Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [168]
This building was proving to be far larger than I’d estimated. We’d entered at the far end of one wing. Now we crossed the large sanctuary of the former church, set up for meetings like any big hall, and we passed into the other wing. This wing was divided into fewer and larger rooms; the one closest to the sanctuary was clearly the office of the former pastor. Now it had a sign on the door that read G. STEVEN NEWLIN, DIRECTOR.
This was the only closed door I’d seen in the building.
Sarah knocked and, having waited for a moment, entered. The tall, lanky man behind the desk stood to beam at us with an air of pleased expectancy. His head didn’t seem quite big enough for his body. His eyes were a hazy blue, his nose was on the beaky side, and his hair was almost the same dark brown as his wife’s, with a threading of gray. I don’t know what I’d been expecting in a fanatic, but this man was not it. He seemed a little amused by his own life.
He’d been talking to a tall woman with iron gray hair. She was wearing a pair of slacks and a blouse, but she looked as if she’d have been more comfortable in a business suit. She was formidably made up, and she was less than pleased about something—maybe our interruption.
“What can I do for you today?” Steve Newlin asked, indicating that Hugo and I should be seated. We took green leather armchairs pulled up opposite his desk, and Sarah, unasked, plopped down in a smaller chair that was against the wall on one side. “Excuse me, Steve,” she said to her husband. “Listen, can I get you two some coffee? Soda?”
Hugo and I looked at each other and shook our heads.
“Honey, this is—oh, I didn’t even ask your names?” She looked at us with charming ruefulness.
“I’m Hugo Ayres, and this is my girlfriend, Marigold.”
Marigold? Was he nuts? I kept my smile pasted on my face with an effort. Then I saw the pot of marigolds on the table beside Sarah, and at least I could understand his selection. We’d certainly made a large mistake already; we should have talked about this on the drive over. It stood to reason that if the Fellowship was responsible for the bug, the Fellowship knew the name of Sookie Stackhouse. Thank God Hugo had figured that out.
“Don’t we know Hugo Ayres, Sarah?” Steve Newlin’s face had the perfect quizzical expression—brow slightly wrinkled, eyebrows raised inquiringly, head tilted to one side.
“Ayres?” said the gray-haired woman. “By the way, I’m Polly Blythe, the Fellowship ceremonies officer.”
“Oh, Polly, I’m sorry, I got sidetracked.” Sarah tilted her head right back. Her forehead wrinkled, too. Then it smoothed out and she beamed at her husband. “Wasn’t an Ayres the lawyer representing the vampires in University Park?”
“So he was,” Steve said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his long legs. He waved to someone passing by in the corridor and wrapped his laced fingers around his knee. “Well, it’s very interesting that you’re paying us a call, Hugo. Can we hope that you’ve seen the other side of the vampire question?” Satisfaction rolled off Steve Newlin like scent off a skunk.
“It’s appropriate that you should put it that way—” Hugo began, but Steve’s voice just kept rolling on:
“The bloodsucking side, the dark side of vampire existence? Have you found that they want to kill us all, dominate us with their foul ways and empty promises?”
I knew my eyes were as round as plates. Sarah was nodding thoughtfully, still looking as sweet and bland as a vanilla pudding. Polly looked as if she were having some really grim kind of orgasm. Steve said—and he was still smiling—“You know, eternal life on this earth may sound good, but you’ll lose your soul and eventually, when we catch up with you—maybe not me, of course, maybe my son, or eventually my granddaughter—we’ll stake you and burn you and then you’ll be in true hell. And it won’t be any the better for having been