Club Dead by Charlaine Harris Page B

led him to the kitchen. “I’m Sookie Stackhouse,” I said, over my shoulder. I bent over to get the eggs out of the refrigerator. “You?”
    “Alcide,” he said, pronouncing it Al-see, with the d barely sounded. “Alcide Herveaux.”
    He watched me steadily while I lifted out the skillet—my grandmother’s old, blackened iron skillet. She’d gotten it when she got married, and fired it, like any woman worth her salt would do. Now it was perfectly seasoned. I turned the gas eye on at the stove. I cooked the sausage first (for the grease), plopped it on a paper towel on a plate and stuck it in the oven to keep warm. After asking Alcide how he wanted the eggs, I scrambled them and cooked them quickly, sliding them onto the warm plate. He opened the right drawer for the silverware on the first try, and poured himself some juice and coffee after I silently pointed out which cabinet contained the cups. He refilled my mug while he was at it.
    He ate neatly. And he ate everything.
    I plunged my hands into the hot, soapy water to clean the few dishes. I washed the skillet last, dried it, and rubbed some Crisco into the blackness, taking occasional glances at my guest. The kitchen smelled comfortably of breakfast and soapy water. It was a peculiarly peaceful moment.
    This was anything but what I had expected when Eric had told me someone who owed him a favor would be my entrée into the Mississippi vampire milieu. As I looked out the kitchen window at the cold landscape, I realized that this was how I had envisioned my future; on the few occasions I’d let myself imagine a man sharing my house.
    This was the way life was supposed to be, for normal people. It was morning, time to get up and work, time for a woman to cook breakfast for a man, if he had to go out and earn. This big rough man was eating real food. He almost certainly had a pickup truck sitting out in front of my house.
    Of course, he was a werewolf. But a Were could live a more close-to-human life than a vampire.
    On the other hand, what I didn’t know about Weres could fill a book.
    He finished, put his plate in the water in the sink, and washed and dried it himself while I wiped the table. It was as smooth as if we’d choreographed it. He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute while I ran over my mental list of things that had to be done before I left. I needed to talk to Sam, that was the main thing. I’d called my brother the night before to tell him I’d be gone for a few days. Liz had been at Jason’s, so he hadn’t really thought a lot about my departure. He’d agreed to pick up my mail and my papers for me.
    Alcide came to sit opposite me at the table. I was trying to think about how we should talk about our joint task; I was trying to anticipate any sore paws I might tread on. Maybe he was worrying about the same things. I can’t read the minds of shape-shifters or werewolves with any consistency; they’re supernatural creatures. I can reliably interpret moods, and pick up on the occasional clear idea. So the humans-with-a-difference are much less opaque to me than the vampires. Though I understand there’s a contingent of shape-shifters and Weres who wants to change things, the fact of their existence still remains a secret. Until they see how publicity works out for the vampires, the supernaturals of the two-natured variety are ferocious about their privacy.
    Werewolves are the tough guys of the shape-shifting world. They’re shape-shifters by definition, but they’re the only ones who have their own separate society, and they will not allow anyone else to be called “Were” in their hearing. Alcide Herveaux looked plenty tough. He was big as a boulder, with biceps that I could do pull-ups on. He would have to shave a second time if he planned on going out in the evening. He would fit right in on a construction site or a wharf.
    He was a proper man.
    “How are they forcing you to do this?” I asked.
    “They have a marker of my