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Authors: Charlaine Harris
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human—albeit a weird one—I knew better. I’d been a lot happier when I believed Bill had some classifiable illness. Now, I knew that creatures we’d shoved off into the realm of myth and legend had a nasty habit of proving themselves real. Take the maenad. Who’d have believed an ancient Greek legend would be strolling through the woods of northern Louisiana?
Maybe there really were fairies at the bottom of the garden, a phrase I remembered from a song my grandmother had sung when she hung out the clothes on the line.
“Sookie?” Bill’s voice was gently persistent.
“What?”
“You were thinking mighty hard about something.”
“Yes, just wondering about the future,” I said vaguely. “And the flight. You’ll have to fill me in on all the arrangements, and when I have to be at the airport. And what clothes should I take?”
Bill began to turn that over in his head as we pulled up in the driveway in front of my old house, and I knew he would take my request seriously. It was one of the many good things about him.
“Before you pack, though,” he said, his dark eyes solemn under the arch of his brows, “there is something else we have to discuss.”
“What?” I was standing in the middle of my bedroom floor, staring in the open closet door, when his words registered.
“Relaxation techniques.”
I swung around to face him, my hands on my hips. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“This.” He scooped me up in the classic Rhett Butler carrying stance, and though I was wearing slacks rather than a long red—negligee? gown?—Bill managed to make me feel like I was as beautiful, as unforgettable,as Scarlett O’Hara. He didn’t have to traipse up any stairs, either; the bed was very close. Most evenings, Bill took things very slow, so slow I thought I would start screaming before we came to the point, so to speak. But tonight, excited by the trip, by the imminent excursion, Bill’s speed had greatly accelerated. We reached the end of the tunnel together, and as we lay together during the little aftershocks following successful love, I wondered what the vampires of Dallas would make of our association.
I’d only been to Dallas once, on a senior trip to Six Flags, and it hadn’t been a wonderful time for me. I’d been clumsy at protecting my mind from the thoughts eternally broadcasting from other brains, I’d been unprepared for the unexpected pairing of my best friend, Marianne, and a classmate named Dennis Engelbright, and I’d never been away from home before.
This would be different, I told myself sternly. I was going at the request of the vampires of Dallas; was that glamorous, or what? I was needed because of my unique skills. I should focus on not calling my quirks a disability. I had learned how to control my telepathy, at least to have much more precision and predictability. I had my own man. No one would abandon me.
Still, I have to admit that before I went to sleep, I cried a few tears for the misery that had been my lot.
Chapter 4
I T WAS AS hot as the six shades of hell in Dallas, especially on the pavement at the airport. Our brief few days of fall had relapsed back into summer. Torch-hot gusts of air bearing all the sounds and smells of the Dallas–Fort Worth airport—the workings of small vehicles and airplanes, their fuel and their cargo—seemed to accumulate around the foot of the ramp from the cargo bay of the plane I’d been waiting for. I’d flown a regular commercial flight, but Bill had had to be shipped specially.
I was flapping my suit jacket, trying to keep my underarms dry, when the Catholic priest approached me.
Initially, I was so respectful of his collar that I didn’t object to his approach, even though I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. I had just emerged from one totally new experience, and I had several more such hurdles ahead of me.
“Can I be of some service to you? I couldn’t help but notice your situation,” the small man
Maybe there really were fairies at the bottom of the garden, a phrase I remembered from a song my grandmother had sung when she hung out the clothes on the line.
“Sookie?” Bill’s voice was gently persistent.
“What?”
“You were thinking mighty hard about something.”
“Yes, just wondering about the future,” I said vaguely. “And the flight. You’ll have to fill me in on all the arrangements, and when I have to be at the airport. And what clothes should I take?”
Bill began to turn that over in his head as we pulled up in the driveway in front of my old house, and I knew he would take my request seriously. It was one of the many good things about him.
“Before you pack, though,” he said, his dark eyes solemn under the arch of his brows, “there is something else we have to discuss.”
“What?” I was standing in the middle of my bedroom floor, staring in the open closet door, when his words registered.
“Relaxation techniques.”
I swung around to face him, my hands on my hips. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“This.” He scooped me up in the classic Rhett Butler carrying stance, and though I was wearing slacks rather than a long red—negligee? gown?—Bill managed to make me feel like I was as beautiful, as unforgettable,as Scarlett O’Hara. He didn’t have to traipse up any stairs, either; the bed was very close. Most evenings, Bill took things very slow, so slow I thought I would start screaming before we came to the point, so to speak. But tonight, excited by the trip, by the imminent excursion, Bill’s speed had greatly accelerated. We reached the end of the tunnel together, and as we lay together during the little aftershocks following successful love, I wondered what the vampires of Dallas would make of our association.
I’d only been to Dallas once, on a senior trip to Six Flags, and it hadn’t been a wonderful time for me. I’d been clumsy at protecting my mind from the thoughts eternally broadcasting from other brains, I’d been unprepared for the unexpected pairing of my best friend, Marianne, and a classmate named Dennis Engelbright, and I’d never been away from home before.
This would be different, I told myself sternly. I was going at the request of the vampires of Dallas; was that glamorous, or what? I was needed because of my unique skills. I should focus on not calling my quirks a disability. I had learned how to control my telepathy, at least to have much more precision and predictability. I had my own man. No one would abandon me.
Still, I have to admit that before I went to sleep, I cried a few tears for the misery that had been my lot.
Chapter 4
I T WAS AS hot as the six shades of hell in Dallas, especially on the pavement at the airport. Our brief few days of fall had relapsed back into summer. Torch-hot gusts of air bearing all the sounds and smells of the Dallas–Fort Worth airport—the workings of small vehicles and airplanes, their fuel and their cargo—seemed to accumulate around the foot of the ramp from the cargo bay of the plane I’d been waiting for. I’d flown a regular commercial flight, but Bill had had to be shipped specially.
I was flapping my suit jacket, trying to keep my underarms dry, when the Catholic priest approached me.
Initially, I was so respectful of his collar that I didn’t object to his approach, even though I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. I had just emerged from one totally new experience, and I had several more such hurdles ahead of me.
“Can I be of some service to you? I couldn’t help but notice your situation,” the small man
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