This is it. The final chapter. End of the road. Thanks for your time and reviews. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. I hope to write one or two short things before Dead Reckoning, so please keep your eyes peeled.

Belongs to Charlaine Harris and HBO.

Three Months Later

So, we got out of that one.

How? I barely understand it myself.

The long version? Victor broke down the door and Eric just started talking.

The short version? We got lucky.

Seeing Victor lit a fire in Eric. He stood up—as one, the SWAT team trained their guns on him—but he acted like he didn't notice and greeted Victor as a conquering hero. Eric told Victor their plans were complete, then opened the body bag, poured out the ash, and—here's the kicker—said Felipe was dead and he had killed him.

Scratch that. I believe Eric's exact words were, "brought him to justice."

This was about the time I started to panic. One bullet wouldn't do much to Eric, but I wasn't interested in seeing ten automatic rifles turn my boyfriend into undead Swiss cheese.

If I may pause:

Eric's plan was in the spit and twine stage right then. Calling it a 'plan' is almost too generous. It was a reflex. Pure survival instinct. An inability to go down without a fight.

That's when we got lucky.

How?

Victor hesitated.

Eric dumped Felipe's ashes all over Victor's shoes, declared that justice had been done, and, for just one second, Victor stood there with his mouth open.

His indecision saved our lives.

One moment, Victor was at a loss for words and, the next, Eric filled the silence. What followed was no more logical than what had gone before it, but authority in the room had shifted. Victor dropped the ball, Eric picked it up, and now, even though I knew Eric was making everything up on the fly, the words coming out of his mouth had a ring of truth.

As Eric spun an yarn featuring secret conspiracies, double agents, and a partnership between himself and Victor that had gone back months, the SWAT team lowered their weapons, Deidra, Craig, and Pastor Fred crawled out from under their pews, and I sat down on the altar to catch my breath, just in case we had to start running again. The only people not listening were Quinn and his mom, who lay in the middle of the aisle like tiger skin rugs, panting and exhausted.

The gist of Eric's story was as soon as he found out about Felipe's involvement in Andre's trafficking ring—yes, now Felipe was the kingpin—he contacted Victor. Together, they hatched a plot to bring the organization down from the inside, which involved Eric going into deep cover. Eric, who never had any trouble tooting his own horn, gathered steam around this point and really laid it on thick about the personal danger he'd faced to bring down a corrupt leader and so on, blah, blah, blah. Eric said he faked his death, with Victor's help, to throw Felipe off the scent.

For his part, Victor looked a little shell-shocked. It's hard to tell with vampires. Their facial expressions, especially in public, range from neutral to impassive, but there was something particularly still about him. It was as if he didn't have the energy to move because his mind was going 1000 miles a minute trying to outpace Eric.

The turning point came when Eric finally stopped talking, looked at Victor and said—I remember this almost exactly, because I was so shocked—"This wouldn't have been possible without your leadership."

Eric inclined his head and, just like that, Victor was king.

After that, Victor went along with Eric's story. He was almost trapped. The public nature of Eric's confession—in front of humans, other vampires, and the motley collection of shifters—made it easier for him to act like it was true. Plus, Victor got what he wanted. Mostly. There was one outstanding thread: Eric wasn't finally dead.

After Victor's buy in, it was a matter of mopping up loose ends.

When Eric finished his rigmarole, he went with Victor, Felipe's surviving vampires and half the SWAT team to make a statement, leaving me to deal with the regular Las Vegas Police when they arrived to arrest whomever had been shooting up the Alamo Wedding Chapel. Luckily, the remaining SWAT guys were able to flash some badges and make the problem go away, leaving me free to take an inventory of casualties.

Miraculously, we had all survived. The shifters were licking small wounds and Pastor Fred had suffered a nasty bite, but it was nothing that a Band-Aid and some glamour couldn't cure. I applied the former and Eric, when he returned to the Holiday Inn after negotiating with Victor, provided the latter.

It took one more night of meetings between Eric and Victor and then, on paper, it was like this whole mess had never happened. It was as if someone flicked a switch and everyone who'd been hounding Eric—the media, the cops—started singing his praises.

I don't know how they fixed the paper trail implicating Eric. Since Victor had fabricated it in the first place, I guess he was able to undo it. Andre ended up taking most of the well-deserved blame, while Felipe emerged as a secret mastermind. "A pillar of the Nevada business community," FOX News had said in their expose, "rotten to the core." The Nevada Gaming Commission came out to substantiate, saying they had Felipe under investigation for the casino fraud. I spotted Dick Duncan, Eric's kidnap victim, in an interview on the local news. He looked groomed and healthy. I was glad he'd made it to the bus.

Victor had been glamoring the Assistant US Attorney in New Orleans. I knew I shouldn't see that as a good thing, but, god help me, I did. The doped-up fed helped create a fake history for Eric as a government asset, testifying that he had been working secretly to expose Felipe with signoff from Victor and the Justice Department. So on top of squeaking out of everything alive, Mr. Modest got to preen over a new James Bond persona.

Basically, we'd gotten really lucky. If Victor hadn't hesitated, we would be dead. Eric acted like he'd known everything would work out, but I could tell that he was just as relieved—and surprised—as I was.

About a month after we came home from Vegas, Eric and I ran across the FOX News expose clearing his name, almost by accident. We'd known it was coming because Eric declined FOX's request for an interview. They didn't bother to ask me. Since Eric wasn't talking and Shep wasn't hosting, I hadn't planned on tuning in. But Eric happened to be over at my house the night it aired and we stumbled across it flipping channels while he had his True Blood.

For better or worse, Victor told Eric's side of the story. On the surface, he was sweet as pie, smiling sans fangs, going on and on about Eric's bravery, tenacity, how he was an asset to the vampire community, blah, blah, blah. After 30 seconds of this drivel, Eric found the remote and muted the television. We sat for a good minute or two watching Victor talk without sound. I noticed how tense his shoulders were, the tightness in his jaw. Something angry flashed in his eyes, even as he smiled.

I knew, without a doubt, that he was waiting to kill us.

That was the real failing in Eric's last-ditch pitch for survival. Sure we'd escaped with our skins, but Victor Madden was now the King of Nevada, Louisiana and Arkansas.

We'd solve that problem, unless, of course, it solved us.

These days, my most pressing issue was Andy Bellefleur's burger. Merlotte's had survived a week without Sam and me (we both took other road trips after the Vegas debacle, but more on that later). Kennedy had done a first-rate job running the bar while Sam was away. When we returned, I fell into my routine easily. After the vacation I'd had, even an overtime shift felt like a blessing.

Which brings me to Andy Bellefleur's burger. Like most people in Bon Temps, Andy is a creature of habit. He always orders a cheeseburger and always eats it medium, even though he likes to be heard ordering his meat "still kicking." The regular girls know Andy's game and give him what he wants instead of what he orders, but Andy confused Sam's newest waitress, Laura, by sending his nearly raw burger back to the kitchen for being overcooked. Laura was just out of Bon Temps High and hadn't seen a lot of life yet, so she took the mix-up as the end of the world.

"I'll handle it," I told her, when I came across her sobbing on the shoulder of an exasperated D'Eriq. I'd already picked up the whole story from her thoughts, but I nodded politely as she filled me in.

"My tip?" she asked, through sniffles.

"All yours," I assured her. I picked up Andy's new burger—cooked stiff as a hockey puck—and swung around to his table.

"Shame on you," I said as I set it in front of him. "Scaring the new girl."

"I want what I want," Andy said, taking a bite and getting on with his day.

"She going to work out?" Sam asked as I passed the bar on my way to the kitchen. He was looking after Laura, who'd just come back on the floor, eyes red.

"She's fine." She was good as anyone else who worked here, if a little young. "Just learning Andy's peculiarities."

"Hm," Sam said. "That would take a lifetime."

Kennedy, who'd been eavesdropping, laughed, before pouring Jane Bodehouse her second 7 & 7 of the day. It was only 2 pm.

I turned back to the kitchen, but Sam caught my arm. "Sookie, wait," he said. "Happy birthday."

Oh yeah. I was 27 today.

"You and Eric doing anything?" Sam asked.

I nodded. "But I have a date first," I thought about it. "You should come."

"A date?" Sam looked like he'd rather mop the floors.

"It's not what you think."

I had joined Pam's lesbian softball team, which was only 'Pam's team' in that she sponsored it and used it as a pool from which to periodically pick up women. A couple of the girls told me Pam came to practice more often since I'd joined and I was secretly flattered. Tonight was our first game. We were taking on a group of public school teachers from Monroe.

"I'm pitching," I told Sam. I hadn't started a game since high school. Hell, I hadn't played a game since high school, short of pick-up wiffle ball in Sam's mom's backyard.

Sam beamed. "I'll be your cheerleader."

Sam had come out of the mess in Las Vegas almost unscathed. As part of his agreement with Victor, Eric somehow fixed it so that Sam's name and license plates were expunged from anything to do with the biker mess in Texas. Craig and Deidra, who had both miraculously survived the showdown at the Alamo, got married the next night at the Desert Springs Wedding Chapel. They had been glamored into thinking the first night was lost to a bender and were disappointed to find the Alamo Wedding Chapel closed for repairs. I couldn't help but think by switching chapels, they'd dodged a bullet—figuratively, this time. Everyone's entitled to their own fancies, but really. Who'd want to start their marriage at the Alamo? Sam, Quinn, Frannie and I attended the wedding. Eric—busy negotiating with Victor—was missed by no one except Deidra, who still insisted on believing they were friends.

Quinn left that night. He spent 15 minutes inside a room with Eric, Victor and a handful of other vampires. When he emerged, he told me he was headed home. I didn't ask what bargain they'd struck and Quinn didn't volunteer the information. He did say he planned to transfer his mom to a new rest home for supes that had just opened in Atlanta. Apparently those kind of facilities were becoming more common, thanks to the were reveal. I didn't know anything about the vampires in Georgia and couldn't remember which of Eric's zones it was in, but I hoped Quinn and his family would have an easier time of it, regardless. I gave him a big hug and he said he'd call once he was settled. I didn't expect him to follow through.

He didn't.

He did send me a birthday card. I was surprised and touched that he remembered. S— Thinking of you, had been the note. No signature. He left a return address. Atlanta. I clipped it off the envelope and tucked it away in my nightstand, just in case.

I hoped I'd never need it.

Sam, Deidra, and Craig returned to Wright the following morning. Deidra told me she and Craig were saving up for a honeymoon and I said they deserved a nice one, which they did, especially after the hell Eric and I had put them through. Sam didn't say anything outright, but I suspected that he was tagging along back to Texas in the hopes of mending fences between Craig and his Mom. I thought it was a fool's errand, but I told him good luck anyway and said I was glad he was finally getting his well-earned family time.

"I'll watch out for cops," Sam said and waved as he climbed into the truck, riding shotgun. Craig honked as they drove away. Deidra stared at out the back window like a puppy.

Which left Eric and me.

I'd had enough of Lincoln town cars to last me a lifetime. Thankfully, Sam had bought rental insurance, so I was able to exchange the Lincoln for a sedan with an intact trunk. I'll spare you the story I came up with to explain the hole in the trunk and just say it involved a model rocket. The new rental wasn't anything fancy, but it gave Eric enough room to stretch out during the day and had the juice to get us from Vegas back to Area 5.

Once Sam left, I slept. I thought about sightseeing, but after everything we'd been through, the bed in the Holiday Inn seemed more attractive than Sin City. Victor had offered to put Eric and me up in Felipe's casino, but we declined.

I slept that whole day. I woke up when Eric called me, just after sunset, and demanded I unlock him from the trunk of the rental car. With that, we took off for home.

Eric didn't bring up the idea of a vacation until we hit the Texas state line. I don't know if geography had anything to do with it—the shifting borders of vampire politics were so complex I tried not to pay attention unless I absolutely had to—but, either way, he seemed to breathe easier when we crossed the border and suggested that we might not want to head home quite so fast.

I was surprised. I had thought Eric would want to shore up his Area stat, but when he asked me to pull into the shoulder, he showed me just how eager he was to linger. Needless to say, I found his argument convincing.

Eric didn't know west Texas and I forbid him to call any of his vampire contacts for travel tips, so we drove aimlessly until we found a cheap motel with a nice view of the desert. We holed up and had ourselves a midweek getaway. "Not a honeymoon," I found myself telling him for the umpteenth time, between the shower and the bed, sometime on the second night. I'd had enough of weddings to last a lifetime. Eric laughed and said something ending with "wife" that I couldn't decode between all those fangs. Then, he tackled me.

I slept during the days, catching up on rest, and subsisted on snacks from the motel vending machine until Eric noticed and forced me to go out for dinner. The only place in town was a mom-and-pop steakhouse. They didn't serve True Blood, so Eric got nothing. I felt all kinds of awkward—not only because we were the (seemingly) youngest people in the place—we were obviously the only mixed couple the town had ever seen. All the locals ignored their rib eyes to stare at yours truly. After I made the mistake of ordering my meat rare, Eric joined in, watching me eat the bloody sirloin with a fascination that creeped me out so much I couldn't stomach more than a few bites.

On our way back to the motel, I realized it had been our first dinner date. I decided that it would also be our last.

That was three months ago.

It had been pretty unremarkable time. Other than our week in Texas, Eric and I hadn't spent a lot of time together. I was busy at Merlottes and Eric had been tied up rebuilding Fangtasia. We tried to see each other a few times a week and it mostly worked out, but sometimes it didn't.

Fangtasia's grand reopening had happened last week. Despite the hasty whitewash of Eric's reputation, no one showed up except the most desperate of fangbangers. Eric pretended like he'd expected it, but I could tell he was disappointed. Afterwards, I'd gone over to his house and we'd talked about it. My personal theory was that the fangbangers came because, on some level, they hoped Eric was actually the monster from the fake news stories. Eric said this was fine so long as they spent money in his bar.

Business did not pick up on the second night open. Or the third. It was clear that it would be an uphill battle to get Fangtasia back to its previous level of activity before the arson. If the bar didn't perform economically, I knew Victor would take the opportunity to unseat Eric as sheriff, at the very least. But we'd solve that problem when we had to.

And we would have to.

On the upside, the new Fangtasia looked fantastic, if low-rent Boris Karloff was your decorating style of choice. Eric had pumped his personal savings into the new place, and ended up with lots of fake velvet, creepy medieval light fixtures and trashy vampire posters, just a few strategically-placed scraps away from porn.

So, basically, it looked like the old place, with a fresher coat of paint.

Eric and I had been subjected to a terrible double date with Pam's SWAT team girlfriend a few weeks after we came home from Vegas. Pam was quick to tell us that the date had been SWAT team's idea. Eric was obligated to say yes because Pam's girlfriend saved him in the first place by tipping him off to Victor's raid. Since Fangtasia was under construction at that point, we had drinks at Pam's house—beers for me and SWAT team, blood for Eric and Pam.

It was a disaster. SWAT team was tall, blonde, loud, pushy and, on the whole, looked and acted a little too much like Eric for me not to be weirded out. I think Eric picked up on it too. He was uncharacteristically quiet and kept looking at Pam out of the corner of his eye.

We visited the Fangtasia construction site afterwards—Eric wanted to check on the progress—and Pam cornered me in the half-finished ladies' room. All I was doing was fixing my hair, thank goodness, because she walked in without knocking and locked the door behind her.

"What did you think?" Pam asked. "Eric does not like her."

I was glad Pam couldn't read my thoughts. "Does she make you happy?"

Her answer broke my heart. "It's useful to have someone in the police."

"Then good." I turned on the faucet to wash my hands, so I wouldn't have to look at her. Nothing came out. The plumbers hadn't hooked up water yet.

I never thought I would say this, but I was glad Pam and SWAT team didn't have an exclusive relationship. A few days later, when Pam drove me to my first softball practice, she went home with the catcher, leaving me to call Eric for a ride back to his place.

So, for the most part, the last three months had been easy. Or as easy as my life ever got.

There was one dark spot.

The biker I shot in the gas station was named Ryan Brown. He was 37 and lived in Henderson, Nevada, just south of Las Vegas. Eric, Sam and I burned, then buried, his body somewhere in the Texas desert between Dallas and Wright. As far as I knew, he had never been found.

I didn't want Ryan's family to live with a question hanging over them, so I asked Bill to use the computer to help me find them. I didn't tell Bill the full story and he didn't ask.

Lately, relations between Eric and Bill had been strained. The fight started when Eric forced Bill to tell Victor he burned down Fangtasia. Victor had seen through Bill's story and held him captive as a result. The whole experience had been fairly unpleasant for Bill, go figure.

Eric didn't care (also, go figure). Eric thought Bill hadn't lied well enough and Bill thought Eric shouldn't have put him in that position in the first place. Both of them liked to complain about it to me, loudly and at length. I was sympathetic to Bill, but I understood Eric's exasperation. It wasn't as if he had been sipping blood under a cabana during Bill's ordeal. No one had an easy time of it.

Personally, I thought their fight was a lot of huffing and puffing over nothing, because Victor had let Bill go and Bill was still making Eric money and everyone had his safety, his home, and his livelihood, for now, at least. Or so I wanted to tell them, while they were busy whining to me. I was trying to be more diplomatic, but it wasn't getting me far.

Anyway, what it amounted to was Bill was mad at Eric, not me, so he helped me research Ryan without asking questions or telling Eric, which was an added bonus.

Ryan's parents were dead, but he had an ex wife who lived in Utah. When Bill gave me her phone number, I stared at it for a long time.

"Do you want me to call?" Bill finally asked. He might not know exactly what was going on, but he was a smart guy.

"No," I said. "Thanks." It was something I had to do myself.

If I was a drinker, I might have summoned some liquid courage before I called, but as I wasn't, I just went home, picked up the phone, and dialed. Ryan's ex-wife's name was Sandra.

I told her I was a cop. I said her ex-husband had passed in a traffic accident in Texas. I hated to lie, but I didn't know what else I could do.

She was quiet. I thought the connection had gone out, but then she asked me if I had family. I told her I did.

I'm not sure what we said after that. Words kind of stuck in my throat. I think I said I was sorry. I didn't know what more to do. Anything seemed inadequate.

I felt worst when she thanked me.

We hung up and I turned around to find Eric watching from the doorjamb. He'd let himself in. It was my own fault for giving him a key.

I didn't know what to say to him any more than I had to Sandra. I must have been really out of it, because he took the phone out of my hand and put it back in its holder. Then he sat next to me. The silence grew and we spoke at the same time,

"Lover—"

"I feel horrible."

"You're not," he said.

So, that was that. I had done the little I could.

Ryan Brown had attacked me and I'd killed him. I'd done it to save Sam's life, and my own, but that didn't change the fact that he was gone forever because of me. I never found out who sent him after us. Victor probably. As far as I knew, Eric never asked.

I didn't know much about Ryan outside of his ex-wife's phone number. I didn't know how badly he needed the money he must have been paid to come after me. I didn't know if he took the job because he liked the thrill.

What I did know was Ryan had made the choice to attack me and I'd chosen to defend myself. Maybe I was right, maybe I wasn't, but I'd done what I'd done and I had to live with it. I knew I was supposed to turn the other cheek, but I also couldn't believe God had put me on this earth without expecting me to protect that gift.

I hoped I was right or, at least, not completely wrong.

I couldn't know for sure.

I had called Sandra about a month ago. I had thought about Ryan since then and I was sure that I'd think about him in the years to come, but today was my birthday and it was a welcome distraction. The game, particularly.

We were playing at a middle school in Shreveport. Sam drove me. I planned to stay the night at Eric's so I could just ride home with him. When we got to the field, I introduced Sam to the team and he blushed, cute as pie, after being cooed over by ten ladies in uniform. Afterwards, he sat on the bleachers and watched us warm up.

I was beyond excited about starting. After so much time off the field, it felt like a real treat. I got off to a slow start and walked my first batter, but loosened up by the second inning. After my first strikeout, Sam cheered, to the amusement of my team and the derision of Monroe's fans. I smiled and waved, before turning back to the game. When I looked up at the end of the inning, Eric was sitting on the bleachers next to Sam. I smiled and tried not to stare like they were zoo animals. The two of them, sitting together. How far we'd come.

Of course, when I checked on them later, Sam had moved to the row of seats below Eric and had a sour expression on his face. Baby steps. Having them both at my game was enough of a birthday present.

Getting Eric and Sam within spitting distance of each other was as far as my birthday juju extended. We lost to the Monroe schoolteachers, despite Pam's best efforts to glamour their star slugger from the sidelines. Pam was wearing a baseball cap for the occasion and watched the game from the bench with the rest of the team.

"In my day, women did not play sports," she said, when I plopped down next to her halfway through the game.

I didn't know what to say. Technically, it was still Pam's 'day,' and would presumably be for some time. "I can teach you if you want."

"Hm," she said, but smiled. We were quiet for a second, watching one of Pam's conquests pop a fly. "You make an interesting noise when you throw," she observed.

Now it was my turn to say, "Hm."

Eric congratulated me after the game and said that if it had been only me playing, we would have won. I wanted to tell him that wasn't how teams worked, but accepted the compliment in the spirit it was given. Sam was more reasonable with a, "Good game." Eric watched like a hawk as Sam gave me a hug. Sam promised he'd try to make it to our next game, then drove home.

Afterwards, Eric and I went to Fangtasia. Sure, it was my birthday, but we weren't making a big deal of it. Since Fangtasia wasn't doing well, Eric wanted to put in extra face time.

And, of course, there was the small fact that I hadn't told Eric it was my birthday.

I didn't know why. I wasn't hiding it. It just hadn't come up. Honestly, it didn't feel all that important. My life had too many 'events' already. I just wanted to enjoy a normal evening.

I wore my softball uniform into Fangtasia, which made me stick out even more than usual. Oh well. Eric had some paperwork to do in his office and I didn't want to watch him sign forms, so I just went straight to his booth—rebuilt in its old place—and started a mystery novel.

There were ten fangbangers scattered throughout the club, an improvement from last week's grand total of eight. They perked up when Eric finally emerged from his office and came to the booth to sit by me.

"How's it going?" I asked.

Eric shook his head, which I took to mean not good. "Victor is breathing down my neck," he said. "Business needs to pick up."

"Any ideas?" I looked around the room. Ten fangbangers did not a profit make.

"Pam suggested ladies night," he said. "Completely self-serving."

I laughed, which had been his intention. Under the table, he put his hand on my knee. We both glanced up when someone new walked into the bar. I looked away, trying not to seem too eager. It was another fangbanger.

"Slow and steady," I said. "People have to get used to the idea of you again."

"No," Eric said. "I need to do something extreme."

I never found out what he had in mind, because my phone buzzed. Remy Savoy, the display read, Red Ditch, LA.

"I have to take this," I told Eric.

"Happy birthday, Aunt Sookie."

"Hunter." I was touched that Remy had remembered my birthday and made Hunter call. But then, I felt Eric's eyes on me and realized I had made a huge mistake.

Eric didn't know Hunter was like me and he couldn't ever find out. It wasn't that I didn't trust Eric. I trusted him— with me. With other people, I could trust him only as far as their interests aligned with Eric's interests. And let's just say Eric's interests didn't involve letting Hunter go to elementary school.

Eric was close enough to overhear every word we said.

Or didn't say. The line had gone quiet.

"Hunter, are you there?"

"Did you hear me?" He sounded so eager. He must have been thinking at me.

"You'll have to speak up, sweetie. This connection's funny." I tried to keep my fear in check. Eric could read the bond as easily as he could overhear our conversation.

Hunter sounded disappointed. "You didn't hear me?"

"I hear you fine now." I couldn't be talking to him a breath away from Eric. It was too easy for something to slip. Too much had slipped already. "Hunter, I've got to go." I'd call him tomorrow, when I'd was back in Bon Temps.

"My dad wants to talk to you—"

I heard muffled sounds, the receiver being passed. I was so aware of Eric, sitting less than a foot away. His hand was still on my knee. I almost got up and walked across the room, just to get some distance, but I knew it wouldn't make a lick of difference to Eric's hearing if I was right next to him or over with the fangbangers.

"Sookie?"

"Remy, I—" I tried to cut him off at the pass, but he beat me with,

"He's getting worse."

That pissed me off. "He can't get worse. It is what it is." I hoped Remy was out of Hunter's earshot, even though the poor kid would overhear it in his thoughts anyway. "Look, thanks for calling, but I'm with my boyfriend. Let's talk tomorrow."

With that, I hung up. I was less concerned about hurting Remy's feelings than Hunter's.

I put my cell on the table. Eric was quiet. I was afraid to look at him. He was a smart guy and he'd been given enough information to put the pieces together.

Eric surprised me by opening with, "It's your birthday." He hadn't meant it as a question, but I nodded anyway. He looked pensive. "This boy means a lot to you?"

As soon as he said that, I knew he knew. Why would Eric care that Hunter was important to me? Because he was already weighing his options.

His face was blank. It was only because I knew him so well I could tell that his wheels were turning. If I was an asset, what did that make Hunter? Well, more or less the same thing, except for the fact that he was a child. Six years old. Young. Impressionable.

A prize.

I stared at Eric. A prize? I sure as hell hadn't thought that. Which left only one explanation as to where it had come from. Panic rushed through me. Eric looked up, sharp. If he hadn't been sure about Hunter before, he definitely was now.

I had to get myself under control. I time to needed to think. But before I could do anything, Eric seemed to come to a decision.

I was too on edge to be anything other than direct. "What?"

"Nothing," he said.

He could mean two things by nothing—let me change the subject to distract you, Sookie—or really, nothing. That he was putting it aside, because, in his words, this boy meant 'a lot.'

When it came to Eric, there were a lot of things I didn't need to know. This was not one of them. "Nothing what?"

I wasn't sure what I'd do if he didn't give me the answer I needed to hear. I didn't have my car. Even if I found one, there was no way I could beat Eric to Red Ditch. I had to call Remy. Maybe Claude would help us.

Eric stared at me. I knew he could feel my anxiety. "Eric," I began, "Hunter is—"

"Nothing," he said, and meant it.

I was speechless.

"How was work?" he asked.

I was not ready to change the subject. "Eric—"

He cut me off. "He's nobody."

Eric looked miserable. I reached for the bond. I felt anger. Frustration. And disappointment, most of all. It told me, clearer than any words, that he meant what he said. He was prepared to forget Hunter. "Thank you."

He acted like he didn't hear me. "How was work?"

"Thank you," I repeated.

It was the best birthday gift he could have given me.