Club Dead - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,77

entered me with no preparation at all. I screamed, and he clapped a hand over my mouth. I was crying, sobbing, and my nose was all stopped up, and I needed to breathe through my mouth. All restraint left me and I began fighting like a wildcat. I bit and scratched and kicked, not caring about the air supply, not caring that I would enrage him. I just had to have air.

After a few seconds, his hand fell away. And he stopped moving. I drew air in with a deep, shuddering gasp. I was crying in earnest, one sob after another.

“Sookie?” Bill said uncertainly. “Sookie?”

I couldn’t answer.

“It’s you,” he said, his voice hoarse and wondering. “It’s you. You were really there in that room?”

I tried to gather myself, but I felt very fuzzy and I was afraid I was going to faint. Finally, I was able to say, “Bill,” in a whisper.

“It is you. Are you all right?”

“No,” I said almost apologetically. After all, it was Bill who’d been held prisoner and tortured.

“Did I . . .” He paused, and seemed to brace himself. “Have I taken more blood than I should?”

I couldn’t answer. I laid my head on his arm. It seemed too much trouble to speak.

“I seem to be having sex with you in a closet,” Bill said in a subdued voice. “Did you, ah, volunteer?”

I turned my head from side to side, then let it loll on his arm again.

“Oh, no,” he whispered. “Oh, no.” He pulled out of me and fumbled around a lot for the second time. He was putting me back to rights; himself, too, I guess. His hands patted our surroundings. “Car trunk,” he muttered.

“I need air,” I said, in a voice almost too soft to hear.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Bill punched a hole in the trunk. Hewas stronger. Good for him.

Cold air rushed in and I sucked it deep. Beautiful, beautiful oxygen.

“Where are we?” he asked, after a moment.

“Parking garage,” I gasped. “Apartment building. Jackson.” I was so weak, I just wanted to let go and float away.

“Why?”

I tried to gather enough energy to answer him. “Alcide lives here,” I managed to mutter, eventually.

“Alcide who? What are we supposed to do now?”

“Eric’s . . . coming. Drink the bottled blood.”

“Sookie? Are you all right?”

I couldn’t answer. If I could have, I might have said, “Why do you care? You were going to leave me anyway.” I might have said, “I forgive you,” though that doesn’t seem real likely. Maybe I would have just told him that I’d missed him, and that his secret was still safe with me; faithful unto death, that was Sookie Stackhouse.

I heard him open a bottle.

As I was drifting off in a boat down a current that seemed to be moving ever faster, I realized that Bill had never revealed my name. I knew they had tried to find it out, to kidnap me and bring me to be tortured in front of him for extra leverage. And he hadn’t told.

The trunk opened with a noise of tearing metal.

Eric stood outlined by the fluorescent lights of the garage. They’d come on when it got dark. “What are you two doing in here?” he asked.

But the current carried me away before I could answer.

“SHE’S COMING AROUND,” Eric observed. “Maybe that was enough blood.” My head buzzed for a minute, went silent again.

“She really is,” he was saying next, and my eyes flickered open to register three anxious male faces hovering above me: Eric’s, Alcide’s, and Bill’s. Somehow, the sight made me want to laugh. So many men at home were scared of me, or didn’t want to think about me, and here were the three men in the world who wanted to have sex with me, or who at least had thought about it seriously; all crowding around the bed. I giggled, actually giggled, for the first time in maybe ten years. “The Three Musketeers,” I said.

“Is she hallucinating?” Eric asked.

“I think she’s laughing at us,” Alcide said. He didn’t sound unhappy about that. He put an empty TrueBlood bottle on the vanity table behind him. There was a large pitcher beside it, and a glass.

Bill’s cool fingers laced with mine. “Sookie,” he said, in that quiet voice that always sent shivers down my spine. I tried to focus on his face. He was sitting on the bed to my right.

He looked better. The deepest cuts were scars on his face, and the bruises were fading.

“They said, was