Шарлин Харрис: Dead to the World

You don't want to know how awful it was, or all the details. But we got Debbie together and bagged up, and Eric took her way out into the woods and buried her and concealed the grave, he swore, while I cleaned. I had to take down the curtains over the sink and soak them in the washing machine in cold water, and I stuck my coat in with them, though without much hope of its being wearable again. I pulled on rubber gloves and used bleach-soaked wipes to go over and over the chair and table and floor, and I sprayed the front of the cabinets with wood soap and wiped and wiped.

You just wouldn't believe where specks of blood had landed.

I realized that attention to these tiny details was helping me keep my mind off of the main event, and that the longer I avoided looking at it squarely—the longer I let Eric's practical words sink into my awareness—the better off I'd be. There was nothing I could undo. There was no way I could mend what I had done. I'd had a limited number of choices, and I had to live with the choice I'd made. My Gran had always told me that a woman—any woman worth her salt—could do whatever she had to. If you'd called Gran a liberated woman, she would have denied it vigorously, but she'd been the strongest woman I'd ever known, and if she believed I could complete this grisly task just because I had to, I would do it.

When I was through, the kitchen reeked of cleaning products, and to the naked eye it was literally spotless. I was sure a crime scene expert would be able to find trace evidence (a tip of the hat to the Learning Channel), but I didn't intend that a crime scene expert would ever have reason to come into my kitchen.

She'd broken in the front door. It had never occurred to me to check it before I came in the back. So much for my career as a bodyguard. I wedged a chair under the doorknob to keep it blocked for the remainder of the night.

Eric, returned from his burial detail, seemed to be high on excitement, so I asked him to go scouting for Debbie's car. She had a Mazda Miata, and she'd hidden it on a four-wheeler trail right across the parish road from the turnoff to my place. Eric had had the foresight to retain her keys, and he volunteered to drive her car somewhere else. I should have followed him, to bring him back to my house, but he insisted he could do the job by himself, and I was too exhausted to boss him around. I stood under a stream of water and scrubbed myself clean while he was gone. I was glad to be alone, and I washed myself over and over. When I was as clean as I could get on the outside, I pulled on a pink nylon nightgown and crawled in the bed. It was close to dawn, and I hoped Eric would be back soon. I had opened the closet and the hole for him, and put an extra pillow in it.

I heard him come in just as I was falling asleep, and he kissed me on the cheek. "All done," he said, and I mumbled, "Thanks, baby."

"Anything for you," he said, his voice gentle. "Good night, my lover."

It occurred to me that I was lethal for exes. I'd dusted Bill's big love (and his mom); now I'd killed Alcide's off-and-on-again sweetie. I knew hundreds of men. I'd never gone homicidal on their exes. But creatures I cared about, well, that seemed to be different. I wondered if Eric had any old girlfriends around. Probably about a hundred or so. Well, they'd better beware of me.

After that, whether I willed it or not, I was sucked down into a black hole of exhaustion.

I guess Pam worked on Hallow right up until dawn was peeking over the horizon. I myself was so heavily asleep, so in need of both physical and mental healing, I didn't wake until four in the afternoon. It was a gloomy winter day, the kind that makes you switch on the radio to see if an ice storm is coming. I checked to make sure I had three or four days' worth of firewood moved up onto the back porch.

Eric would be up early today.

I dressed and ate at the speed of a snail, trying to get a handle on my state of being.

Physically, I was fine. A bruise here or there, a little muscle soreness—that was nothing. It was the second week of January and I was sticking to my New Year's resolution just great.

On the other hand—and there's always another hand—mentally, or maybe emotionally, I was less than rock-steady. No matter how practical you are, no matter how strong-stomached you are, you can't do something like I'd done without suffering some consequences.

That's the way it should be.

When I thought of Eric getting up, I thought of maybe doing some snuggling before I had to go to work. And I thought of the pleasure of being with someone who thought I was so important.

I hadn't anticipated that the spell would have been broken.

Eric got up at five-thirty. When I heard movement in the guest bedroom, I tapped on the door and opened it. He whirled, his fangs running out and his hands clawing in front of him.

I'd almost said, "Hi, honey," but caution kept me mute.

"Sookie," he said slowly. "Am I in your house?"

I was glad I'd gotten dressed. "Yes," I said, regrouping like crazy. "You've been here for safekeeping. Do you know what happened?"

"I went to a meeting with some new people," he said, doubt in his voice. "Didn't I?" He looked down at his WalMart clothes with some surprise. "When did I buy these?"

"I had to get those for you," I said.

"Did you dress me, too?" he asked, running his hands down his chest and lower. He gave me a very Eric smile.

He didn't remember. Anything.

"No," I said. I flashed on Eric in the shower with me. The kitchen table. The bed.

"Where is Pam?" he asked.

"You should call her," I said. "Do you recall anything about yesterday?"

"Yesterday I had the meeting with the witches," he said, as if that was indisputable.

I shook my head. "That was days ago," I told him, unable to add the number of them up in my head. My heart sank even lower.

"You don't remember last night, after we came back from Shreveport," I pressed him, suddenly seeing a gleam of light in all this.

"Did we make love?" he asked hopefully. "Did you finally yield to me, Sookie? It's only a matter of time, of course." He grinned at me.

No, last night we cleaned up a body, I thought.

I was the only one who knew. And even I didn't know where Debbie's remains were buried, or what had happened to her car.

I sat down on the edge of my old narrow bed. Eric looked at me closely. "Something's wrong, Sookie? What happened while I was—Why don't I remember what happened?"

Least said, soonest mended.

All's well that ends well.

Out of sight, out of mind. (Oh, I wished that were true.)

"I bet Pam will be here any minute," I said. "I think I'll let her tell you all about it."

"And Chow?"

"No, he won't be here. He died last night. Fangtasia seems to have a bad effect on bartenders."

"Who killed him? I'll have vengeance."

"You've already had."

"Something more is wrong with you," Eric said. He'd always been astute.

"Yes, lots of stuff is wrong with me." I would've enjoyed hugging him right then, but it would just complicate everything. "And I think it's going to snow."

"Snow, here?" Eric was as delighted as a child. "I love snow!"

Why was I not surprised?

"Maybe we will get snowed in together," he said suggestively, waggling his blond eyebrows.

I laughed. I just couldn't help it. And it was a hell of a lot better than crying, which I'd done quite enough of lately. "As if you'd ever let the weather stop you from doing what you wanted to do," I said, and stood. "Come on, I'll heat you up some blood."

Even a few nights of intimacy had softened me enough that I had to watch my actions. Once I almost stroked his hair as I passed him; and once I bent to give him a kiss, and had to pretend I'd dropped something on the floor.