"Did he sound well?" Octavia asked, her voice choked.
"Yes," I said. There was only so much I could get from a voice on the other end of a phone line. "He sounded anxious to talk to you."
"Oh, I have to call him back," she said, and her voice was wild.
"Sure," I said. "Just punch in the number. Don't worry about calling collect or anything; the phone bill'll tell us how much it was." I glanced over at Amelia, cocking an eyebrow. She shook her head. She didn't know what the hell was going on, either.
Octavia placed the call with shaking fingers. She pressed the phone to her ear after the first ring. I could tell when Louis Chambers answered. Her eyes shut tight, and her hand clenched the phone so hard the muscles stood out.
"Oh, Louis," she said, her voice full of raw relief and amazement. "Oh, thank God. Are you all right?"
Amelia and I shuffled out of the kitchen at that point. Amelia walked to my car with me. "You ever heard of this Louis guy?" I asked.
"She never talked about her private life when she was working with me. But other witches told me Octavia had a steady boyfriend. She hasn't mentioned him since she's been here. It looks like she hasn't heard from him since Katrina."
"She might not have thought he survived," I said, and we widened our eyes at each other.
"That's big stuff," Amelia said. "Well. We may be losing Octavia." She tried to stifle her relief, but of course, I could read it. As fond as Amelia was of her magical mentor, I'd realized that for Amelia, living with Octavia was like living with one of your junior high teachers.
"I got to go," I said. "Keep me posted. Text me if there's any big news." Texting was one of my new Amelia-taught skills.
Despite the chilly air, Amelia sat on one of the lawn chairs that we'd recently hauled out of the storage shed to encourage ourselves to anticipate spring. "The minute I know something," she agreed. "I'll wait here a few minutes, then go check on her."
I got in my car and hoped the heater would warm up soon. In the gathering dusk, I drove to Merlotte's. I saw a coyote on the way. Usually they were too clever to be seen, but this one was trotting along the side of the road as if he had an appointment in town. Maybe it was really a coyote, or maybe it was a person in another form. When I considered the possums and coons and the occasional armadillo I saw squashed by the road every morning, I wondered how many werecreatures had gotten killed in their animal forms in such careless ways. Maybe some of the bodies the police labeled murder victims were actually people killed by accident in their alternate form. I remembered all animal traces had vanished from Crystal's body when she'd been taken down from the cross, after the nails had been removed. I was willing to bet those nails had been silver. There was so much I didn't know.
When I came in Merlotte's back door, full of plans to reconcile with Sam, I found my boss having an argument with Bobby Burnham. It was almost dark now, and Bobby should be off the clock. Instead, he was standing in the hall outside of Sam's office. He was red in the face and fit to be tied.
"What's up?" I said. "Bobby, did you need to talk to me?"
"Yeah. This guy wouldn't tell me when you were going to get here," Bobby said.
"This guy is my boss, and he isn't obliged to tell you anything," I said. "Here I am. What do you need to say to me?"
"Eric sent you this card, and he ordered me to tell you I'm at your disposal whenever you need me. I'm supposed to wash your car if you want me to." Bobby's face went even redder as he said this.
If Eric had thought Bobby would be made humble and compliant after a public humiliation, he was nuts. Now Bobby would hate me for a hundred years, if he lived that long. I took the card Bobby handed me and said, "Thanks, Bobby. Go back to Shreveport."
Before the last syllable left my mouth, Bobby was out the back door. I examined the plain white envelope and then stuck it in my purse. I looked up to meet Sam's eyes.
"Like you needed another enemy," he said, and stomped into his office.
Like I needed another friend acting like an ass**le,I thought. So much for us having a good laugh over our disagreement. I followed Sam in to drop my purse in the drawer he kept empty for the barmaids. We didn't say a word to each other. I went to the storeroom to get an apron. Antoine was changing his stained apron for a clean one.
"D'Eriq bumped into me with a jar full of jalape?os, and the juice slopped out," he said. "I can't stand the smell of 'em."
"Whoo," I said, catching a whiff. "I don't blame you."
"Sam's mama doing okay?"
"Yeah, she's out of the hospital," I said.
"Good news."
As I tied the strings around my waist, I thought Antoine was about to say something else, but if he was, he changed his mind. He crossed the hall to knock on the kitchen door, and D'Eriq opened it from the inside and let him in. People had wandered into the kitchen by mistake too often, and the door was kept locked all the time. There was another door from the kitchen that led directly out back, and the Dumpster was right outside.
I walked past Sam's office without looking in. He didn't want to talk to me; okay, I wouldn't talk to him. I realized I was being childish.
The FBI agents were still in Bon Temps, which shouldn't have surprised me. Tonight, they came into the bar. Weiss and Lattesta were sitting opposite each another in a booth, a pitcher of beer and a basket of French-fried pickles between them, and they were talking intently. And at a table close to them, looking regal and beautiful and remote, was my great-grandfather Niall Brigant.
This day was going to win a prize for most peculiar. I blew out a puff of air and went to wait on my great-grandfather first. He stood as I approached. His pale straight hair was tied back at the nape of his neck. He was wearing a black suit and a white shirt, as he always did. Tonight, instead of the solid black tie he usually wore, he had on a tie I'd given him for Christmas. It was red, gold, and black striped, and he looked spectacular. Everything about him gleamed and shone. The shirt wasn't simply white - it was snowy and starched; and his coat wasn't just black - it was spotlessly inky. His shoes showed not a speck of dust, and the myriad of fine, fine wrinkles in his handsome face only set off its perfection and his brilliant green eyes. His age enhanced rather than diminished his looks. It almost hurt to look at him. Niall put his arms around me and kissed my cheek.
"Blood of my blood," he said, and I smiled into his chest. He was so dramatic. And he had such a hard time looking human. I'd had one glimpse of him in his true form, and it had been nearly blinding. Since no one else in the bar was gasping at the sight of him, I knew they weren't seeing him the same way I did.