I was busting-at-the-seams proud of Bill. It was easy to see where Caroline Bellefleur had gotten her graciousness.

Andy said, “I wouldn’t have taken the money if I’d known it came from you.” He’d evidently come straight from work, because he was wearing all his gear: a badge and handcuffs clipped to his belt, a holstered gun. He looked pretty formidable, but he was no match for Bill, even as sick as Bill was.

“Andy, I know you’re not a fan of the fang. But you’re part of my family, and I know you were raised to respect your elders.”

Andy looked completely taken aback.

“That money was to make Caroline happy, and I think it did,” Bill continued. “So it served its purpose. I’ve gotten to see her and to tell her about our relationship, and she has the Bible. I won’t burden you with my presence any longer. I would ask that you have the funeral at night so I can attend.”

“Who ever heard of a funeral at night?” Andy said.

“Yes, we’ll do that.” Portia didn’t sound warm and welcoming, but she did sound absolutely resolved. “The money made her last few years very happy. She loved restoring the house to its best state, and she loved giving us the wedding here. The Bible is the frosting on the cake. Thank you.”

Bill nodded to both of them, and without further ado we left Belle Rive.

Caroline Bellefleur, Bill’s great-granddaughter, died in the early hours of the morning.

Bill sat with the family during the funeral, which took place the next night, to the profound amazement of the town.

I sat at the back with Sam.

It wasn’t an occasion for tears; without a doubt, Caroline Bellefleur had had a long life—a life not devoid of sorrow, but at least full of moments of compensatory happiness. She had very few remaining contemporaries, and those who were still alive were almost all too tottery to come to her funeral.

The service seemed quite normal until we drove out to the cemetery, which didn’t have night lighting—of course—and I saw that temporary lights had been set up around the perimeter of the grave in the Bellefleur plot. That was a strange sight. The minister had a hard time reading the service until a member of the congregation held his own flashlight to the page.

The bright lights in the dark night were an unpleasant reminder of the recovery of Basim al Saud’s body. It was hard to think properly about Miss Caroline’s life and legacy with all the conjecture rattling around in my head. And why hadn’t anything already happened? I felt as though I were living waiting for the other shoe to drop. I wasn’t aware my hand had tightened on Sam’s arm until he turned to look at me with some alarm. I forced my fingers to relax and bowed my head for the prayer.

The family, I heard, was going to Belle Rive for a buffet meal after the service. I wondered if they’d gotten Bill his favorite blood. Bill looked awful. He was using a cane at the grave site. Something had to be done about finding his sibling, since he wasn’t taking action himself. If there was a chance his sibling’s blood might cure him, the effort had to be made.

I’d driven to the funeral with Sam, and since my house was so close, I told Sam I’d walk back from the grave site. I’d stuck a little flashlight in my purse, and I reminded Sam I knew the cemetery like the back of my hand. So when all the other attendees took off, including Bill, to go to Belle Rive for the buffet meal, I waited in the shadows until the cemetery employees started filling in the hole, and then I walked through the trees to Bill’s house.

I still had a key.

Yes, I knew I was being a terrible busybody. And maybe I was doing the wrong thing. But Bill was wasting away, and I just couldn’t sit by and let him do it.

I unlocked the front door and went to Bill’s office, which had been the Compton formal dining room. Bill had all his computer gear set up on a huge table, and he had a rolling chair he’d gotten at Office Depot. A smaller table served as a mailing station, where Bill prepared copies of his vampire database to send to purchasers. He advertised heavily in vampire magazines—Fang, of course, and Dead Life, which appeared in so many languages. Bill’s newest marketing effort involved hiring vampires who spoke many different languages to translate all the information so he could sell foreign-language editions of his worldwide vampire listing service. As I remembered from a previous visit, there were a dozen CD copies of his database in cases by his mailing station. I double-checked to make sure I had one that was in English. Wouldn’t do me much good to get one in Russian.

Of course, Russian reminded me of Alexei, and thinking of Alexei reminded me all over of how worried/angry/frightened I was about Eric’s silence.

I could feel my mouth pinching together in a really unpleasant expression as I thought about that silence. But I had to pay attention to my own little problem right now, and I scooted out of the house, relocked the door, and hoped Bill wouldn’t pick up on my scent in the air.

I went through the cemetery as quickly as if it had been daytime. When I was in my own kitchen, I looked around for a good hiding place. I finally fi xed on the linen closet in the hall bathroom as a good spot, and I put the CD under the stack of clean towels. I didn’t think even Claude could use five towels before I got up the next day.

I checked my answering machine; I checked my cell phone, which I hadn’t taken to the service. No messages. I undressed slowly, trying to imagine what could have happened to Eric. I’d decided I wouldn’t call him, no matter what. He knew where I was and how to reach me. I hung my black dress in the closet, put my black heels on the shoe rack, and then pulled on my Tweety Bird nightshirt, an old favorite. Then I went to bed, mad as a wet hen.

And scared.

Chapter 10

Claude hadn’t come home the night before. His car wasn’t by the back door. I was glad someone had gotten lucky. Then I told myself not to be so pitiful.

“You’re doing okay,” I said, looking in the mirror so I’d believe it. “Look at you! Great tan, Sook!” I had to be in for the lunch shift, so I got dressed right after I’d eaten breakfast. I retrieved the purloined CD from under the towels. I’d either pay Bill for it or return it, I told myself virtuously. I hadn’t really stolen it if I planned to pay for it. Someday. I looked at the clear plastic case in my hands. I wondered how much the FBI would pay for it. Despite all Bill’s attempts to make sure only vampires bought the CD, it would be truly amazing if no one else had it.

So I opened it and popped it into my computer. After a preliminary whir, the screen popped up. “The Vampire Directory,” it said in Gothic lettering, red on a black screen. Stereotype, anyone?

“Enter your code number,” prompted the screen.

Uh-oh.

Then I remembered there’d been a little Post-it on top of the case, and I dug it out of the wastebasket. Yep, this was surely a code. Bill would never have attached the code to the box if he hadn’t believed his house was secure, and I felt a pang of guilt. I didn’t know what procedure he’d established, but I assumed he put the code in a directory when he mailed out the disc to a happy customer. Or maybe he’d put a “destruct” code on the paper for fools like me, and the whole thing would blow up in my face. I was glad no one else was in the house after I typed in the code and hit Enter, because I dropped to my knees under the desk.

Nothing happened, except some more whirring, and I figured I was safe. I scrambled back into my chair.

The screen was showing me my options. I could search by country of residence, country of origin, name, or last sighting. I clicked on “Residence,” and I was prompted: “Which country?” I could pick from a list. After I clicked on “USA,” I got another prompt: “What state?” And another list. I clicked on “Louisiana” and then on “Compton.” There he was, in a modern picture taken at his house. I recognized the paint color. Bill was smiling stiffly, and he didn’t look like a party animal, that’s for sure. I wondered how he’d fare with a dating service. I began to read his biography. And sure enough, there at the bottom, I read, “Sired by Lorena Ball of Louisiana, 1870.”