.

"Keep the possibility on the back burner. He's really cute, and by cute, I mean hotter than a steam iron."

After Amelia had tromped up the stairs, I poured myself a glass of tea. I tried to read, but I found I couldn't concentrate on the book. Finally, I slid my paper bookmark in and stared into space, thinking about a lot of things.

I wondered where Arlene's children were now. With Arlene's old aunt, who lived over in Clarice? Or still with Helen Ellis? Did Helen like Arlene enough to keep Coby and Lisa?

I couldn't rid myself of a nagging feeling of responsibility for the kids' sad situation, but it was going to have to be one of those things I simply suffered. The person really responsible was Arlene. There was nothing I could do for them.

As if thinking of children had triggered a nerve in the universe, the phone rang. I got up and went to the wall-mounted unit in the kitchen. "Hello," I said without enthusiasm.

"Ms. Stackhouse? Sookie?"

"Yes, this is she," I said properly.

"This is Remy Savoy."

My dead cousin Hadley's ex, father of her child. "I'm glad you called. How's Hunter?" Hunter was a "gifted" child, God bless him. He'd been "gifted" the same way I had been.

"He's fine. Uh, about that thing."

"Sure." We were going to talk telepathy.

"He's going to need some guidance soon. He'll be starting kindergarten. They're going to notice. I mean, it'll take a while, but sooner or later ..."

"Yeah, they'll notice all right." I opened my mouth to suggest that Remy bring Hunter over on my next day off or that I could drive to Red Ditch. But then I remembered that I was the target of a group of homicidal fairies. Not a good time for a young 'un to come visiting, and who's to say they couldn't follow me to Remy's little house? So far none of them knew about Hunter. I hadn't even told my great-grandfather about Hunter's special talent. If Niall himself didn't know, maybe none of the hostiles had uncovered the information.

On the whole, better to take no risks.

"I really want to meet with him and get to know him. I promise I'll help him as much as I can," I said. "Right now, it just isn't possible. But since we have a little time to spare before kindergarten ... maybe in a month or so?"

"Oh," Remy said in a nonplussed way. "I was hoping to bring him over on my day off."

"I have a little situation here that I have to resolve." If I was alive after it was resolved ... but I wasn't going to imagine that. I tried to think of a palatable excuse, and of course, I did have one. "My sister-in-law just died," I told Remy. "Can I call you when I'm not so busy with the details of ..." I couldn't think of a way to wrap up that sentence. "I promise it'll be soon. If you don't have a day off, maybe Kristen could bring him?" Kristen was Remy's girlfriend.

"Well, that's part of the problem," Remy said, and he sounded tired but also a little amused. "Hunter told Kristen that he knew she didn't really like him, and that she should stop thinking about his daddy without any clothes on."

I drew a deep breath, tried not to laugh, didn't manage it. "I am sorry," I said. "How did Kristen handle that?"

"She started crying. Then she told me she loved me but my kid was a freak, and she left."

"Worst possible scenario," I said. "Ah ... do you think she'll tell other people?"

"Don't see why she wouldn't."

This sounded depressingly familiar: shades of my painful childhood. "Remy, I'm sorry," I said. Remy had seemed like a nice guy on our brief acquaintance, and I had been able to see he was devoted to his son. "If it makes you feel any better, I survived that somehow."

"But did your parents?" There was a trace of a smile in his voice, to his credit.

"No," I said. "However, it didn't have anything to do with me. They got caught by a flash flood when they were driving home one night. It was pouring rain, visibility was terrible, the water was black like the road, and they just drove down onto the bridge and got swept away." Something buzzed in my brain, some kind of signal that this thought was significant.

"I'm sorry, I was just joking," Remy was saying in a shocked voice.

"No, no problem. Just one of those things," I said, the way you do when you don't want the other person to fuss about your feelings.

We left it that I would call him when I had "some free time." (That actually meant "when no one's trying to kill me," but I didn't explain that to Remy.) I hung up and sat on the stool by the kitchen counter. I was thinking about my parents' deaths for the first time in a while. I had some sad memories, but that was the saddest of all. Jason had been ten, and I had been seven, so my recollection wasn't precise, but we'd talked about it over the years, of course, and my grandmother had recounted the story many times, especially as she grew older. It never varied. The torrential rain, the road leading down into the little hollow where the creek ran, the black water ... and they'd been swept away into the dark. The truck had been found the next day; their bodies, a day or two after that.

I got dressed for work automatically. I slicked my hair up in an extra-tight ponytail, making sure any stray hairs were gelled into place. As I was tying my shoes, Amelia dashed downstairs to tell me that she'd checked her witch reference books.

"The best way to kill fairies is with iron." Her face was lit with triumph. I hated to rain on her parade. Lemons were even better, but it was kind of hard to slip a fairy a lemon without the fairy realizing it.

"I knew that," I said, trying not to sound depressed. "I mean, I appreciate the effort, but I need to be able to knock them out." So I could run away. I didn't know if I could stand to have to hose down the driveway again.

Of course, killing the enemy beat the alternative: letting them catch me and do what they wished with me.

Amelia was ready for her date with Tray. She was wearing high heels with her designer jeans, an unusual look for Amelia.

"What's with the heels?" I asked, and Amelia grinned, displaying her excellent white teeth.

"Tray likes 'em," she said. "With the jeans on or off. You should see the lingerie I'm wearing!"

"I'll pass," I said.

"If you want to meet us after you get off work, I'm betting Drake will be there. He's seriously interested in getting to know you. And he's cute, though his looks may not exactly appeal to you."

"Why? What's this Drake look like?" I asked, mildly curious.

"That's the freaky part. He looks a lot like your brother." Amelia looked at me doubtfully. "That might weird you out, huh?"

I felt all the blood drain out of my face. I'd gotten to my feet to leave, but I sat down abruptly.

"Sookie? What's the matter? Sookie?" Amelia was hovering around me anxiously.

"Amelia," I croaked, "you got to avoid this guy. I mean it. You and Tray get away from him. And for God's sake, don't answer any questions about me!"

I could see from the guilt on her face she had already answered quite a few. Though she was a clever witch, Amelia couldn't always tell when people weren't really people . Evidently, neither could Tray - though the sweet smell of even a half fairy should have alerted a Were. Maybe Dermot had the same scent-masking ability that his father, my great-grandfather, did.

"Who is he?" Amelia asked. She was scared, which was good.

"He's ..." I tried to formulate the best explanation. "He wants to kill me."

"Does this have something to do with Crystal's death?"

"I don't think so," I said. I tried to give the possibility some rational consideration, found my brain simply couldn't deal with the idea.

"I don't get it," Amelia said. "We have months - well, weeks - of nothing but plain old life, and then, all of a sudden, here we are!" She threw up her hands.

"You can move back to New Orleans if you want to," I said, my voice faltering. Of course, Amelia knew she could leave anytime she wanted, but I wanted to make it clear I wasn't sucking her into my problems unless she chose to be sucked. So to speak.

"No," she said firmly. "I like it here, and my house in New Orleans isn't ready, anyway."

She kept saying that. Not that I wanted her to leave, but I couldn't see what the delay was. After all, her dad was a builder.

"You don't miss New Orleans?"

"Of course I do," Amelia said. "But I like it here, and I like my little suite upstairs, and I like Tray, and I like my little jobs that keep me going. And I also like - a hell of a lot - being out of my dad's line of sight." She patted me on the shoulder. "You go off to work and don't worry. If I haven't thought of anything by morning, I'll call Octavia. Now that I know the deal about this Drake, I'll stonewall him. And Tray will, too. No one can stonewall like Tray."

"He's very dangerous, Amelia," I said. I couldn't impress that on my roommate emphatically enough.

"Yeah, yeah, I get that," she said. "But you know, I'm not any little honey myself, and Dawson can fight with the best of 'em."

We gave each other a hug, and I allowed myself to immerse in Amelia's mind. It was warm, busy, curious, and ... forward-looking. No brooding on the past for Amelia Broadway. She gave me a pat on the back to signal she was letting go, and we stepped back from each other.

I ran by the bank, then I stopped at Wal-Mart. After a bit of searching, I found one little rack of water guns. I got a two-pack of the clear plastic version, one blue and one yellow. When I thought of the ferocity and strength of the fairy race, and the fact that it took all I had to open the damn blister pack and extricate the water pistols, my chosen method of defense seemed ludicrous. I'd be armed with a plastic water pistol and a trowel.

I tried to clear my mind of all the worries that were plaguing me. There was so much to think about... . Actually, there was so much to fear. It might be time to take a leaf from Amelia's book and look forward. What did I need to do tonight ? Which one of my ongoing worries could I actually do something to solve? I could listen in the bar tonight for clues about Crystal's death, as Jason had asked me to do. (I would have done it anyway, but it seemed even more important to track down her killers now that danger seemed to be piling up from all directions.) I could arm myself against fairy attack. I could be alert for any more Fellowship gangs. And I could try to arrange some more defense.

After all, I was supposed to be under the protection of the Shreveport Were pack because I'd helped them out. I was also under the protection of the new vampire regime because I'd saved their leader's ass. Felipe de Castro would have been a pile of ash if not for me; for that matter, so would Eric. Wasn't this the best time in the world to call in those markers?

I got out of my car behind Merlotte's. I looked up at the sky, but it was cloudy. I thought it was only a week after the new moon. And it was definitely full dark. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. I'd discovered Eric's cell number scrawled on the back of one of his business cards, tucked halfway under my bedside phone. He answered on the second ring.

"Yes," he said, and I was able to tell by that one word that he was with others.

A little shiver went down my spine at the sound of his voice.

"Eric," I said, and then wished I'd spent a little time framing my request. "The king said he owed me," I continued, realizing this was a little bald and bold. "I'm in real danger. I wonder what he could do about that."

"The threat involving your older kin?" Yes, he was definitely with other people.

"Yes. The, ah, enemy has been trying to get Amelia and Tray to introduce him to me. He doesn't seem to realize I would recognize him, or maybe he's very good at pretending. He's supposed to be on the anti-human side, but he's half human. I don't understand his behavior."

"I see," Eric said after an appreciable pause. "So protection is necessary."

"Yes."

"And you ask this as ... ?"

If he'd been with his own underlings, he'd have told them to leave so he could talk to me frankly. Since he hadn't done that, he was probably with one of the Nevada vamps: Sandy Sechrest, Victor Madden, or Felipe de Castro himself, though that was unlikely. Castro's far more lucrative business ventures in Nevada required his presence most of the time. I finally realized Eric was trying to find out if I was asking as his bed buddy and "wife," or as someone he owed big-time.

"I ask this as someone who saved Felipe de Castro's life," I said.

"I'll present this petition to Victor, since he's here at the bar," Eric said smoothly. "I'll get back to you this night."

"Great." Mindful of vamps' extreme hearing, I added, "I appreciate that, Eric," as if we were friendly acquaintances.

Mentally dodging the question of what we actually were to each other, I tucked away the cell phone and went into work, hustling because I was a couple of minutes late. Now that I'd talked to Eric, I felt much more optimistic about my chances of survival.