The hot afternoon drew to an end. In the summer, fewer people came in to drink after work. They headed home to mow their yards, hop in the aboveground pool, and take their kids to sports events.

One of our alcoholics, Jane Bodehouse, showed up around five o'clock. When she'd gotten cut from flying glass during the firebombing a few weeks before, Jane had gotten sewed up and had returned to the bar within twenty-four hours. For a few days, she got to enjoy painkillers and alcohol. I'd wondered if Jane's son might be angry that his mom had gotten hurt at Merlotte's, but as far as I could tell, the poor guy had only a mild regret that she'd survived. After the bombing, Jane had abandoned her barstool in favor of the table by the window where she'd been sitting when the bottle came through the window. It was like she'd enjoyed the excitement and was ready for another Molotov cocktail. When I went over to give her a bowl of snack mix or replenish her drink, she always had a plaintive murmur about the heat or the boredom.

Since the bar was still almost empty, I sat down to have a conversation with Jane when I served her the first drink of the day. Maybe. Kennedy joined us after she'd made sure the two guys at the bar had full glasses. To make them even happier, she turned the TV to ESPN.

Any conversation with Jane was rambling and tended to bounce back and forth between decades with no warning. When Kennedy mentioned her own pageant days, Jane said, "I was Miss Red River Valley and Miss Razorback and Miss Renard Parish when I was in my teens."

So we had a pleasant reminiscence about those days, and it was good to see Jane perk up and share some common ground with Kennedy. On the other hand, Kennedy was a little freaked out at the idea someone who'd started out like her had ended up a barfly. She was thinking some anxious thoughts.

After a few minutes, Kennedy had to get back behind the bar, and I rose to greet my replacement, Holly. I'd opened my mouth to tell Jane good-bye when she said, "Do you think it'll happen again?"

She was looking out the smoky glass of the big front window.

I started to ask her what she meant, but then from her addled brain, I got it. "I hope not, Jane," I said. "I hope no one ever decides to attack the bar again."

"I did pretty good that day," she told me. "I moved real fast, and Sam got me going down that hall at a pretty good clip. Those EMTs were real nice to me." She was smiling.

"Yes, Jane, you did real good. We all thought so," I told her. I patted her shoulder and walked away.

The firebombing of Merlotte's, which was a terrible night in my memory, had turned into a pleasurable reminiscence for Jane. I shook my head as I collected my purse and left the bar. My gran had always told me it was an ill wind that blew nobody good. Once again, she was proved right.

Even the break-in at Splendide had served a purpose. Now I knew for sure that someone, almost certainly one of the fae, knew my grandmother had had possession of the cluviel dor.

Chapter 8

An hour later, having come home to a blessedly cool and empty house, I was sitting at my kitchen table with my best stationery and a black pen. I was trying to decide how to begin the letter, the one I'd promised Bellenos I'd attempt to send to Faery. I had doubts about how well this was going to go.

The last time I'd fed something into the portal, it had been eaten. Granted, it had been a human body.

My first attempt had run on for five handwritten pages. It was now in the kitchen trash can. I had to condense what I needed to convey. Urgency! That was the message.

Dear Great-Grandfather, I began. I hesitated. And Claude, I added. Bellenos and Dermot are worried that the fae at Hooligans are getting too restless to stay confined to the building. They miss Claude and his leadership. We are all afraid something bad will happen if this situation doesn't change soon. Please let us know what's going on. Can you send a return letter through this portal? Or send Claude back? Love, Sookie

I read it over, decided it was as close as I was going to get to what I wanted to say (Claude, get your butt back here now!). I wrote both Niall's and Claude's names on the envelope, which was real pretty-cream with pink and red roses on the border. I almost put a stamp on the upper right corner before I realized it would be a ridiculous waste.

Between the heat, the bugs, and the burgeoning undergrowth, my jaunt into the woods to "mail" my letter was not as pleasant as my previous rambles had been. Sweat poured down my face, and my hair was sticking to my neck. A devil's walking stick scratched me deeply enough to make me bleed. I paused by a big clump of the plumy bushes that only seem to grow big out in the sun-Gran would have had a name for them, but I didn't-and I heard a deer moving around inside the dense growth. At least Bellenos left me one, I thought, and told myself I was being ridiculous. We had plenty of deer. Plenty.

To my relief, the portal was still in the little clearing where I'd last seen it, but it looked smaller. Not that it's easy to define the size of a patch of shimmery air-but last time it had been large enough to admit a very small human body. Now, that wouldn't be possible without taking a chainsaw to the body beforehand.

Either the portal was shrinking naturally, or Niall had decided a size reduction would prevent me from popping anything else unauthorized into Faery. I knelt before the patch of wavery air, which hovered about knee-high just above the blackberry vines and the grasses. I popped the letter into the quavering patch, and it vanished.

Though I held my breath in anticipation, nothing happened. I didn't hear the snarling of last time, but I found the silence kind of depressing. I don't know what I'd expected, but I'd half hoped I'd get some signal. Maybe a chime? Or the sound of a gong? A recording saying, We've received your message and will attempt to deliver it? That would have been nice.

I relaxed and smiled, amused at my own silliness. Hoisting myself up, I made my difficult way back through the woods. I could hardly wait to strip off my sweaty, dirty clothes and get into my shower. As I emerged from the shadow of the trees and into the waning afternoon, I saw that would have to be a pleasure delayed.

In my absence I'd acquired some visitors. Three people I didn't know, all looking to be in their midforties, were standing by a car as if they'd been on the point of getting into it to drive away. If only I'd stayed by the portal a few more minutes! The little group was oddly assorted. The man standing by the driver's door had coppery brown hair and a short beard, and he was wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He wore khakis and a pale blue oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up, practically a summertime white-collar work uniform. The other man was a real contrast. His jeans were stained, and his T-shirt said he liked pussies, with an oh-so-clever drawing of a Persian cat. Subtle, huh? I caught a whiff of otherness coming from him; he wasn't really human, but I didn't want to get any closer to investigate what his true nature might be.

His female companion was wearing a low-cut T shirt, dark green with gold studs as a decoration, and white shorts. Her bare legs were heavily tattooed.

"Afternoon," I said, not even trying to sound welcoming. I could hear trouble coming from their brains. Wait. Didn't the sleazy couple look just a little familiar?

"Hello," said the woman, an olive-skinned brunette with raccoon eye makeup. She took a drag on her cigarette. "You Sookie Stackhouse?"

"I am. And you are?"

"We're the Rowes. I'm Georgene and this is Oscar. This man," and she pointed at the driver, "is Harp Powell."

"I'm sorry?" I said. "Do I know you?"

"Kym's parents," the woman said.

I was even sorrier I'd come back to the house.

Call me ungracious, but I wasn't going to ask them in. They hadn't called ahead, they had no reason to talk to me, and above all else- I had been down this road before with the Pelts.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said. "But I'm not sure why you've come here."

"You talked to our girl before she died," Oscar Rowe said. "We just wanted to know what was on her mind."

Though they didn't realize it, they'd come to the right place to find out. Knowing what was on people's minds was my specialty. But I wasn't getting good brain readings from either of them. Instead of grief and regret, I was getting avid curiosity ... an emotion more suited to people who slow down to goggle at road accidents than to grieving parents.

I turned slightly to look at their companion. "And you, Mr. Powell? What's your role here?" I'd been aware of his intense observation.

"I'm thinking of doing a book about Kym's life," Harp Powell said. "And her death."

I could add that up in my head: lurid past, pretty girl, died outside a vampire's house during a party with interesting guests. It wouldn't be a biography of the desperate, emotionally disturbed Kym I'd met so briefly. Harp Powell was thinking of writing a true-crime novel with pictures in the middle: Kym as a cute youngster, Kym in high school, Kym as a stripper, and maybe Kym as a corpse. Bringing the Rowes with him was a smart move. Who could turn down distraught parents? But I knew Georgene and Oscar weren't anywhere close to devastated. The Rowes were more curious than bereaved.

"How long had it been since you saw her?" I asked Kym's mother.

"Well, she was a grown-up girl. She left home after she graduated from high school," Georgene said reasonably. She had stepped toward the house as if she were waiting for me to open the back door. She dropped her cigarette on the gravel and ground it out with her platform sandal.

"So, five years? Six?" I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at each of them in turn.

"It had been a while," conceded Oscar Rowe. "Kym had her own living to make; we couldn't support her. She had to get out and hustle like the rest of us." He gave me a look that was supposed to say he knew I'd had to get out and hustle, too-we were all working people, here. All in the same boat.

"I don't have anything to say about your daughter. I didn't even talk to her directly. I saw her for maybe five minutes."

"Is it true your boyfriend was taking blood from her?" Harp Powell asked.

"You can ask him that. But you'll have to go after dark, and he may not be too glad to see you." I smiled.

"Is it true that you live here with two male strippers?" Powell persisted. "Kym was a stripper," he added, as if that would somehow soften me up.

"Who I live with is none of your business. You can leave now," I said, still smiling, I hoped very unpleasantly. "Or I'll call the sheriff, and he'll be here pretty quick." With that, I went inside and shut and locked the door. No point in standing out there listening to questions I wouldn't answer.

The light on my phone was blinking. I turned the sound very low and pressed the button to play it. "Sister," said Bellenos, "no one here will admit to giving any blood to the girl who was killed, or giving blood to anyone at all. Either there's another fairy somewhere, or someone here is lying. I don't like either prospect." I hit the Delete button.

I heard knocking at the back door, and I moved to where I couldn't be seen.

Harp Powell knocked a few more times and slid his card under the porch door, but I didn't answer.

They drove off after a couple of minutes. Though I was relieved to watch them go, the encounter left me depressed and shaken. Seen from the outside, did my life truly seem so tawdry?

I lived with one male stripper. I did date a vampire. He had taken blood from Kym Rowe, right in front of me.

Maybe Harp Powell had just wanted answers to his sensational questions. Maybe he would have reported my answers in a fair and balanced way. Maybe he had just been trying to get a rise out of me. And maybe I was feeling extra fragile. But his strategy worked, though not until too late to directly benefit him. I felt bad about myself. I felt like talking to someone about how my life looked-as opposed to how it felt to be inside it, living it. I wanted to justify my decisions.

But Tara had just had her babies, Amelia and I had some big issues to settle, and Pam knew more about what I faced than I myself knew. Jason loved me, but I had to admit my brother was not too swift mentally. Sam was probably preoccupied with his romance with Jannalynn. I didn't think I knew anyone else well enough to spill my inner fears.

I felt too restless to settle down to any pastime: too fidgety to read or watch TV, too impatient to do housework. After a quick shower, I climbed in the car and drove to Clarice. Though the day was ending, the hospital parking lot was unshaded. I knew the car would be an oven when I emerged.

I stopped at the little gift shop and bought some pink-and-blue carnations to give to the new mother. After I got off the elevator at the second floor (there were only two) I paused at the glass-fronted nursery to peer in at the newborns. There were seven infants rolled up to the window. Two of the clear plastic bins, side by side, were labeled with cards reading "Baby du Rone."

My heart skipped a beat. One of Tara's babies wore a pink cap, the other a blue. They were so little: scrunch-faced, red, their faces beginning to stretch as they yawned. Tears started in my eyes. I had not ever imagined being so bowled over by the sight of them. As I patted my cheeks with a tissue, I was happy that I chanced to be the only visitor looking at the new arrivals. I looked and looked, amazed that my friends had created life between them.

After a few minutes, I ducked in to see an exhausted Tara. JB was sitting by the bed, dazed with happiness. "My mom and dad just left," JB said. "They're going to open a savings account for the kids tomorrow." He shook his head, obviously considering that a bizarre reaction, but I gave the du Rone grandparents high marks. Tara had a new look to her, a gravity and thoughtfulness she'd been lacking. She was a mother now.