the knob. I pulled a tissue from my shorts pocket and patted the tear track off my cheek. “I’ll have to quit if I read your mind, Sam! I like you, I like it here.”
“Just try it sometime, Sookie,” he said casually, turning to open a carton of whiskey with the razor-edged box cutter he kept in his pocket. “Don’t worry about me. You have a job as long as you want one.”
I wiped down a table Jason had spilled salt on. He’d been in earlier to eat a hamburger and fries and down a couple of beers.
I was turning over Sam’s offer in my mind.
I wouldn’t try to listen to him today. He was ready for me. I’d wait when he was busy doing something else. I’d just sort of slip in and give him a listen. He’d invited me, which was absolutely unique.
It was kind of nice to be invited.
I repaired my makeup and brushed my hair. I’d worn it loose, since Bill had seemed to like that, and a darn nuisance it had been all evening. It was just about time to go, so I retrieved my purse from its drawer in Sam’s office.
THE COMPTON HOUSE, like Gran’s, was set back from the road. It was a bit more visible from the parish road than hers, and it had a view of the cemetery, which her house didn’t. This was due (at least in part) to the Compton house’s higher setting. It was on top of a knoll and it was fully two-storied. Gran’s house had a couple of spare bedrooms upstairs, and an attic, but it was more like half a top story.
At one point in the family’s long history, the Comptons had had a very nice house. Even in the dark, it had a certain graciousness. But I knew in the daylight you could see the pillars were peeling, the wood siding was crooked, and the yard was simply a jungle. In the humid warmth of Louisiana, yard growth could get out of hand mighty quick, and old Mr. Compton had not been one to hire someone to do his yard work. When he’d gotten too feeble, it had simply gone undone.
The circular drive hadn’t gotten fresh gravel in many years, and my car lurched to the front door. I saw that the house was all lit up, and I began to realize that the evening would not go like last evening. There was another car parked in front of the house, a Lincoln Continental, white with a dark blue top. A blue-on-white bumper sticker read VAMPIRES SUCK. A red and yellow one stated HONK IF YOU’RE A BLOOD DONOR! The vanity plate read, simply, FANGS 1.
If Bill already had company, maybe I should just go on home.
But I had been invited and was expected. Hesitantly, I raised my hand and knocked.
The door was opened by a female vampire.
She glowed like crazy. She was at least five feet eleven and black. She was wearing spandex. An exercise bra in flamingo pink and matching calf-length leggings, with a man’s white dress shirt flung on unbuttoned, constituted the vampire’s ensemble.
I thought she looked cheap as hell and most likely absolutely mouthwatering from a male point of view.
“Hey, little human chick,” the vampire purred.
And all of a sudden I realized I was in danger. Bill had warned me repeatedly that not all vampires were like him, and he had moments when he was not so nice, himself. I couldn’t read this creature’s mind, but I could hear cruelty in her voice.
Maybe she had hurt Bill. Maybe she was his lover.
All of this passed through my mind in a rush, but none of it showed on my face. I’ve had years of experience in controlling my face. I could feel my bright smile snap on protectively, my spine straightened, and I said cheerfully, “Hi! I was supposed to drop by tonight and give Bill some information. Is he available?”
The female vampire laughed at me, which was nothing I wasn’t used to. My smile notched up a degree brighter. This critter radiated danger the way a light bulb gives off heat.
“This little human gal here says she has some information for you, Bill!” she yelled over her (slim, brown, beautiful) shoulder.
I tried not to let relief show in any way.
“You wanna see this little thing? Or shall I just give her a love bite?”
Over my dead body, I thought furiously, and then realized it might be just that.