Шарлин Харрис - Dead to the World

"Aside from the bites, and being so cold, are you okay?" I asked, when I thought Jason had stopped shivering and could speak.

"Yes," he said. "Yes. Every night, every damn night, he'd come in the shed, and he'd change in front of me, and I'd think, Tonight he's going to kill me and eat me. And every night, he'd bite me. And then he'd just change back and leave. I could tell it was hard for him, after he'd smelled the blood . . . but he never did more than bite."

"They'll kill him tonight," I said. "In return for us not going to the police."

"Good deal," said Jason, and he meant it.

Jason was able to stand on his own long enough to take a shower, which he said was the best one he'd taken in his life. When he was clean and smelled like every scented thing in my bathroom, and he was modestly draped with a big towel, I went all over him with Neosporin. I used up a whole tube on the bites. They seemed to be healing clean already, but I could not stop myself from trying to think of things to do for him. He'd had hot chocolate, and he'd eaten some hot oatmeal (which I thought was an odd choice, but he said all Felton had brought him to eat had been barely cooked meat), and he'd put on the sleeping pants I'd bought for Eric (too big, but the drawstring waist helped), and he'd put on a baggy old T-shirt I'd gotten when I'd done the Walk for Life two years before. He kept touching the material as if he was delighted to be dressed.

He seemed to want to be warm and to sleep, more than anything. I put him in my old room. With a sad glance at the closet, which Eric had left all askew, I told my brother good night. He asked me to turn the hall light on and leave the door cracked a little. It cost Jason to ask that, so I didn't say a word. I just did as he'd requested.

Sam was sitting in the kitchen, drinking a cup of hot tea. He looked up from watching the steam of it and smiled at me. "How is he?"

I sank down into my usual spot. "He's better than I thought he would be," I said. "Considering he spent the whole time in the shed with no heat and being bitten every day."

"I wonder how long Felton would have kept him?"

"Until the full moon, I guess. Then Felton would've found out if he'd succeeded or not." I felt a little sick.

"I checked your calendar. He's got a couple of weeks."

"Good. Give Jason time to get his strength back before he has something else to face." I rested my head in my hands for a minute. "I have to call the police."

"To let them know to stop searching?"

"Yep."

"Have you made up your mind what to say? Did Jason mention any ideas?"

"Maybe that the male relatives of some girl had kidnapped him?" Actually, that was sort of true.

"The cops would want to know where he'd been held. If he'd gotten away on his own, they'd want to know how, and they'd be sure he'd have more information for them."

I wondered if I had enough brainpower left to think. I stared blankly at the table: the familiar napkin holder that my grandmother had bought at a craft fair, and the sugar bowl, and the salt- and pepper-shakers shaped like a rooster and a hen. I noticed something had been tucked under the saltshaker.

It was a check for $50,000, signed by Eric Northman. Eric had not only paid me, he had given me the biggest tip of my career.

"Oh," I said, very gently. "Oh, boy." I looked at it for a minute more, to make sure I was reading it correctly. I passed it across the table to Sam.

"Wow. Payment for keeping Eric?" Sam looked up at me, and I nodded. "What will you do with it?"

"Put it through the bank, first thing tomorrow morning."

He smiled. "I guess I was thinking longer term than that."

"Just relax. It'll just relax me to have it. To know that . . ." To my embarrassment, here came tears. Again. Damn. "So I won't have to worry all the time."

"Things have been tight recently, I take it." I nodded, and Sam's mouth compressed. "You . . ." he began, and then couldn't finish his sentence.

"Thanks, but I can't do that to people," I said firmly. "Gran always said that was the surest way to end a friendship."

"You could sell this land, buy a house in town, have neighbors," Sam suggested, as if he'd been dying to say that for months.

"Move out of this house?" Some member of my family had lived in this house continuously for over a hundred and fifty years. Of course, that didn't make it sacred or anything, and the house had been added to and modernized many times. I thought of living in a small modern house with level floors and up-to-date bathrooms and a convenient kitchen with lots of plugs. No exposed water heater. Lots of blown-in insulation in the attic. A carport!

Dazzled at the vision, I swallowed. "I'll consider it," I said, feeling greatly daring to even entertain the idea. "But I can't think of anything much right now. Just getting through tomorrow will be hard enough."

I thought of the police man-hours that had been put into searching for Jason. Suddenly I was so tired, I just couldn't make an attempt to fashion a story for the law.

"You need to go to bed," Sam said astutely.

I could only nod. "Thank you, Sam. Thank you so much." We stood and I gave him a hug. It turned into a longer hug than I'd planned, because hugging him was unexpectedly restful and comfortable. "Good night," I said. "Please drive careful going back." I thought briefly of offering him one of the beds upstairs, but I kept that floor shut off and it would be awfully cold up there; and I'd have to go up and make the bed. He'd be more comfortable making the short drive home, even in the snow.

"I will," he said, and released me. "Call me in the morning."

"Thanks again."

"Enough thank-yous," he said. Eric had put a couple of nails in the front door to hold it shut, until I could get a dead bolt put on. I locked the back door behind Sam, and I barely managed to brush my teeth and change into a nightgown before I crawled in my bed.

The first thing I did the next morning was check on my brother. Jason was still deeply asleep, and in the light of day, I could clearly see the effects of his imprisonment. His face had a coating of stubble. Even in his sleep, he looked older. There were bruises here and there, and that was just on his face and arms. His eyes opened as I sat by the bed, looking at him. Without moving, he rolled his eyes around, taking in the room. They stopped when they came to my face.

"I didn't dream it," he said. His voice was hoarse. "You and Sam came and got me. They let me go. The panther let me go."

"Yes."

"So what's been happening while I was gone?" he asked next. "Wait, can I go to the bathroom and get a cup of coffee before you tell me?"

I liked his asking instead of telling (a Jason trait, telling), and I was glad to tell him yes and even volunteer to get the coffee. Jason seemed happy enough to crawl back in bed with the mug of coffee and sugar, and prop himself up on the pillows while we talked.

I told him about Catfish's phone call, our to-and-fro with the police, the search of the yard and my conscription of his Benelli shotgun, which he immediately demanded to see.

"You fired it!" he said indignantly, after checking it over.

I just stared at him.

He flinched first. "I guess it worked like a shotgun is 'spose to," he said slowly. "Since you're sitting here looking pretty much okay."

"Thanks, and don't ask me again," I said.

He nodded.

"Now we have to think of a story for the police."

"I guess we can't just tell them the truth."

"Sure, Jason, let's tell them that the village of Hotshot is full of were-panthers, and that since you slept with one, her boyfriend wanted to make you a were-panther, too, so she wouldn't prefer you over him. That's why he changed into a panther and bit you every day."