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“Jesus Christ, Shepherd of Judea! Andy, you scared the hell out of me!” If I hadn’t been watching the dog so intently, I would’ve sensed him coming. The stakeout, dammit. I should have remembered.

“What are you doing here, Sookie? Where’d you get the dog?”

I couldn’t think of a single answer that would sound plausible. “It seemed worth a try to see if a trained dog could pick up a single scent from the places where the shooter stood,” I said. Dean leaned against my legs, panting and slobbering.

“So when did you get on the parish payroll?” Andy asked conversationally. “I didn’t realize you’d been hired as an investigator.”

Okay, this wasn’t going well.

“Andy, if you’ll move out of the way, me and the dog’ll just get back into my car, and we’ll drive away, and you won’t have to be mad at me anymore.” He was plenty mad, and he was determined to have it out with me, whatever that entailed. Andy wanted to get the world realigned, with facts he knew forming the tracks it should run on. I didn’t fit in that world. I wouldn’t run on those tracks. I could read his mind, and I didn’t like what I was hearing.

I realized, too late, that Andy’d had one drink too many during the conference at the bar. He’d had enough to remove his usual constraints.

“You shouldn’t be in our town, Sookie,” he said.

“I have as much right to be here as you, Andy Bellefleur.”

“You’re a genetic fluke or something. Your grandmother was a real nice woman, and people tell me your dad and mom were good people. What happened to you and Jason?”

“I don’t think there’s much wrong with me and Jason, Andy,” I said calmly, but his words stung like fire ants. “I think we’re regular people, no better and no worse than you and Portia.”

Andy actually snorted.

Suddenly the bloodhound’s side, pressed against my legs, began to vibrate. Dean was growling almost inaudibly. But he wasn’t looking at Andy. The hound’s heavy head was turned in another direction, toward the dark shadows of the other end of the alley. Another live mind: a human. Not a regular human, though.

“Andy,” I said. My whisper pierced his self-absorption. “You armed?”

I didn’t know whether I felt that much better when he drew his pistol.

“Drop it, Bellefleur,” said a no-nonsense voice, one that sounded familiar.

“Bullshit,” Andy sneered. “Why should I?”

“Because I got a bigger gun,” said the voice, cool and sarcastic. Sweetie Des Arts stepped from the shadows, carrying a rifle. It was pointed at Andy, and I had no doubt she was ready to fire. I felt like my insides had turned to Jell-O.

“Why don’t you just leave, Andy Bellefleur?” Sweetie asked. She was wearing a mechanic’s coverall and a jacket, and her hands were gloved. She didn’t look anything like a short-order cook. “I’ve got no quarrel with you. You’re just a person.”

Andy was shaking his head, trying to clear it. I noticed he hadn’t dropped his gun yet. “You’re the cook at the bar, right? Why are you doing this?”

“You should know, Bellefleur. I heard your little conversation with the shifter here. Maybe this dog is a human, someone you know.” She didn’t wait for Andy to answer. “And Heather Kinman was just as bad. She turned into a fox. And the guy that works at Norcross, Calvin Norris? He’s a damn panther.”

“And you shot them all? You shot me, too?” I wanted to be sure Andy was registering this. “There’s just one thing wrong with your little vendetta, Sweetie. I’m not a shifter.”

“You smell like one,” Sweetie said, clearly sure she was right.

“Some of my friends are shifters, and that day I’d hugged a few of ’em. But me myself—not a shifter of any kind.”

“Guilty by association,” Sweetie said. “I’ll bet you got a dab of shifter from somewhere.”

“What about you?” I asked. I didn’t want to get shot again. The evidence suggested that Sweetie was not a sharp-shooter: Sam, Calvin, and I had lived. I knew aiming at night had to be difficult, but still, you would’ve thought she could have done better. “Why are you on this vendetta?”

“I’m just a fraction of a shifter,