Dead Reckoning by Charlaine Harris Read Free Book Online

fairy beliefs and customs. Aside from making derogatory comments from time to time about trolls and sprites, they didn’t talk about their race at all . . . at least, around me.
    “Ah . . . the shifters have a library. We have records of our history and what we’ve observed about other supes. Keeping track has helped us survive. There’s always been a place we could go on each continent to read and study about the other races. Now it’s all electronic. I’m sworn not to show it to anyone. If I could, I’d let you read it all.”
    “So it’s not okay for me to read it, but it’s okay for you to tell me about it?” I wasn’t trying to be snarky; I was genuinely curious.
    “Within limits.” Sam flushed.
    I didn’t want to press him. I could tell that Sam had already stretched those limits for me.
    We were each preoccupied with our own thoughts for the rest of the drive. While Eric was dead for the day, I felt alone in my skin, and usually I enjoyed that feeling. It wasn’t that being bonded to Eric made me feel I was possessed, or anything like that. It was more like during the dark hours, I could feel his life continuing parallel to mine—I knew he was working or arguing or content or absorbed in what he was doing. A little trickle of awareness, rather than a book of knowledge.
    “So, the bomber yesterday,” Sam said abruptly.
    “Yeah,” I said. “I think maybe a twoey of some kind, right?”
    He nodded without looking at me.
    “Not a hate crime,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
    “Not a human hate crime,” Sam said. “But I’m sure it’s some kind of hatred.”
    “Economic?”
    “I can’t think of any economic reason,” he said. “I’m insured, but I’m the only beneficiary if the bar burns down. Of course, I’d be out of business for a while, and I’m sure the other bars in the area would take up the slack, but I can’t see that as an incentive. Much of an incentive,” he corrected himself. “Merlotte’s has always been kind of a family bar, not a wild place. Not like Vic’s Redneck Roadhouse,” he added, a little bitterly.
    That was true. “Maybe someone doesn’t like you personally, Sam,” I said, though it came out sounding harsher than I’d intended. “I mean,” I added quickly, “maybe someone wants to hurt you through damaging your business. Not you as a shapeshifter, but you as a person.”
    “I don’t recall anything that personal,” he said, genuinely bewildered.
    “Ah . . . Jannalynn have a vengeful ex, anything like that?”
    Sam was startled by the idea. “I really haven’t heard of anyone who resented me dating her,” he said. “And Jannalynn’s more than capable of speaking her mind. It’s not like I could coerce her into going out with me.”
    I had a hard time repressing a snort of laughter. “Just trying to think of all possibilities,” I said apologetically.
    “That’s okay,” he said. He shrugged. “Bottom line is, I can’t remember when I’ve made anyone really mad.”
    I couldn’t remember any such incident myself, and I’d known Sam for years.
    Pretty soon we were pulling up to the antiques shop, which was located in a former paint store in a down-sliding older business street in Shreveport.
    The big front windows were sparkling clean, and the pieces that had been positioned there were beautiful. The largest was what my grandmother had called a hunt sideboard. It was heavy and ornate and just about as tall as my chest. The other window featured a collection of jardinières, or vases, I wasn’t sure which to call them. The one in the center, positioned to show that it was the cream of the crop, was sea green and blue and had cherubs stuck on it. I thought it was hideous, but it definitely had style.
    Sam and I looked at the display for a moment in thoughtful silence before we went in. A bell—a real bell, not an electronic chime—jangled as we pushed open the door. A woman sitting on a stool behind a counter to the right