Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set (219 page)

“Hi, Mr. Cataliades,” I said, and the round man rose from his seat, beaming.

“Dear Miss Stackhouse,” he said warmly, because that was the way Mr. Cataliades talked, “I am so very glad to see you again.”

“Pleased to see you, too, Mr. Cataliades.”

His name was pronounced Ka-TAL-ee-ah-deez, and if he had a first name, I didn’t know it. Sitting next to him was a very young woman with bright red spiked hair: his niece, Diantha. Diantha wore the strangest ensembles, and tonight she’d topped herself. Maybe five feet tall, bony thin, Diantha had chosen orange calf-length leggings, blue Crocs, a white ruffled skirt, and a tie-dyed tank top. She was dazzling to the eye.

Diantha didn’t believe in breathing while she talked. Now she said, “Goodtoseeya.”

“Right back at ya,” I said, and since she didn’t make any other move, I gave her a nod. Some supes shake hands, others don’t, so you have to be careful. I turned to the other passenger. With another human, I thought I was on firmer ground, so I held out my right hand. As if he’d been offered a dead fish, the man extended his own hand after a perceptible pause. He pressed my palm in a limp way and withdrew his fingers as if he could just barely refrain from wiping them on his suit pants.

“Miss Stackhouse, this is Johan Glassport, a specialist in vampire law.”

“Mr. Glassport,” I said politely, struggling not to take offense.

“Johan, this is Sookie Stackhouse, the queen’s telepath,” Mr. Cataliades said in his courtly way. Mr. Cataliades’s sense of humor was as abundant as his belly. There was a twinkle in his eye even now. But you had to remember that the part of him that wasn’t human—the majority of Mr. Cataliades—was a demon. Diantha was half-demon; her uncle even more.

Johan gave me a brief up-and-down scan, almost audibly sniffed, and returned to the book he had in his lap.

Just then, the Anubis stewardess began giving us the usual spiel, and I buckled myself into my seat. Soon after that, we were airborne. I didn’t have a twinge of anxiety, because I was so disgusted by Johan Glassport’s behavior.

I didn’t think I’d ever encountered such in-your-face rudeness. The people of northern Louisiana may not have much money, and there may be a high teen pregnancy rate and all kinds of other problems, but by God, we’re polite.

Diantha said, “Johan’sanasshole.”

Johan paid absolutely no attention to this accurate assessment but turned the page of his book.

“Thanks, dear,” Mr. Cataliades said. “Miss Stackhouse, bring me up to date on your life.”

I moved to sit opposite the trio. “Not much to tell, Mr. Cataliades. I got the check, as I wrote you. Thanks for tying up all the loose ends on Hadley’s estate, and if you’d reconsider and send me a bill, I’d be glad to pay it.” Not exactly glad, but relieved of an obligation.

“No, child. It was the least I could do. The queen was happy to express her thanks in that way, even though the evening hardly turned out like she’d planned.”

“Of course, none of us imagined it would end that way.” I thought of Wybert’s head flying through the air surrounded by a mist of blood, and I shuddered.

“You are the witness,” Johan said unexpectedly. He slipped a bookmark into his book and closed it. His pale eyes, magnified behind his glasses, were fixed on me. From being dog poop on his shoe, I had been transformed into something quite interesting and remarkable.

“Yeah. I’m the witness.”

“Then we must talk, now.”

“I’m a little surprised, if you’re representing the queen at this very important trial, that you haven’t gotten around to talking to me before,” I said in as mild a voice as I could manage.

“The queen had trouble contacting me, and I had to finish with my previous client,” Johan said. His unlined face didn’t exactly change expression, but it did look a bit tenser.

“Johan was in jail,” Diantha said very clearly and distinctly.

“Oh, my goodness,” I said, truly startled.

Johan said, “Of course, the charges were completely unfounded.”

“Of course, Johan,” Mr. Cataliades said with absolutely no inflection in his voice.

“Ooo,” I said. “What were those charges that were so false?”

Johan looked at me again, this time with less arrogance. “I was accused of striking a prostitute in Mexico.”

I didn’t know much about law enforcement in Mexico, but it did seem absolutely incredible to me that an American could get arrested in Mexico for hitting a prostitute, if that was the only charge. Unless he had a lot of enemies.

“Did you happen to have something in your hand when you struck her?” I asked with a bright smile.

“I believe Johan had a knife in his hand,” Mr. Cataliades said gravely.

I know my smile vanished right about then. “You were in jail in Mexico for knifing a woman,” I said. Who was dog poop now?

“A prostitute,” he corrected. “That was the charge, but of course, I was completely innocent.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Mine is not the case on the table right now, Miss Stackhouse. My job is to defend the queen against the very serious charges brought against her, and you are an important witness.”

“I’m the only witness.”

“Of course—to the actual death.”

“There were several actual deaths.”

“The only death that matters at this summit is the death of Peter Threadgill.”

I sighed at the image of Wybert’s head, and then I said, “Yeah, I was there.”

Johan may have been lower than pond scum, but he knew his stuff. We went through a long question and answer session that left the lawyer knowing more about what had happened than I did, and I’d been there. Mr. Cataliades listened with great interest, and now and then threw in a clarification or explained the layout of the queen’s monastery to the lawyer.

Diantha listened for a while, sat on the floor and played jacks for half an hour, then reclined her seat and went to sleep.

The Anubis Airline attendant came through and offered drinks and snacks from time to time on the three-hour flight north, and after I’d finished my session with the trial lawyer, I got up to use the bathroom. That was an experience; I’d never been in an airplane bathroom before. Instead of resuming my seat, I walked down the plane, taking a look at each coffin. There was a luggage tag on each one, attached to the handles. With us in the plane today were Eric, Bill, the queen, Andre, and Sigebert. I also found the coffin of Gervaise, who’d been hosting the queen, and Cleo Babbitt, who was the sheriff of Area Three. The Area Two sheriff, Arla Yvonne, had been left in charge of the state while the queen was gone.

The queen’s coffin was inlaid with mother-of-pearl designs, but the others were quite plain. They were all of polished wood: no modern metal for these vamps. I ran my hand over Eric’s, having creepy mental pictures of him lying inside, quite lifeless.

“Gervaise’s woman drove ahead by night with Rasul to make sure all the queen’s preparations were in place,” Mr. Cataliades’s voice said from my right shoulder. I jumped and shrieked, which tickled the queen’s civil lawyer pink. He chuckled and chuckled.

“Smooth move,” I said, and my voice was sour as a squeezed lemon.

“You were wondering where the fifth sheriff was.”

“Yes, but you were maybe a thought or two behind.”

“I’m not telepathic like you, my dear. I was just following your facial expressions and body language. You counted the coffins and began reading the luggage tags.”

“So the queen is not only the queen, but the sheriff of her own area.”

“Yes; it eliminates confusion. Not all the rulers follow that pattern, but the queen found it irksome to constantly consult another vampire when she wanted to do something.”

“Sounds like the queen.” I glanced forward at our companions. Diantha and Johan were occupied: Diantha with sleep, Johan with his book. I wondered if it was a dissection book, with diagrams—or perhaps an account of the crimes of Jack the Ripper, with the crime scene photographs. That seemed about Johan’s speed. “How come the queen has a lawyer like him?” I asked in as low a voice as I could manage. “He seems really . . . shoddy.”

“Johan Glassport is a great lawyer, and one who will take cases other lawyers won’t,” said Mr. Cataliades. “And he is also a murderer. But then, we all are, are we not?” His beady dark eyes looked directly into mine.

I returned the look for a long moment. “In defense of my own life or the life of someone I loved, I would kill an attacker,” I said, thinking before every word left my mouth.

“What a diplomatic way to put it, Miss Stackhouse. I can’t say the same for myself. Some things I have killed, I tore apart for the sheer joy of it.”

Oh,
ick.
More than I wanted to know.

“Diantha loves to hunt deer, and she has killed people in my defense. And she and her sister even brought down a rogue vampire or two.”

I reminded myself to treat Diantha with more respect. Killing a vampire was a very difficult undertaking. And she could play jacks like a fiend.

“And Johan?” I asked.

“Perhaps I’d better leave Johan’s little predilections unspoken for the moment. He won’t step out of line while he’s with us, after all. Are you pleased with the job Johan is doing, briefing you?”

“Is that what he’s doing? Well, yes, I guess so. He’s been very thorough, which is what you want.”

“Indeed.”

“Can you tell me what to expect at the summit? What the queen will want?”

Mr. Cataliades said, “Let’s sit and I’ll try to explain it to you.”

For the next hour, he talked, and I listened and asked questions.

By the time Diantha sat up and yawned, I felt a bit more prepared for all the new things I faced in the city of Rhodes. Johan Glassport closed his book and looked at us, as if he were now ready to talk.

“Mr. Glassport, have you been to Rhodes before?” Mr. Cataliades asked.

“Yes,” the lawyer answered. “I used to practice in Rhodes. Actually, I used to commute between Rhodes and Chicago; I lived midway between.”

“When did you go to Mexico?” I asked.

“Oh, a year or two ago,” he answered. “I had some disagreements with business associates here, and it seemed a good time to . . .”

“Get the heck out of the city?” I supplied helpfully.

“Run like hell?” Diantha suggested.

“Take the money and vanish?” Mr. Cataliades said.

“All of the above,” said Johan Glassport with the faintest trace of a smile.

I
T WAS MIDAFTERNOON WHEN WE ARRIVED IN Rhodes. There was an Anubis truck waiting to onload the coffins and transport them to the Pyramid of Gizeh. I looked out the limo windows every second of the ride into the city, and despite the overwhelming presence of the chain stores we also saw in Shreveport, I had no doubt I was in a different place. Heavy red brick, city traffic, row houses, glimpses of the lake . . . I was trying to look in all directions at once. Then we came into view of the hotel; it was amazing. The day wasn’t sunny enough for the bronze glass to glint, but the Pyramid of Gizeh looked impressive anyway. Sure enough, there was the park across the six-lane street, which was seething with traffic, and beyond it the vast lake.

While the Anubis truck pulled around to the back of the Pyramid to discharge its load of vampires and luggage, the limo swept up to the front of the hotel. As we daytime creatures scooted out of the car, I didn’t know what to look at first: the broad waters or the decorations of the structure itself.

The main doors of the Pyramid were manned by a lot of maroon-and-beige uniformed men, but there were silent guardians, too. There were two elaborate reproductions of sarcophagi placed in an upright position, one on each side of the main lobby doors. They were fascinating, and I would have enjoyed the chance to examine both of them, but we were swept into the building by the staff. One man opened the car door, one examined our identification to make sure we were registered guests—not human reporters, curiosity seekers, or assorted fanatics—and another pushed open the door of the hotel to indicate we should enter.

I’d stayed in a vampire hotel before, so I expected the armed guards and the lack of ground floor windows. The Pyramid of Gizeh was making more of an effort to look a bit like a human hotel than Dallas’s Silent Shore had; though the walls held murals imitating Egyptian tomb art, the lobby was bright with artificial light and horribly perky with piped-in music—“The Girl from Ipanema” in a vampire hotel.

The lobby was busier than the Silent Shore’s, too.

There were lots of humans and other creatures striding around purposefully, lots of action at the check-in desk, and some milling around the hospitality booth put up by the host city’s vampire nest. I’d gone with Sam to a bar supply convention in Shreveport once when he was shopping for a new pump system, and I recognized the general setup. Somewhere, I was sure, there would be a convention hall with booths, and a schedule of panels or demonstrations.

I hoped there would be a map of the hotel, with all events and locations noted, in our registration packet. Or were the vampires too snooty for such mundane aids? No, there was a hotel diagram framed and lit for the perusal of guests and scheduled tours. This hotel was numbered in reverse order. The top floor, the penthouse, was numbered 1. The bottom, largest floor—the human floor—was numbered 15. There was a mezzanine between the human floor and lobby, and there were large convention rooms in the annex to the northern side of the hotel, the rectangular windowless projection that had looked so odd in the Internet picture.

I eyed people scurrying through the lobby—maids, bodyguards, valets, bellmen. . . . Here we were, all us little human beavers, scurrying around to get things ready for the undead conventioneers. (Could you call them that, when this was billed as a summit? What was the difference?) I felt a little sour when I wondered why this was the order of things, when a few years ago, the vampires were the ones doing the scurrying, and that was back into a dark corner where they could hide. Maybe that had been the more natural way. I slapped myself mentally. I might as well go join the Fellowship, if that was how I really felt. I’d noticed the protesters in the little park across the street from the Pyramid of Gizeh, which some of the signs referred to as “The Pyramid of Geezers.”