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“I have a date,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“You look great,” Sam said, and I saw him swallow. His eyes were hot.

“Thank you. Um, Sam, can I have my check?”

“Sure.” He handed it to me, and I popped it in my purse.

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.” But instead of indicating I should leave, Sam stepped over and smelled me. He put his face close to my neck and inhaled. His brilliant blue eyes closed briefly, as if to evaluate my odor. He exhaled gently, his breath hot on my bare skin.

I stepped out of the door and left the bar, puzzled and interested in Sam’s behavior.

When I got home a strange car was parked in front of the house. It was a black Cadillac, and it shone like glass. Bill’s. Where did they get the money to buy these cars? Shaking my head, I went up the steps to the porch and walked in. Bill turned to the door expectantly; he was sitting on the couch talking to Gran, who was perched on one arm of an old overstuffed chair.

When he saw me, I was sure I’d overdone it, and he was really angry. His face went quite still. His eyes flared. His fingers curved as if he were scooping something up with them.

“Is this all right?” I asked anxiously. I felt the blood surge up into my cheeks.

“Yes,” he said finally. But his pause had been long enough to anger my grandmother.

“Anyone with a brain in his head has got to admit that Sookie is one of the prettiest girls around,” she said, her voice friendly on the surface but steel underneath.

“Oh, yes,” he agreed, but there was a curious lack of inflection in his voice.

Well, screw him. I’d tried my best. I stiffened my back, and said, “Shall we go, then?”

“Yes,” he said again, and stood. “Good-bye, Mrs. Stackhouse. It was a pleasure seeing you again.”

“Well, you two have a good time,” she said, mollified. “Drive careful, Bill, and don’t drink too much.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No, ma’am.”

Gran let that sail right on past.

Bill held my car door open as I got in, a carefully calculated series of maneuvers to keep as much of me as possible in the dress. He shut the door and got in on the driver’s side. I wondered who had taught him to drive a car. Henry Ford, probably.

“I’m sorry I’m not dressed correctly,” I said, looking straight ahead of me.

We’d been going slowly on the bumpy driveway through the woods. The car lurched to a halt.

“Who said that?” Bill asked, his voice very gentle.

“You looked at me as though I’d done something wrong,” I snapped.

“I’m just doubting my ability to get you in and out without having to kill someone who wants you.”

“You’re being sarcastic.” I still wouldn’t look.

His hand gripped the back of my neck, forced me to turn to him.

“Do I look like I am?” he asked.

His dark eyes were wide and unblinking.

“Ah . . . no,” I admitted.

“Then accept what I say.”

The ride to Shreveport was mostly silent, but not uncomfortably so. Bill played tapes most of the way. He was partial to Kenny G.

Fangtasia, the vampire bar, was located in a suburban shopping area of Shreveport, close to a Sam’s and a Toys ’R’ Us. It was in a shopping strip, which was all closed down at this hour except for the bar. The name of the place was spelled out in jazzy red neon above the door, and the facade was painted steel gray, a red door providing color contrast. Whoever owned the place must have thought gray was less obvious than black because the interior was decorated in the same colors.

I was carded at the door by a vampire. Of course, she recognized Bill as one of her own kind and acknowledged him with a cool nod, but she scanned me intently. Chalky pale, as all Caucasian vampires are, she was eerily striking in her long black dress with its trailing sleeves. I wondered if the overdone “vampire” look was her own inclination, or if she’d just adopted it because the human patrons thought it appropriate.

“I haven’t been carded in years,” I said, fishing in my red purse for my driver’s license. We were standing in a little boxy entrance hall.

“I can no longer tell human ages, and we must