Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [611]
He didn’t say anything, not one word. His mind was full of fear, fear and loathing . . . but he believed I was telling him the truth. After a second, I got up and left the squad room. To my utter relief, Quinn was waiting for me in the lobby.
A patrolman—not Boling—took us back to Quinn’s car, and we were silent during the drive. Quinn’s car was sitting in solitary splendor in the parking lot across from the Strand, which was closed and dark. He pulled out his keys and hit the keypad to open the doors, and we got in slowly and wearily.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“The Hair of the Dog,” he said.
9
THE HAIR OF THE DOG WAS OFF KINGS HIGHWAY, not too far from Centenary College. It was an old brick storefront. The large windows facing the street were covered with opaque cream curtains, I noticed, as we turned in to the left side of the building to lurch through an alley that led to a parking area at the back. We parked in the small, weedy lot. Though it was poorly lit, I could see that the ground was littered with empty cans, broken glass, used condoms, and worse. There were several motorcycles, a few of the less expensive compact cars, and a Suburban or two. The back door had a sign on it that read NO ENTRANCE—STAFF ONLY.
Though my feet were definitely beginning to protest the unaccustomed high heels, we had to pick our way through the alley to the front entrance. The cold creeping down my spine intensified as we grew close to the door. Then it was like I’d hit a wall, the spell gripped me that suddenly. I stopped dead. I struggled to go forward, but I couldn’t move. I could smell the magic. The Hair of the Dog had been warded. Someone had paid a very good witch a handsome amount of money to surround the door with a go-away spell.
I fought not to give in to a compulsion to turn and walk in another direction, any other direction.
Quinn took a few steps forward, and turned to regard me with some surprise, until he realized what was happening. “I forgot,” he said, that same surprise sounding in his voice. “I actually forgot you’re human.”
“That sounds like a compliment,” I said, with some effort. Even in the cool night, my forehead beaded with sweat. My right foot edged forward an inch.
“Here,” he said, and scooped me up, until he was holding me just like Rhett carried Scarlett O’Hara. As his aura wrapped around me, the unpleasant go-away compulsion eased. I drew a deep breath of relief. The magic could no longer recognize me as human, at least not decisively. Though the bar still seemed unattractive and mildly repellent, I could enter without wanting to be sick.
Maybe it was the lingering effects of the spell, but after we’d entered it, the bar still seemed unattractive and mildly repellent. I wouldn’t say all conversation ceased when we walked in, but there was a definite lull in the noise that filled the bar. A jukebox was playing “Bad Moon Rising,” which was like the Were national anthem, and the motley collection of Weres and shifters seemed to reorient themselves.
“Humans are not allowed in this place!” A very young woman leaped across the bar in one muscular surge and strode forward. She was wearing fishnet stockings and high-heeled boots, a red leather bustier—well, a bustier that wished it was made of red leather, it was probably more like Naugahyde—and a black band of cloth that I supposed she called a skirt. It was like she’d pulled a tube top on, and then worked it down. It was so tight I thought it might roll up all at once, like a window shade.
She didn’t like my smile, correctly reading it as a comment on her ensemble.
“Get your human ass out of here,” she said, and growled. Unfortunately, it didn’t sound too threatening, since she hadn’t had any practice at putting the menace into it, and I could feel my smile widen. The dress-challenged teen had