Dead But Not Forgotten

Ace Anthologies Edited by Charlaine Harris and Toni L. P. Kelner

MANY BLOODY RETURNS

WOLFSBANE AND MISTLETOE

DEATH'S EXCELLENT VACATION

HOME IMPROVEMENT: UNDEAD EDITION

AN APPLE FOR THE CREATURE

GAMES CREATURES PLAY

 

DEAD BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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Copyright © 2014 by Charlaine Harris, Inc.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14050-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Harris, Charlaine.

Dead but not forgotten : stories from the world of Sookie Stackhouse / edited by Charlaine Harris and Toni L. P. Kelner.—First edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-425-27174-2 (hardback)

1. Stackhouse, Sookie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Paranormal fiction, American. I. Harris, Charlaine, editor. II. Kelner, Toni L. P., editor. III. Title.

PS648.O33D42 2014

813'.0876608—dc23

2014017702

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Ace hardcover edition / December 2014

Cover illustration by Lisa Desimini.

Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

First published as an audio book by Audible.

The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CHARLAINE HARRIS

I have to admit I was dubious about this project when Steve Feldberg at Audible first proposed it. I thought it would be strange to see my characters from someone else's viewpoint, and I thought it would be embarrassing to invite other writers to jump into my characters. But as I mulled the idea over for a few weeks, it occurred to me that I had already seen my characters from another viewpoint, on
True Blood
. Maybe seeing them through another prism would be just as interesting.

Gradually, I began to see how much fun this project might be, especially with Toni L. P. Kelner, friend and coeditor on so many anthologies, riding shotgun. We made up a list of writers who had let me know they'd enjoyed the books. To my pleasure, they all seemed excited at the idea.

I have been delighted with the stories we received. Each one has provided me with a sort of affectionate good-bye to the world where I lived for so long, and the people I created to populate that world.

RACHEL CAINE

Rachel Caine was enthralled by Kevin and Kenya, the Bon Temps police officers who appear in most of the Sookie books. She wanted to see more of their personal lives and to find out exactly how they came to realize they were really made for each other. Here's Rachel's version of their vampire-imperiled courtship, which also involves swamp water, addicts, and other assorted romantic shenanigans.

—

Hoo boy, it was hot. Though saying it was hot in Bon Temps, Louisiana, was a little like saying water was wet; even this late in the season, well into what probably felt like fall in other parts of the country, it was a sticky, steamy day. Like most other days.

Kevin Pryor reached for the controls of the air-conditioning on the police cruiser, but before he could get to them, his partner, Kenya Jones, was already there, expertly adjusting the knobs to get just the right mix of dry and cold. She also got out a thermos full of cold water, wetted a small washcloth, and handed it to him.

“Are you saying I stink?” he asked her, and made quick use of it, swabbing his filthy, sweaty face, neck, and hands. Not much he could do about the shirt; it was going to be one of those challenges that might be too big for regular laundry, and his mother would give him a lecture about taking better care of his things even though he was a grown-ass man.

Kenya didn't quite smile. “I wouldn't say that.” Which was her way of saying that she was too polite. In fact, he smelled like rot and swamp, because he'd had to bend over and fish out the rotting suitcase from the green, stagnant pond and open it up to be sure there wasn't anything unpleasant in it, like body parts. There hadn't been. Just somebody's sad mess of clothes and some papers too rotted away to read.

They'd gotten the call about a suitcase floating in the pond just an hour ago, and both of them had, without discussion, decided to put it at the top of their to-do list. Bon Temps was a sleepy little backwoods place, but it still had its more-than-fair share of meth-heads, criminals, losers, and killers.

Some of their killers were vampires.

He didn't like to think
all
vampires were killers, because some of the ones he'd met, like Bill Compton, generally seemed to be good people, wanting to live whatever kind of life they had without trouble, but he understood that there was a spectrum in the undead, like there was in the living. Good and bad and shades between. One thing he'd learned early on as a cop: People were rarely on one side of the line or the other. Good people did bad things. Bad people did good things. You had to take it on a case-by-case basis.

“That was strange, wasn't it?” Kenya asked as she rewetted the washcloth and ran it over her exposed skin. He found himself watching that too closely, mind going blank, and had to blink and look away. Kenya was off-limits, obviously. First, she was his partner. Second, she was just about his polar opposite in every way—Amazon tall, rounded, built like Venus, if Venus could bench-press the weight of a grown man. And she was black, which didn't matter to him a hill of beans, but he knew it mattered in the landscape of Bon Temps society. Such as that was. It most certainly mattered to his mother. She didn't even like him riding with Kenya all day; after all, she was from a generation that had gotten all froth-mouthed over
those people
going to the same restrooms.

He loved his mother. He just didn't like her very much.

“You mean the suitcase?” he asked, dragging his mind back to the case—the
literal
case—they were working on. “Could have been some pissed-off boyfriend tossing his girl's clothes in the water during an argument. Or somebody's idea of recycling. No sign of foul play, at least. It's just junk.”

Kenya nodded. She was frowning a little bit, but there hadn't been anything in the suitcase that either of them could point to as something that shouldn't have been tossed out. If there had been ID or a passport or cash or jewelry, that'd be one thing, but an old, scarred Samsonite with one good latch filled with threadbare clothes . . . “All right,” she said. “I'll write it up in case something comes up on it. I checked missing persons. We got three, but none of them would fit the clothes in that bag.”

The clothes had been for a generously sized woman without much sense of style. Generic stuff, sun-faded from flapping on a laundry line. Which, now that Kevin followed that train of thought along the tracks, didn't exactly support the theory of a spat with a girlfriend. Women of that age, and that particular style, didn't generally go in for fiery domestic arguments. When those kinds of women had fights, they were quiet, full of resentment, and the parties involved rarely threw things into stagnant ponds out of spite.

“Maybe we ought to head back,” Kenya said, and cracked open the window. “I am not going to be friendly all day long with that shirt.”

It did stink pretty bad, and he could feel the sticky chill of it now that the A/C was drying the fabric, slimy against his chest. In this job, you tended to get accustomed to bad smells; a couple of bodies rotting in the hot Louisiana summer adjusted your nose real fast. But this was different.

“Right,” he said, and put the cruiser in gear. “Back to the barn.”

Nothing in Bon Temps was a long drive, unless you went out into the fringe communities, and that was mostly about the quality of the roads, not the distance. So in under five minutes they were back on what passed for the main drag. They passed Merlotte's, which looked like it had a decent midday crowd going. He found himself craving lunch all of a sudden, and he caught Kenya's longing glance in that direction, too. Last thing he wanted was to wear swamp stink into a restaurant, though. Shower, fresh shirt, and then lunch.

Of course, it never happened.

They were a block away from the station when Marie Sandeman came running out in the street towing her ragged little boy along behind her and waved them down as if she were bringing in a jet for a landing.

“You're kidding,” Kenya said, and glowered at the woman. Marie was none too stable at the best of times, and this didn't look like it was going to be one of her better days. She hadn't combed her hair, and she probably hadn't slept much, either, from the dark rings around her eyes and the pale, sweaty set of her face. Thin as a stick insect, so thin he could see her ribs under the crop top she was wearing. Her kid didn't look much cleaner, but at least he was better fed. Kevin sincerely hoped that the broad, dark smear on the boy's cheek was mud.

“You gotta help me!” Marie shouted, and pounded on the hood of the police car for emphasis.

“Oh hell, she did
not
,” Kenya said, and had her door open before Kevin could turn off the engine. “Marie Sandeman! Take your hands off the car!”

Marie held up her hand in a trembling pledge to be good as she stepped back. Kenya fixed her with a blank, intimidating stare as Kevin exited the vehicle and came around to the front of the car near Marie. Kenya held back. It was the normal way they approached someone like Marie. He'd made his peace with the fact that in their partnership, he was the
less
intimidating one.

“You gotta help me,” Marie repeated. Her little boy crumpled up a corner of his dirty, oversized Superman T-shirt and stuffed it in his mouth. His dark eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “He's in my house!”

That changed things, and Kevin heard it in the tone of his partner's voice as she said, “Who is, Marie?”

“My dealer—” Her brain must have caught up with her mouth, because she stopped midconfession (it would have been drugs) and looked sideways. Marie was a real bad liar. “His name's Quentin. He won't leave. He's tearin' shit up in there!”

“Is he high, Marie?” Kenya managed to sound warm and calm and strong all at the same time. Mostly, Kevin figured, it was for the boy's benefit. They'd handled Marie so many times that kindness had generally gone out the window, along with Marie's self-respect.

“Probably . . . ?”

Kenya nodded to Kevin and got back into the cruiser. He delayed long enough to say, “You go get yourself a soda or something, Marie. Don't go home until we deal with this, all right?”

Marie might not be as smart as your average set of tools, but she understood an opening when she saw one. “Ain't got no money,” she said, and took on a stubborn, defensive look. “Ain't my fault, I had to run out of there so fast!”

Kenya didn't so much as blink. Kevin sighed, pulled out his wallet, and gave Marie a five, which she snatched from his fingers with rabid eagerness.

She looked down at her little boy as she stuffed the cash in her pocket. “See? Cops ain't always bad. Just mostly.”

Kevin shook his head and slammed the car door as Kenya flipped on the lights. No need for the siren. Marie didn't live that far away, and there wasn't any traffic to speak of between them and the destination.

“I already hate this day,” Kenya said. “You know we have to go in her house.”

“I know,” he said. “Bright side is, you won't notice how bad my shirt stinks anymore.”

Marie's screen door was pretty useless, with a half-busted top hinge and most of the screen ripped into sharp-edged tatters. Old damage, rusty at the ends. Behind it, the front door hung wide open.

“Don't look good,” Kenya said. “Left or right?”

“Left,” Kevin said. She nodded, made a silent three-count, and eased into the darkness, going right. Kevin moved with her. They clicked their lights on within a second of each other.

It wasn't better than the last time he'd seen the place. The floor was choked with discarded clothes, broken toys, bottles . . . basically the worst footing in the world if they had to move fast. Kevin swept the corners with his flashlight, but there was no sign of an intruder, unless you counted the roaches scurrying to avoid the glare. The stench of old diapers and rotting trash made the swampy aroma from his shirt seem almost soothing.

It was also hotter than hell. He guessed Marie had forgotten to pay the electric bill again, or else couldn't afford to. What she
could
afford was meth, and he spotted some on the coffee table, right next to the open pack of fruit snacks her kid had probably been eating. Time to call social services again.

He heard the shuffling sound the same time Kenya did, and both their lights moved to pinpoint the doorway that led into the kitchen. Kenya moved like a tiger as she closed the distance from the other side, and despite the fact that this was damn dangerous, Kevin couldn't help admiring her. Moments like these, she was so beautiful it hurt. Not that he'd ever say so.

They paused on either side of the kitchen doorway, and Kenya gave him a nod, which was their sign that she'd let him go in first and low, while she covered high. They both moved their lights to converge, and pinned the intruder in place in the beams.

He wasn't exactly—right. Kevin took that in at a glance—the wide, wild, red-rimmed eyes; the matted long hair; the pallid face and red lips. Maybe he'd come to Marie's house looking to score.

He was holding a dead cat. That was why his lips were so red, and dripping.

“Jesus,” Kenya said. She sounded disgusted. “Drop the cat and put your damn hands up.”

He dropped the cat, all right, but it turned out that in his other hand he had a gun, and he used it. He shot wild; the bullet buried itself in the wall a good three feet to the right. Kevin fired back and heard Kenya do the same.

One of them must have hit him, because the junkie yelped and staggered back as he dropped his gun.

Kevin surged forward. “Down! Get down on the floor!” A fate worse than death, to lie on that floor, but his heart was ripping itself loose in adrenaline-fueled pounding, and he wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic.

The wild man bared stained teeth at him and knocked Kevin out of his way as easily as if he were a blow-up toy. It felt like being hit by a sledgehammer in the chest, and Kevin was aware of leaving the ground, a second of motion, and then a hard, rattling impact against the solid bulk of the refrigerator.