Dead Until Dark (Sookie Stackhouse #1)(17)

“Or you can meet a girl who gets head injuries,” I said.

“Oh, you were the dessert. The Rattrays were the meal.”

Deal with it.

“Whoa,” I said, feeling breathless. “Give me a minute.”

And he did. Not one man in a million would have allowed me that time without speaking. I opened my mind, let my guards down completely, relaxed. His silence washed over me. I stood, closed my eyes, breathed out the relief that was too profound for words.

“Are you happy now?” he asked, just as if he could tell.

“Yes,” I breathed. At that moment I felt that no matter what this creature beside me had done, this peace was priceless after a lifetime of the yammering of other minds inside my own.

“You feel good to me, too,” he said, surprising me.

“How so?” I asked, dreamy and slow.

“No fear, no hurry, no condemnation. I don’t have to use my glamor to make you hold still, to have a conversation with you.”

“Glamor?”

“Like hypnotism,” he explained. “All vampires use it, to some extent or another. Because to feed, until the new synthetic blood was developed, we had to persuade people we were harmless . . . or assure them they hadn’t seen us at all . . . or delude them into thinking they’d seen something else.”

“Does it work on me?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding shocked.

“Okay, do it.”

“Look at me.”

“It’s dark.”

“No matter. Look at my face.” And he stepped in front of me, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders, and looked down at me. I could see the faint shine of his skin and eyes, and I peered up at him, wondering if I’d begin to squawk like a chicken or take my clothes off.

But what happened was . . . nothing. I felt only the nearly druglike relaxation of being with him.

“Can you feel my influence?” he asked. He sounded a little breathless.

“Not a bit, I’m sorry,” I said humbly. “I just see you glow.”

“You can see that?” I’d surprised him again.

“Sure. Can’t everyone?”

“No. This is strange, Sookie.”

“If you say so. Can I see you levitate?”

“Right here?” Bill sounded amused.

“Sure, why not? Unless there’s a reason?”

“No, none at all.” And he let go of my arms and began to rise.

I breathed a sigh of pure rapture. He floated up in the dark, gleaming like white marble in the moonlight. When he was about two feet off the ground, he began hovering. I thought he was smiling down at me.

“Can all of you do that?” I asked.

“Can you sing?”

“Nope, can’t carry a tune.”

“Well, we can’t all do the same things, either.” Bill came down slowly and landed on the ground without a thump. “Most humans are squeamish about vampires. You don’t seem to be,” he commented.

I shrugged. Who was I to be squeamish about something out of the ordinary? He seemed to understand because, after a pause, during which we’d resumed walking, Bill said, “Has it always been hard for you?”

“Yes, always.” I couldn’t say otherwise, though I didn’t want to whine. “When I was very small, that was worst, because I didn’t know how to put up my guard, and I heard thoughts I wasn’t supposed to hear, of course, and I repeated them like a child will. My parents didn’t know what to do about me. It embarrassed my father, in particular. My mother finally took me to a child psychologist, who knew exactly what I was, but she just couldn’t accept it and kept trying to tell my folks I was reading their body language and was very observant, so I had good reason to imagine I heard people’s thoughts. Of course, she couldn’t admit I was literally hearing people’s thoughts because that just didn’t fit into her world.

“And I did poorly in school because it was so hard for me to concentrate when so few others were. But when there was testing, I would test very high because the other kids were concentrating on their own papers . . . that gave me a little leeway. Sometimes my folks thought I was lazy for not doing well on everyday work. Sometimes the teachers thought I had a learning disability; oh, you wouldn’t believe the theories. I must have had my eyes and ears tested every two months, seemed like, and brain scans . . . gosh. My poor folks paid through the nose. But they never could accept the simple truth. At least outwardly, you know?”

“But they knew inside.”

“Yes. Once, when my dad was trying to decide whether to back a man who wanted to open an auto parts store, he asked me to sit with him when the man came to the house. After the man left, my dad took me outside and looked away and said, ‘Sookie, is he telling the truth?’ It was the strangest moment.”

“How old were you?”

“I must’ve been less than seven ’cause they died when I was in the second grade.”

“How?”

“Flash flood. Caught them on the bridge west of here.”

Bill didn’t comment. Of course, he’d seen deaths piled upon deaths.

“Was the man lying?” he asked after a few seconds had gone by.

“Oh, yes. He planned to take Daddy’s money and run.”