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Sam looked troubled. “I don’t ever interfere in vamp business,” he said. “The two-natured and vamps don’t mix well. I’m really sorry you got pulled into that, Sookie. That asshole Eric.” He looked like there was more he wanted to say, but he pressed his lips together.

“Do you know anything about the King of Nevada?” I asked.

“I know he has a publishing empire,” Sam said promptly. “And he has at least one casino and some restaurants. He’s also the ultimate owner of a management company that handles vampire entertainers. You know, the Elvis Undead Revue with all-vamp Elvis tribute artists, which is pretty funny when you think about it, and some great dance groups.” We both knew that the real Elvis was still around but rarely in any shape to perform. “If there had to be a takeover of a tourist state, Felipe de Castro is the right vampire for the job. He’ll make sure New Orleans gets rebuilt like it ought to be, because he’ll want the revenue.”

“Felipe de Castro . . . That sounds exotic,” I said.

“I haven’t met him, but I understand he’s very, ah, charismatic,” Sam said. “I wonder if he’ll be coming to Louisiana to live or if this Victor Madden will be his agent here. Either way, it won’t affect the bar. But there’s no doubt it’ll affect you, Sookie.” Sam uncrossed his legs and sat up straight in his chair, which shrieked in protest. “I wish there was some way to get you out of the vampire loop.”

“The night I met Bill, if I’d known what I know now, I wonder if I’d have done anything different,” I said. “Maybe I would’ve let the Rattrays have him.” I’d rescued Bill from a sleazy couple who turned out to be not only sleazy, but murderers. They were vampire drainers, people who lured vampires to spots where the vamps could be subdued with silver chains and drained of blood, which sold for big bucks on the black market. Drainers lived hazardous lives. The Rattrays had paid the full price.

“You don’t mean that,” Sam said. He rocked in the chair again (squeak! squeak!) and rose to his feet. “You would never do that.”

It felt really pleasant to hear something nice about myself, especially after the morning’s conversation with Quinn. I was tempted to talk to Sam about that, too, but he was edging toward the door. Time to go to work, for both of us. I got up, too. We went out and began the usual motions. My mind was hardly on it, though.

To revive my flagging spirits, I tried to think of some bright point in the future, something to look forward to. I couldn’t come up with anything. For a long, bleak moment I stood by the bar, my hand on my order pad, trying not to step over the edge into the chasm of depression. Then I slapped myself on the cheek. Idiot! I have a house, and friends, and a job. I’m luckier than millions of people on the planet. Things will look up.

For a while, that worked. I smiled at everyone, and if that smile was brittle, by God, it was still a smile.

After an hour or two, Jason came into the bar with his wife, Crystal. Crystal was looking sullen and slightly pregnant, and Jason was looking . . . Well, he had that hard look about him, the mean look he got sometimes when he’d been disappointed.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Oh, not much,” Jason said expansively. “You bring us a couple beers?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking he’d never ordered for Crystal before. Crystal was a pretty woman several years younger than Jason. She was a werepanther, but she wasn’t a very good one, mostly because of all the inbreeding in the Hotshot community. Crystal had a hard time changing if it wasn’t the full moon, and she had miscarried at least twice that I knew of. I pitied her losses, the more so because I knew the panther community considered her weak. Now Crystal was pregnant a third time. That pregnancy had maybe been the only reason Calvin had let her marry Jason, who was bitten, not born. That is, he’d become a panther by being repeatedly bitten—by a jealous male who wanted Crystal for himself. Jason couldn’t change into a real panther but into a sort of half-beast, half-man version. He enjoyed it.

I brought