Dead until Dark

I was ru

A little knock at the door distracted me. Another damn visitor. Well, this was someone I didn't know. An older lady with blue hair and red-framed glasses wheeled in a cart. She was wearing the yellow smock the hospital volunteers called Sunshine Ladies had to don when they were working.

The cart was covered with flowers for the patients in this wing.

"I'm delivering you a load of best wishes!" the lady said cheerfully.

I smiled, but the effect must have been ghastly because her own cheer wavered a little,

"These are for you," she said, lifting a potted plant deco­rated with a red ribbon. "Here's the card, honey. Let's see, these are for you, too..." This was an arrangement of cut flowers, featuring pink rosebuds and pink carnations and white baby's breath. She plucked the card from that bowl, too. Surveying the cart, she said, "Now, aren't you the lucky one! Here are some more for you!!"

The focus of the third floral tribute was a bizarre red flower I'd never seen before, surrounded by a host of other, more familiar blooms. I looked at this one doubtfully. The Sun­shine Lady dutifully presented me with the card from the plastic prongs.

After she'd smiled her way out of the room, I opened the little envelopes. It was easier to move when I was in a better mood, I noticed wryly.

The potted plant was from Sam and "all your coworkers at Merlotte's" read the card, but it was written in Sam's hand­writing. I touched the glossy leaves and wondered where I'd put it when I took it home. The cut flowers were from SidMatt Lancaster and Elva Deene Lancaster—pooey. The ar­rangement centered with the peculiar red blossom (I decided that somehow the flower looked almost obscene, like a lady's private part) was definitely the most interesting of the three. I opened the card with some curiosity. It bore only a signa­ture, "Eric."

That was all I needed. How the hell had he heard I was in the hospital? Why hadn't I heard from Bill?

After some delicious red gelatin for supper, I focused on the television for a couple of hours, since I hadn't anything to read, even if my eyes had been up to it. My bruises grew more charming every hour, and I felt weary to my bones, despite the fact that I'd only walked once to the bathroom and twice around my room. I switched off the television and turned onto my side. I fell asleep, and in my dreams the pain from my body seeped in and made me have nightmares. I ran in my dreams, ran through the cemetery, afraid for my life, falling over stones, into open graves, encountering all the people I knew who lay there: my father and mother, my grandmother, Maudette Pickens, Dawn Green, even a child­hood friend who'd been killed in a hunting accident. I was looking for a particular headstone; if I found it, I was home free. They would all go back into their graves and leave me alone. I ran from this one to that one, putting my hand on each one, hoping it would be the right stone. I whimpered.

"Sweetheart, you're safe," came a familiar cool voice.

"Bill," I muttered. I turned to face a stone I hadn't yet touched. When I lay my fingers on it, they traced the letters "William Erasmus Compton." As if I'd been dashed with cold water, my eyes flew open, I drew in a breath to scream, and my throat gave a great throb of pain. I choked on the extra air, and the pain of the coughing, which pretty much hurt every single thing I'd broken, completed my awakening. A hand slipped under my cheek, the cool fingers feeling won­derfully good against my hot skin. I tried not to whimper, but a little noise made its way through my teeth.

"Turn to the light, darling," Bill said, his voice very light and casual.

I've been sleeping with my back to the light the nurse had left on, the one in the bathroom. Now I rolled obediently to my back and looked up at my vampire. Bill hissed.

"I'll kill him," he said, with a simple certainty that chilled me to the bone.

There was enough tension in the room to send a fleet of the nervous ru

"Hi, Bill," I croaked. "Glad to see you, too. Where you been so long? Thanks for returning all my calls."

That brought him up short. He blinked. I could feel him making an effort to calm himself.

"Sookie," he said. "I didn't call because I wanted to tell you in person what has happened." I couldn't read the ex­pression on his face. If I'd had to take a shot, I would've said he looked proud of himself. He paused, sca

"This doesn't hurt," I croaked obligingly, extending my hand to him. He kissed that, lingered over it in a way that sent a faint tingle through my body. Believe me, a faint tingle was more than I'd thought I was capable of.

"Tell me what has been done to you," he commanded.

"Then lean down so I can whisper. This really hurts." He pulled a chair close to the bed, lowered the bed rail, and lay his chin on his folded arms. His face was maybe four inches from mine.

"Your nose is broken," he observed. I rolled my eyes.

"Glad you spotted that," I whispered. "I'll tell the doctor when she comes in." His gaze narrowed.

"Stop trying to deflect me."

"Okay. Nose broken, two ribs, a collarbone." But Bill wanted to examine me all over, and he pulled the sheet down. My mortification was complete. Of course, I was wearing an awful hospital gown, in itself a downer, and I hadn't bathed properly, and my face was several different shades, and my hair hadn't been brushed.

"I want to take you home," he a

I motioned with my hand to make him bend down. "No," I breathed. I pointed to the drip bag. He eyed it with some suspicion, but of course he had to know what one was.

"I can take it out," he said.

I shook my head vehemently.

"You don't want me to take care of you?"

I puffed out my breath in exasperation, which hurt like hell.

I made a writing motion with my hand, and Bill searched the drawers until he found a notepad. Oddly enough, he had a pen. I wrote, "They'll let me out of the hospital tomorrow if my fever doesn't go high."

"Who'll take you home?" he asked. He was standing by the bed again, and looking down at me with stern disap­proval, like a teacher whose best pupil happens to be chron­ically tardy.

"I'll get them to call Jason, or Charlsie Tooten," I wrote. If things had been different, I would have written Arlene's name automatically.

"I'll be there at dark," he said.

I looked up into his pale face, the clear whites of his eyes almost shining in the gloomy room.

"I'll heal you," he offered. "Let me give you some blood."

I remembered the way my hair had lightened, remembered that I was almost twice as strong as I'd ever been. I shook my head.

"Why not?" he said, as if he'd offered me a drink of water when I was thirsty and I'd said no. I thought maybe I'd hurt his feelings.

I took his hand and guided it to my mouth. I kissed the palm gently. I held the hand to my better cheek.

"People notice I am changing," I wrote, after a moment. "I notice I am changing."

He bowed his head for a moment, and then looked at me sadly.

"You know what happened?" I wrote.

"Bubba told me part of it," he said, and his face grew scary as he mentioned the half-witted vampire. "Sam told me the rest, and I went to the police department and read the police reports."