Disclaimer: The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

Nothing to Sneeze At

I was surprised the next morning when I woke to a day that had already opened up and bloomed. The sun was warm and high. Birds were singing. Traffic was cruising. I heard a car slow, which probably meant my Amish neighbors were out working the field across the street.

Glancing at the clock, I saw it was ten AM, an indulgent treat. I stretched out long and lean under my covers, wriggled my toes, pressed my palms against the headboard. I yawned, drawing in clean, fresh air. Soon I'd need to close up the house, wrestle the screens out of their tracks and replace them with storm windows, a job that always required help from Jason. But until then, until the last possible moment…I breathed deeply again.

In spite of all of the activity outside, the house itself was quiet, settled and weighted. I always imagined this place had lodged here in the bank, time moving on around it, digging it in deeper. Reaching out tentatively with my mind, I discovered Gran was still sleeping, which made me relieved that she was getting the extra rest. I'd been so worried about her.

Abruptly, I sat up, unwilling to let that thought take its course at this moment. Unfortunately, another troubling thought immediately took its place…

Last night Bill hadn't shown up.

In fact, the last I'd seen of him, he'd disappeared at vampire speed while Gran and I were gawking at a few years' stash of squirrel booty. I hadn't worried at first, figuring he'd had to stay clear of Gran. Frankly, I'd needed some space from him too. But then the vampire named Harlen had appeared out of nowhere, wondering where he was.

There were a few troubling things about Harlen. First off, he knew of the connection between Bill and me. Second, he knew some details about me, such as my name and place of work. And third, he didn't seem to know where Bill was either.

The strange thing about that was he hadn't seemed concerned, but simply interested in him. "Tell Bill I was here," he'd said with some degree of casual confidence, which sounded to me like he fully expected Bill to come waltzing in at any moment. Maybe he knew more about Bill than I did.

Maybe he knew him quite well.

Angered, I kicked my covers off. I wasn't about to play second fiddle to anyone. Tell Bill I was here. The nerve! Since when had I become a vampire message service? Come to think of it, maybe the message was more for me than for Bill. The nerve!

And if Harlen knew, who else knew? It sounded like Bill hadn't been careful enough, which made me wonder why I'd put myself out with all of my sneaking.

I had a couple of words I would have liked to have shared with Bill at that moment. The truly frustrating thing was that I had no good way of contacting him. No cell phone. No place of residence. I could try Fangtasia, but maybe I'd get Bill in trouble…

No…No. It wasn't time to take that step yet. Eric was a scary vampire.

And that's where I was stuck. Waiting. At least for now. But there was no way I was sitting still. I got up and put my body in motion. I started up a full pot of coffee, put some bread in the toaster, and rummaged in the fridge for whatever homemade preserves Gran had opened. She was trying to use up last year's canned goods, so today I had my choice—pumpkin butter, peach honey butter, or strawberry-rhubarb preserves. I picked all three. See that? My day was already looking up again.

While the coffee was brewing, I headed outside to grab the paper from the delivery box. Passing by the smokehouse, I remembered I'd need to call Jason and carve out some time to clean out the walnuts and other debris. On the return trip down the bank, I happened to notice that the barn door was ajar—darn latch seemed to be stuck—and wedged it closed with a cinder block to keep out animals.

By the time I got my toast fixed and poured my coffee, Gran was wandering into the kitchen, old and bleary-eyed.

"Good morning," I started to say, but a sneeze came out instead. And then another one.

"Gesundheit. A sneeze before breakfast," she said, nodding her head toward my uneaten toast, "means company's coming." Her voice was groggy and unenthused. Her thoughts hadn't woken up yet, murmuring a low, sleepy buzz.

"May I get you some coffee?"

She sighed heavily. "Not today, dear. Thank you. I get it so." She pressed her fist to her chest, paused as if gathering energy, and then reached up high into the cupboard. "Maybe I'll try some herbal tea instead. Don't we still have some in here?"

"I'll get it for you. Have a seat."

She slumped down, slightly defeated for a brief moment before shaking it loose and reaching for the paper. I heard her rummaging through it as I was filling the teapot.

"Ach! Look at that!" She'd livened up quickly. "What fangs!"

Gran flashed the front page at me. "He'd best keep them under wraps, ain't not?"

It was a good thing I was schooled in steadying my response, or I would have dropped the kettle straight to the floor.

Right there, on the front page of the Bird-in-Hand Bugle, was an extra large photo of Eric. His fangs bared, a hint of a smile curved the corners of his mouth with an expression that said, "I could devour you." I myself had been the recipient of that smile at the farmer's market. I looked more closely.

Judas! That was me!

There was the back of my shoulder, anyway, shot from behind me. There was Sarah, her head turned toward Eric, displaying her Kapp. And there was Eric, facing the camera. From this angle, he looked like he was about to dine on an Amish woman.

Oh, shit.

There was a splashy headline and long story next to him—they hadn't conserved any space.

"Trouble in Paradise," Gran read aloud. "Ach, that's a tired line if I ever heard one." She took a moment to read while I continued getting out a cup and teabag. "Apparently Jim Collins had a hatred for vampires. His wife left him just after they came out of the closet."

I passed by, peeking over Gran's shoulder to see whether I could catch anything else about the photo or the story. As little as a week ago, I would have said, "That's him, Gran! That's the vampire I saw at the farmer's market." But since my night at Fangtasia…

She glanced up at me.

"Sookie, what's a fang banger?"

I was grateful for the distraction. "Remember we saw it on Sally Jesse?" I'd had an unpleasant experience probing the minds of fang bangers, but I had to remember that episode in particular. "They're vampire groupies. People who try to get in close with vampires."

"Do they want to become vampires?"

"I think some of them do. Or at least they like to flirt with danger and the idea of being turned. I'm sure they also like the sex and blood too."

Gran put down the paper and seemed to be considering. Finally, she asked, "Is Jason a fang banger?"

"No, Gran," I laughed nervously, my own hidden relationship with a vampire weighing on my mind. "Jason has enough…" I struggled to find the right word, not even certain myself. Sex was a big part of it, for sure, but not all. I admit I'd wondered about sex with a vampire once or twice. Okay, maybe more. I began again. "He has enough in the human world."

Gran's tired eyes seemed to awaken to full alert mode. "And you think these fang bangers don't have enough?"

"Well…" I floundered, finding myself in even deeper waters, trying to back peddle the hell out of there. "I don't know exactly why they're in it," I finally answered. That was the truth, fair enough.

"But you think they're looking for something else? Something they're missing?"

"Yes, Gran," I said, perturbed with her unusually persistent line of questioning and her motivation, which was blatantly more than about Jason and touched on one of my longstanding sore spots. But more importantly, it would have been the moment to let her in on what it was like for me to be around a vampire, to let her know how lovely it was to have his silence.

And I was mad as hell that I couldn't. Mad I had to keep so many secrets from Gran, especially when it seemed that Bill hadn't done such a good job with his own concealment. For not the first time that morning, I wished he were there right then, so I could take all of my madness out on him. Only as I thought about it more, I realized that at this hour, daylight would get the first crack at him before I'd even have a chance.

Roughly, I pulled a spoon out of the jar Gran kept on the counter. I didn't know why she stored them that way since all of her other utensils were stashed in a drawer. Just habit, I guessed. But she placed them with the handle side down, which always annoyed me because then it was difficult to keep the spoon end clean. I set to stirring a bit of sugar into her tea, probably making more noise than I needed to. Gran was watching me, I knew. I placed her cup in front of her without meeting her eyes before pouring myself another cup of coffee.

Gran returned to the paper. "It doesn't say anything directly about his ex-wife having relations with vampires. There's no mention that she had an affair with anyone. But it says that Jim Collins had written some complaints on a blog about vampires. Apparently the account has been closed; no one can access it directly anymore. Also, his neighbors commented that he'd been acting oddly."

Oh, man. What a bad time for a vampire to wind up on the front page of the paper, in this kind of compromising position with an Amish woman, which of course I knew was just an illusion. Who in the world had taken this photo?

Gran was quiet as she read more. And then suddenly she folded up the paper and tossed it across the table. "Puh! That's horse pucky!"

I could feel her anger brewing.

"That photo and that story ain't got nothin' to do with each other. It's irresponsible reporting. I'd like to give them a piece of my mind. Who wrote this?" She grabbed at the paper again. "Is this Errol?" She rubbed her gnarled hands over her face. "And that reminds me I need to stop by the newspaper office."

"What for?"

"The holiday home tour for the Gardener's Guild. I need to pick up an advertising form."

"I can do it for you."

"You working late?"

I nodded. "Aren't you going in to the firehouse today?"

"Oh! I forgot! Yes! You were going to take me, weren't you?"

I nodded again. "Yep, and Jason said he'd bring you home. I'll call and remind him."

"I best get ready or I'll be late."

Gran was never one to go back on her word or do anything half shoddy. She was headed to the firehouse today to help the Paradise Accountability Committee, a gathering of various community groups, both English and Amish, who'd come together to organize and distribute the astounding contributions—condolences, words of encouragement, money, school supplies, toys, you name it—that had been pouring into the community of Paradise ever since the shooting. After some initial chaos, driven mostly by the absolute surprise and astonishment over how the rest of the world had responded, the base of operations had been established at the firehouse.

On the way there, Gran gave me directions to Town & Farm News, which published and distributed the daily Bird-in-Hand Bugle as well as a weekly farming publication and a monthly community advertiser.

"Take the hind way. I think that's best."

"Okay."

"Do you know where Dreibelbiss Mill Road crosses Route 786 at the old Beartown Church?"

"Yes."

"Go left there, past that dairy bar…the one with the peacock and the mini golf course…what's it called?"

"Lucky Licks."

"Ja. Go past there a ways. Maybe another mile or two, just past the covered bridge, where the road bends around the corner.

"Okay."

"I think that there's called Miller Road."

"Right where there's usually a sign advertising fresh eggs."

"Right. I mean, turn left there.

"Didn't you used to buy coxcomb from a lady back there?"

"I did! I wonder what happened to her? Barbara started growing them, and then the Guild didn't need to buy them from her anymore."

"Do I go past her place?"

"Ja, by another mile or so. Watch that road, dear, it's a real turny one. Somebody hit a cow not too long ago."

I'd actually heard about that incident because Andy Bellefleur had gotten called into sorting it out, and he'd grumbled quite a bit about the best use of his time.

"The road gets all where there's a pond on your right. And just to your left, you'll see a gravel driveway that slopes up to the left. Follow that to the first set of buildings on your right. It's the building with the hedges out front."

I nodded, feeling another sneeze come on.

"Gesundheit!" Gran said as I sneezed, driving toward the firehouse. She reached in her purse and pulled out a clean, but battered tissue that smelled like menthol and White Shoulders, the scented talcum powder she favored.

"Is it ragweed season, I wonder," Gran mused aloud.

"I think it's late for that," I answered, sneezing again, thinking that the worst of Sam's seasonal allergies seemed to be over.

"Gesundheit!" she repeated, handing me yet another tissue and sending me back years in my development. Over the years, Jason and I had counted a lot on Gran's purse.

"Go get me my pocketbook," she'd say whenever we'd come home from school with a worn pair of sneakers, a new supply list, or a field trip permission slip. I can only imagine how much we taxed her pocketbook and stretched it to its very limits. However she'd managed it, for us kids, the only time her pocketbook truly let us down was on Sunday mornings, in the middle of one of Reverend Collins's insufferably long sermons, when the only thing it would produce were colorfully-wrapped, mean little bits of nose-burning mints and licorices.

"Look at that," Gran muttered, snapping the magnetic closure. "Stitching's come loose."

I made a mental note to buy her a new purse for Christmas.

Nearing the firehouse, it was hard not to notice a large group of people holding picket signs, standing on the sidewalk just across the street from the building. They were an ordinary-looking crowd, the kind you might bump into any public event around here, except for the emotions rolling off of them—a toxic mix of hatred and spite and meanness.

"Is there a strike?" Gran wondered aloud.

"Devil's minions," I read out loud.

"The earth was made for God's creatures," Gran added. "What's going on?"

A riled up crowd like that is hard to understand, and let me tell you, they were plenty riled up, so I wasn't getting much from them other than a lot of heavy emotion slathered on thick. Plus I was being extra careful as we drove by to ensure I didn't hit any of them with my car.

"Vampires corrupt," another sign said.

"Well I'll be dipped," Gran muttered under her breath.

I wasn't about to drop Gran off here in front of this angry crowd. I could have gone around the block to approach the firehouse from the opposite side of the street, but a large group mingled there too.

"Why are they here of all places?" Gran mused aloud.

I pointed to the gathering to the side of the firehouse, which I had realized were reporters and camera crews. They'd been cleared from the immediate front of the building, to allow for emergencies. "Publicity," I guessed, coming at once to a conclusion I didn't like much. These protestors, it seemed, had seized a golden opportunity to make use of a hungry press, now beginning to see the end of the Amish shooting story.

'Aye, yi, yi." Gran was shaking her head in disbelief.

I circled the block once, then again, quickly realizing parking would be impossible to find. The municipal lot, several blocks away was crammed full. Even the commercial lot, located behind a string of businesses catering to the tourist crowd looked full, with cars circling.

"Just drop me off," Gran prompted, an edge of irritation in her voice.

"Not in the middle of that scene." Sensing Gran's impatience, I did something I never ever do: I double-parked about a block down from the firehouse, at a section of the street that was slightly wider. I jumped out and ran around to help her out.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Gran was saying, as we walked toward the entrance, only she got bumped by someone backing into her, and would have fallen if I hadn't had a firm grasp of her arm.

"Excuse us!" I snapped at the man. He was pushing a microphone toward Gran.

"Ma'am? Are you here to volunteer at the firehouse?"

"Yes I am."

"What do you think about the allegation that vampires caused Jim Collins to go on his shooting rampage?"

Gran's eyes widened at the blunt and direct way the reporter had phrased his question. In the confusion of the moment, I heard her thinking, too, about the way his breath smelled like mints and cigarettes. Also, she thought he should be wearing a tie. I'd call that three strikes against him. I was surprised she'd even entertained the idea of answering him, but Gran has a temper under certain situations, and hers had been stirred up by a press that she thought had jumped to conclusions without any credible evidence.

"Ach! It's poppycock!" she sputtered. "Poppycock!" And then she moved on.

"Do you care to elaborate?" the reporter was calling out stupidly.

Gran had clearly said her business. "No thank you," she called over her shoulder, waving a dismissive hand in his direction.

I saw Gran to the door, ensuring that the scene inside the firehouse was a much calmer, safer place. A few other volunteers had made their way through the crowd outside; it seemed like they had only a small group, without any Amish folks today. Bins of mail sat stacked. Once I saw Maxine Fortenberry, who gave me a little wave, I felt better about leaving her.

I hustled out to my car, which didn't seem to be clogging up the traffic too much. I was putting on my seatbelt when I noticed the bright yellow flyer on the passenger's seat, which apparently someone had slipped through the window opening. "Thou shalt not kill," was the message. And underneath the lettering was a crude image of a vampire with his fangs sunk into the bared neck of an Amish woman, her limp body draped in his arms.

Immediately, I felt violated that someone had been in my car with this baloney. Disgusted, I grabbed the flyer and crumbled it up in a ball. I would have ripped it to shreds, too, only I needed to get a move on. I was just about to pull out into traffic when a sharp rap on the passenger side window startled me.

There was a man standing at my car, smiling, though his smile conveyed more coldness than any warmth. An old prickly chill drew up my spine.

He looked straight into my eye.

"God bless you," he said.