Read Online Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set by Charlaine Harris - Free Book Online Page A

want to whine. “When I was very small, that was worst, because I didn’t know how to put up my guard, and I heard thoughts I wasn’t supposed to hear, of course, and I repeated them like a child will. My parents didn’t know what to do about me. It embarrassed my father, in particular. My mother finally took me to a child psychologist, who knew exactly what I was, but she just couldn’t accept it and kept trying to tell my folks I was reading their body language and was very observant, so I had good reason to imagine I heard people’s thoughts. Of course, she couldn’t admit I was literally hearing people’s thoughts because that just didn’t fit into her world.
    “And I did poorly in school because it was so hard for me to concentrate when so few others were. But when there was testing, I would test very high because the other kids were concentrating on their own papers . . . that gave me a little leeway. Sometimes my folks thought I was lazy for not doing well on everyday work. Sometimes the teachers thought I had a learning disability; oh, you wouldn’t believe the theories. I must have had my eyes and ears tested every two months, seemed like, and brain scans . . . gosh. My poor folks paid through the nose. But they never could accept the simple truth. At least outwardly, you know?”
    “But they knew inside.”
    “Yes. Once, when my dad was trying to decide whether to back a man who wanted to open an auto parts store, he asked me to sit with him when the man came to the house. After the man left, my dad took me outside and looked away and said, ‘Sookie, is he telling the truth?’ It was the strangest moment.”
    “How old were you?”
    “I must’ve been less than seven ’cause they died when I was in the second grade.”
    “How?”
    “Flash flood. Caught them on the bridge west of here.”
    Bill didn’t comment. Of course, he’d seen deaths piled upon deaths.
    “Was the man lying?” he asked after a few seconds had gone by.
    “Oh, yes. He planned to take Daddy’s money and run.”
    “You have a gift.”
    “Gift. Right.” I could feel the corners of my mouth pull down.
    “It makes you different from other humans.”
    “You’re telling me.” We walked for a moment in silence. “So you don’t consider yourself human at all?”
    “I haven’t for a long time.”
    “Do you really believe you’ve lost your soul?” That was what the Catholic Church was preaching about vampires.
    “I have no way of knowing,” Bill said, almost casually. It was apparent that he’d brooded over it so often it was quite a commonplace thought to him. “Personally, I think not. There is something in me that isn’t cruel, not murderous, even after all these years. Though I can be both.”
    “It’s not your fault you were infected with a virus.”
    Bill snorted, even managing to sound elegant doing that. “There have been theories as long as there have been vampires. Maybe that one is true.” Then he looked as if he was sorry he’d said that. “If what makes a vampire is a virus,” he went on in a more offhand manner, “it’s a selective one.”
    “How do you become a vampire?” I’d read all kinds of stuff, but this would be straight from the horse’s mouth.
    “I would have to drain you, at one sitting or over two or three days, to the point of your death, then give you my blood. You would lie like a corpse for about forty-eight hours, sometimes as long as three days, then rise and walk at night. And you would be hungry.”
    The way he said “hungry” made me shiver.
    “No other way?”
    “Other vampires have told me humans they habitually bite, day after day, can become vampires quite unexpectedly. But that requires consecutive, deep, feedings. Others, under the same conditions, merely become anemic. Then again, when people are near to death for some other reason, a car accident or a drug overdose, perhaps, the process can go . . . badly wrong.”
    I was getting the creepies. “Time to