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“Tara, please, don’t say anything about Bill or anything about Bon Temps.”

“You want to tell me why?”

“Just . . .” I tried to think of something reasonable, couldn’t. “Tara, it’ll cost me my life if you do.”

She twitched, and gave me a steady stare. Who wouldn’t? But Tara had been through a lot in her life, and she was a tough, if wounded, bird. “I’m so happy to see you here,” she said. “It was lonely being in this crowd by myself. Who’s your friend? What is he?”

I always forgot that other people couldn’t tell. And sometimes I nearly forgot that other people didn’t know about Weres and shifters. “He’s a surveyor,” I said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

“Sorry we left so quickly,” I said, smiling brightly at all the men. “I forgot my manners.” I introduced Tara to Alcide, who looked appropriately appreciative. Then it was Tara’s turn. “Sook, this is Franklin Mott.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” I said, and extended my hand before I realized my faux pas. Vampires don’t shake hands. “I beg your pardon,” I said hastily, and gave him a little wave instead. “Do you live here in Jackson, Mr. Mott?” I was determined not to embarrass Tara.

“Please call me Franklin,” he said. He had a wonderful mellow voice with a light Italion accent. When he had died, he had probably been in his late fifties or early sixties; his hair and mustache were iron gray, and his face was lined. He looked vigorous and very masculine. “Yes, I do, but I own a business that has a franchise in Jackson, one in Ruston, and one in Vicksburg. I met Tara at a gathering in Ruston.”

Gradually we progressed through the social do-si-do of getting seated, explaining to the men how Tara and I had attended high school together, and ordering drinks. All the vampires, of course, ordered synthetic blood, and Talbot, Tara, Alcide, and I got mixed drinks. I decided another champagne cocktail would be good. The waitress, a shifter, was moving in an odd, almost slinking manner, and she didn’t seem inclined to talk much. The night of the full moon was making itself felt in all kinds of ways.

There were far fewer of the two-natured in the bar this night of the moon cycle. I was glad to see Debbie and her fiancé were missing, and there were only a couple of the Were bikers. There were more vampires, and more humans. I wondered how the vampires of Jackson kept this bar a secret. Among the humans who came in with Supe dates, surely one or two were inclined to talk to a reporter or just tell a group of friends about the bar’s existence?

I asked Alcide, and he said quietly, “The bar’s spell-bound. You wouldn’t be able to tell anyone how to get here if you tried.”

I’d have to experiment with that later, see if it worked. I wonder who did the spell casting, or whatever it was called. If I could believe in vampires and werewolves and shape-shifters, it was not too far a stretch to believe in witches.

I was sandwiched between Talbot and Alcide, so by way of making conversation I asked Talbot about secrecy. Talbot didn’t seem averse to chatting with me, and Alcide and Franklin Mott had found they had acquaintances in common. Talbot had on too much cologne, but I didn’t hold that against him. Talbot was a man in love, and furthermore, he was a man addicted to vampiric sex . . . the two states are not always combined. He was a ruthless, intelligent man who could not understand how his life had taken such an exotic turn. (He was a big broadcaster, too, which was why I could pick up so much of his life.)

He repeated Alcide’s story about the spell on the bar. “But the way what happens here is kept a secret, that’s different,” Talbot said, as if he was considering a long answer and a short answer. I looked at his pleasant, handsome face and reminded myself that he knew Bill was being tortured, and he didn’t care. I wished he would think about Bill again, so I could learn more; at least I would know if Bill was dead or alive. “Well, Miss Sookie, what goes on here is kept secret by terror and punishment.”

Talbot said that with relish. He liked