Gift Wrap
Date: 2011-01-03T07:00:00+00:00

WolfsbaneandMistletoeGift Wrap

Charlaine Harris

Charlaine Harris is the New York Times bestselling author of the Sookie Stackhouse novels and the Harper Connelly series. She’s been nominated for a
bunch of awards, and she even won a few of them. She lives in southern Ark ansas
in a country house that has a fluctuating population of people and animals. S
he
loves to read.

It was Christmas Eve. I was all by myself.

Does that sound sad and pathetic enough to make you say, “Poor Sookie Stackhouse!”? You don’t need to. I was feeling plenty sorry for myself, and the
more I thought about my solitude at this time of the year, the more my eyes welled and my chin quivered.

Most people hang with their family and friends at the holiday season. I actua lly
do have a brother, but we aren’t speaking. I’d recently discovered I have a living great-grandfather, though I didn’t believe he would even realize it was Christmas. (Not because he’s senile, far from it—but because he’s not a Christian.) Those two are it for me, as far as close family goes.

I actually do have friends, too, but they all seemed to have their own plans this year. Amelia Broadway, the witch who lives on the top floor of my hous e,
had driven down to New Orleans to spend the holiday with her father. My fr iend
and employer, Sam Merlotte, had gone home to Texas to see his mom, stepfa ther,
and siblings. My childhood friends Tara and JB would be spending Christm as Eve
with JB’s family; plus, it was their first Christmas as a married couple. Who could horn in on that? I had other friends . . . friends close enough that if I’d made puppy-dog eyes when they were talking about their holiday plans, they
would have included me on their guest list in a heartbeat. In a fit of perversity, I hadn’t wanted to be pitied for being alone. I guess I wanted to manage that all by myself.

Sam had gotten a substitute bartender, but Merlotte’s Bar closes at two o’clo ck
in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and remains closed until two o’clock the day
after Christmas, so I didn’t even have work to break up a lovely uninterrupte d
stretch of misery.

My laundry was done. The house was clean. The week before, I’d put up my grandmother’s Christmas decorations, which I’d inherited along with the hou se.

Opening the boxes of ornaments made me miss my grandmother with a sharp ache.

She’d been gone almost two years, and I still wished I could talk to her. Not only had Gran been a lot of fun, she’d been really shrewd and she’d given g ood
advice—if she decided you really needed some. She’d raised me from the ag e of
seven, and she’d been the most important figure in my life.

She’d been so pleased when I’d started dating the vampire Bill Compton. Th at was
how desperate Gran had been for me to get a beau; even Vampire Bill was welcome.

When you’re telepathic like I am, it’s hard to date a regular guy; I’m sure yo u
can see why. Humans think all kinds of things they don’t want their nearest and
dearest to know about, much less a woman they’re taking out to dinner and a movie. In sharp contrast, vampires’ brains are lovely silent blanks to me, and werewolf brains are nearly as good as vampires’, though I get a big waft of emotions and the odd snatch of thought from my occasionally furred acquaintances.

Naturally, after I’d thought about Gran welcoming Bill, I began wondering what

Bill was doing. Then I rolled my eyes at my own idiocy. It was mid-afternoo n,
daytime. Bill was sleeping somewhere in his house, which lay in the woods t o the
south of my place, across the cemetery. I’d broken up with Bill, but I was su re
he’d be over like a shot if I called him—once darkness fell, of course.

Damned if I would call him. Or anyone else.

But I caught myself staring longingly at the telephone every time I passed by

. I
needed to get out of the house or I’d be phoning someone, anyone.

I needed a mission. A project. A task. A diversion.

I remembered having awakened for about thirty seconds in the wee hours of the
morning. Since I’d worked the late shift at Merlotte’s, I’d only just sunk into a deep sleep. I’d stayed awake only long enough to wonder what had jarred me out
of that sleep. I’d heard something out in the woods, I thought. The sound had n’t
been repeated, and I’d dropped back into slumber like a stone into water.

Now I peered out the kitchen window at the woods. Not too surprisingly, the re
was nothing unusual about the view. “The woods are snowy, dark, and deep,

” I
said, trying to recall the Frost poem we’d all had to memorize in high school

.

Or was it “lovely, dark, and deep”?

Of course, my woods weren’t lovely or snowy—they never are in Louisiana at

Christmas, even northern Louisiana. But it was cold (here, that meant the temperature was about thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit). And the woods were definitely dark and deep—and damp. So I put on my lace-up work boots that I’d
bought years before when my brother, Jason, and I had gone hunting togethe r, and

I shrugged into my heaviest “I don’t care what happens to it” coat, really mo re
of a puffy quilted jacket. It was pale pink. Since a heavy coat takes a long time to wear out down here, the coat was several years old, too; I’m twenty-seven, definitely past the pale pink stage. I bundled all my hair up under a knit cap, and I pulled on the gloves I’d found stuffed into one pocket

.

I hadn’t worn this coat for a long, long time, and I was surprised to find a couple of dollars and some ticket stubs in the pockets, plus a receipt for a little Christmas gift I’d given Alcide Herveaux, a werewolf I’d dated briefly

.

Pockets are like little time capsules. Since I’d bought Alcide the sudoku boo k,
his father had died in a struggle for the job of packmaster, and after a series of violent events, Alcide himself ascended to the leadership. I wondered ho w
pack affairs were going in Shreveport. I hadn’t talked to any of the Weres in two months. In fact, I’d lost track of when the last full moon had been. Last night?

Now I’d thought about Bill and Alcide. Unless I took action, I’d begin broo ding
over my most recent lost boyfriend, Quinn. It was time to get on the move.

My family has lived in this humble house for over a hundred and fifty years

. My
much-adapted home lies in a clearing in the middle of some woods off Hum mingbird

Road, outside of the small town of Bon Temps, in Renard Parish. The trees a re
deeper and denser to the east at the rear of the house, since they haven’t bee n
logged in a good fifty years. They’re thinner on the south side, where the cemetery lies. The land is gently rolling, and far back on the property there’s a little stream, but I hadn’t walked all the way back to the stream in ages. M
y
life had been very busy, what with hustling drinks at the bar, telepathing (is that a verb?) for the vampires, unwillingly participating in vampire and Wer e
power struggles, and other magical and mundane stuff like that.

It felt good to be out in the woods, though the air was raw and damp, and it felt good to be using my muscles.

I made my way through the brush for at least thirty minutes, alert for any indication of what had caused the ruckus the night before. There are lots of animals indigenous to northern Louisiana, but most of them are quiet and shy

:

possums, raccoons, deer. Then there are the slightly less quiet, but still shy, mammals; like coyotes and foxes. We have a few more formidable creatures.

In the
bar, I hear hunters’ stories all the time. A couple of the more enthusiastic sportsmen had glimpsed a black bear on a private hunting preserve about tw o
miles from my house. And Terry Bellefleur had sworn to me he’d seen a pan ther
less than two years ago. Most of the avid hunters had spotted feral hogs, razorbacks.

Of course, I wasn’t expecting to encounter anything like that. I had popped my
cell phone into my pocket, just in case, though I wasn’t sure I could get a signal out in the woods.

By the time I’d worked my way through the thick woods to the stream, I wa s warm
inside the puffy coat. I was ready to crouch down for a minute or two to exa mine
the soft ground by the water. The stream, never big to begin with, was level with its banks after the recent rainfall. Though I’m not Nature Girl, I could tell that deer had been here; raccoons, too; and maybe a dog. Or two. Or thre e.

That’s not good, I thought with a hint of unease. A pack of dogs always had the
potential to become dangerous. I wasn’t anywhere near savvy enough to tell how
old the tracks were, but I would have expected them to look dryer if they’d been
made over a day ago.

There was a sound from the bushes to my left. I froze, scared to raise my fac e
and turn in toward the right direction. I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket, looked at the bars. OUTSIDE OF AREA, read the legend on the littl e
screen. Crap, I thought. That hardly began to cover it.

The sound was repeated. I decided it was a moan. Whether it had issued fr om man
or beast, I didn’t know. I bit my lip, hard, and then I made myself stand up, very slowly and carefully. Nothing happened. No more sounds. I got a grip on
myself and edged cautiously to my left. I pushed aside a big stand of laurel.

There was a man lying on the ground, in the cold wet mud. He was naked as a
jaybird, but patterned in dried blood.

I approached him cautiously, because even naked bleeding muddy men coul d be
mighty dangerous; maybe especially dangerous.

“Ah,” I said. As an opening statement, that left a lot to be desired. “Ah, do you need help?” Okay, that ranked right up there with “How do you feel?” as a
stupid opening statement.

His eyes opened—tawny eyes, wild and round like an owl’s. “Get away,” he said
urgently. “They may be coming back.”

“Then we’d better hurry,” I said. I had no intention of leaving an injured ma n
in the path of whatever had injured him in the first place. “How bad are you hurt?”

“No, run,” he said. “It’s not long until dark.” Painfully, he stretched out a hand to grip my ankle. He definitely wanted me to pay attention.

It was really hard to listen to his words since there was a lot of bareness that kept my eyes busy. I resolutely focused my gaze above his chest. Which was covered, not too thickly, with dark brown hair. Across a broad expanse. Not that

I was looking!

“Come on,” I said, kneeling beside the stranger. A mélange of prints indente d
the mud, indicating a lot of activity right around him. “How long have you b een
here?”

“A few hours,” he said, gasping as he tried to prop himself up on one elbow.

“In this cold?” Geez Louise. No wonder his skin was bluish. “We got to get you
indoors,” I said. “Now.” I looked from the blood on his left shoulder to the rest of him, trying to spot other injuries.

That was a mistake. The rest of him—though visibly muddy, bloody, and c old—was

really, really . . .

What was wrong with me? Here I was, looking at a complete (naked and ha ndsome)

stranger with lust, while he was scared and wounded. “Here,” I said, trying t o
sound resolute and determined and neutered. “Put your good arm around my neck,
and we’ll get you to your knees. Then you can get up and we can start movi ng.”

There were bruises all over him, but not another injury that had broken the skin, I thought. He protested several more times, but the sky was getting dar ker
as the night drew in, and I cut him off sharply. “Get a move on,” I advised h im.

“We don’t want to be out here any longer than we have to be. It’s going to t ake
the better part of an hour to get you to the house.”

The man fell silent. He finally nodded. With a lot of work, we got him to his feet. I winced when I saw how scratched and filthy they were.

“Here we go,” I said encouragingly. He took a step, did a little wincing of hi s
own. “What’s your name?” I said, trying to distract him from the pain of walking.

“Preston,” he said. “Preston Pardloe.”

“Where you from, Preston?” We were moving a little faster now, which was good.

The woods were getting darker and darker.

“I’m from Baton Rouge,” he said. He sounded a little surprised.

“And how’d you come to be in my woods?”

“Well . . .”

I realized what his problem was. “Are you a Were, Preston?” I asked. I felt h is
body relax against my own. I’d known it already from his brain pattern, but I didn’t want to scare him by telling him about my little disability. Preston ha d
a—how can I describe it?—a smoother, thicker pattern than other Weres I’d encountered, but each mind has its own texture.

“Yes,” he said. “You know, then.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.” I knew way more than I’d ever wanted to. Vampir es had
come out in the open with the advent of the Japanese-marketed synthetic blo od
that could sustain them, but other creatures of the night and shadows hadn’t yet
taken the same giant step.

“What pack?” I asked, as we stumbled over a fallen branch and recovered.

He was
leaning on me heavily. I feared we’d actually tumble to the ground. We need ed to
pick up the pace. He did seem to be moving more easily now that his muscle s had
warmed up a little.

“The Deer Killer pack, from south of Baton Rouge.”

“What are you doing up here in my woods?” I asked again.

“This land is yours? I’m sorry we trespassed,” he said. His breath caught as I helped him around a devil’s walking stick. One of the thorns caught in my p ink
coat, and I pulled it out with difficulty.

“That’s the least of my worries,” I said. “Who attacked you?”

“The Sharp Claw pack from Monroe.”

I didn’t know any Monroe Weres.

“Why were you here?” I asked, thinking sooner or later he’d have to answer me if

I kept asking.

“We were supposed to meet on neutral ground,” he said, his face tense with pain.

“A werepanther from out in the country somewhere offered the land to us as a
midway point, a neutral zone. Our packs have been . . . feuding. He said this would be a good place to resolve our differences.”

My brother had offered my land as a Were parley ground? The stranger and I
struggled along in silence while I tried to think that through. My brother, Jason, was indeed a werepanther, though he’d become one by being bitten; h is
estranged wife was a born werepanther, a genetic panther. What was Jason thinking, sending such a dangerous gathering my way? Not of my welfare, th at’s
for sure.

Granted, we weren’t on good terms, but it was painful to think he’d actually want to do me harm. Any more than he’d already done me, that is.

A hiss of pain brought my attention back to my companion. Trying to help h im
more efficiently, I put my arm around his waist and he draped his arm acros s my
shoulder. We were able to make better time that way, to my relief. Five minu tes
later, I saw the light I’d left on above the back porch.

“Thank God,” I said. We began moving faster, and we reached the house just as
dark fell. For a second, my companion arched and tensed, but he didn’t chan ge.

That was a relief.

Getting up the steps turned into an ordeal, but finally I got Preston into the house and seated at the kitchen table. I looked him over anxiously. This wasn

’t
the first time I’d brought a bleeding and naked man into my kitchen, oddly enough. I’d found a vampire named Eric under similar circumstances. Was th at not
incredibly weird, even for my life? Of course, I didn’t have time to mull that over, because this man needed some attention.

I tried to look at the shoulder wound in the improved light of the kitchen, but he was so grimy it was hard to examine in detail. “Do you think you could s tand
to take a shower?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound like I thought he smelled o r
anything. Actually, he did smell a little unusual, but his scent wasn’t unpleasant.

“I think I can stay upright that long,” he said briefly.

“Okay, stay put for a second,” I said. I brought the old afghan from the back of
the living room couch and arranged it around him carefully. Now it was easie r to
concentrate.

I hurried to the hall bathroom to turn on the shower controls, added long afte r
the claw-footed bathtub had been installed. I leaned over to turn on the water

,

waited until it was hot, and got out two fresh towels. Amelia had left shamp oo
and crème rinse in the rack hanging from the showerhead, and there was plen ty of
soap. I put my hand under the water. Nice and hot.

“Okay!” I called. “I’m coming to get you!”

My unexpected visitor was looking startled when I got back to the kitchen. “

For
what?” he asked, and I wondered if he’d hit his head in the woods.

“For the shower, hear the water running?” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “I can’t see the extent of your wounds until I get you clean.”

We were up and moving again, and I thought he was walking better, as if the warmth of the house and the smoothness of the floor helped his muscles rela x.

He’d just left the afghan on the chair. No problem with nudity, like most We res,

I noticed. Okay, that was good, right? His thoughts were opaque to me, as W
ere
thoughts sometimes were, but I caught flashes of anxiety.

Suddenly he leaned against me much more heavily, and I staggered into the wall.

“Sorry,” he said, gasping. “Just had a twinge in my leg.”

“No problem,” I said. “It’s probably your muscles stretching.” We made it in to
the small bathroom, which was very old-fashioned. My own bathroom off my bedroom
was more modern, but this was less personal.

Preston didn’t seem to note the black-and-white-checkered tile. With unmistakable eagerness, he was eyeing the hot water spraying down into the tub.

“Ah, do you need me to leave you alone for a second before I help you into t he
shower?” I asked, indicating the toilet with a tip of my head.

He looked at me blankly. “Oh,” he said, finally understanding. “No, that’s al l
right.” So we made it to the side of the tub, which was a high one. With a lot of awkward maneuvering, Preston swung a leg over the side, and I shoved, a nd he
was able to raise the second leg enough to climb completely in. After makin g

sure he could stand by himself, I began to pull the shower curtain closed.

“Lady,” he said, and I stopped. He was under the stream of hot water, his hai r
plastered to his head, water beating on his chest and running down to drip of f
his . . . Okay, he’d gotten warmer everywhere.

“Yes?” I was trying not to sound like I was choking.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh! Excuse me.” I swallowed hard. “My name is Sookie. Sookie Stackhouse

.” I
swallowed again. “There’s the soap; there’s the shampoo. I’m going to leave the
bathroom door open, okay? You just call me when you’re through, and I’ll h elp
you out of the tub.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll yell if I need you.”

I pulled the shower curtain, not without regret. After checking that the clean towels were where Preston could easily reach them, I returned to the kitchen.

I
wondered if he would like coffee, or hot chocolate, or tea? Or maybe alcohol

? I
had some bourbon, and there were a couple of beers in the refrigerator. I’d a sk
him. Soup, he’d need some soup. I didn’t have any homemade, but I had Ca mpbell’s

Chicken Tortilla. I put the soup into a pan on the stove, got coffee ready to go, and boiled some water in case he opted for the chocolate or tea. I was practically vibrating with purpose.

When Preston emerged from the bathroom, his bottom half was wrapped in a large
blue bath towel of Amelia’s. Believe me, it had never looked so good. Prest on
had draped a towel around his neck to catch the drips from his hair, and it covered his shoulder wound. He winced a little as he walked, and I knew his feet
must be sore. I’d gotten some men’s socks by mistake on my last trip to Wal-Mart, so I got them from my drawer, and handed them to Preston, who’

d
resumed his seat at the table. He looked at them very carefully, to my puzzlement.

“You need to put on some socks,” I said, wondering if he paused because he thought he was wearing some other man’s garments. “They’re mine,” I said reassuringly. “Your feet must be tender.”

“Yes,” said Preston, and rather slowly, he bent to put them on.

“You need help?” I was pouring the soup in a bowl.

“No, thank you,” he said, his face hidden by his thick dark hair as he bent to the task. “What smells so good?”

“I heated some soup for you,” I said. “You want coffee, or tea, or . . .”

“Tea, please,” he said.

I never drank tea myself, but Amelia had some. I looked through her selectio n,
hoping none of these blends would turn him into a frog or anything. Amelia’

s
magic had had unexpected results in the past. Surely anything marked LIP

TON was
okay? I dunked the tea bag into the scalding water and hoped for the best.

Preston ate the soup carefully. Maybe I’d gotten it too hot. He spooned it int o
his mouth like he’d never had soup before. Maybe his mama had always ser ved
homemade. I felt a little embarrassed. I was staring at him, because I sure didn’t have anything better to look at. He looked up and met my eyes.

Whoa. Things were moving too fast here. “So, how’d you get hurt?” I asked

. “Was
there a skirmish? How come your pack left you?”

“There was a fight,” he said. “Negotiations didn’t work.” He looked a little doubtful and distressed. “Somehow, in the dark, they left me.”

“Do you think they’re coming back to get you?”

He finished his soup, and I put his tea down by his hand. “Either my own pa ck or
the Monroe one,” he said grimly.

That didn’t sound good. “Okay, you better let me see your wounds now,” I sa id.

The sooner I knew his fitness level, the sooner I could decide what to do.

Preston removed the towel from around his neck, and I bent to look at the w ound.

It was almost healed.

“When were you hurt?” I asked.

“Toward dawn.” His huge tawny eyes met mine. “I lay there for hours.”

“But . . .” Suddenly I wondered if I’d been entirely intelligent, bringing a stranger into my home. I knew it wasn’t wise to let Preston know I had doub ts
about his story. The wound had looked jagged and ugly when I’d found him in the
woods. Yet now that he came into the house, it healed in a matter of minutes

?

What was up? Weres healed fast, but not instantly.

“What’s wrong, Sookie?” he asked. It was pretty hard to think about anythin g
else when his long wet hair was trailing across his chest and the blue towel was
riding pretty low.

“Are you really a Were?” I blurted, and backed up a couple of steps. His bra in
waves dipped into the classic Were rhythm, the jagged, dark cadence I found familiar.

Preston Pardloe looked absolutely horrified. “What else would I be?” he said

,
extending an arm. Obligingly, fur rippled down from his shoulder and his fi ngers
clawed. It was the most effortless change I’d ever seen, and there was very little of the noise I associated with the transformation, which I’d witnessed several times.

“You must be some kind of super werewolf,” I said.

“My family is gifted,” he said proudly.

He stood, and his towel slipped off.

“No kidding,” I said in a strangled voice. I could feel my cheeks turning red.

There was a howl outside. There’s no eerier sound, especially on a dark, col d
night; and when that eerie sound comes from the line where your yard meets the
woods, well, that’ll make the hairs on your arm stand up. I glanced at Presto n’s
wolfy arm to see if the howl had had the same effect on him, and saw that hi s
arm had reverted to human shape.

“They’ve returned to find me,” he said.

“Your pack?” I said, hoping that his kin had returned to retrieve him.

“No.” His face was bleak. “The Sharp Claws.”

“Call your people. Get them here.”

“They left me for a reason.” He looked humiliated. “I didn’t want to talk abo ut
it. But you’ve been so kind.”

I was not liking this more and more. “And that reason would be?”

“I was payment for an offense.”

“Explain in twenty words or less.”

He stared down at the floor, and I realized he was counting in his head. This guy was one of a kind. “Packleader’s sister wanted me, I didn’t want her, sh e
said I’d insulted her, my torture was the price.”

“Why would your packleader agree to any such thing?”

“Am I still supposed to number my words?”

I shook my head. He’d sounded dead serious. Maybe he just had a really dee p
sense of humor.

“I’m not my packleader’s favorite person, and he was willing to believe I wa s
guilty. He himself wants the sister of the Sharp Claw packmaster, and it wou ld
be a good match from the point of view of our packs. So, I was hung out to dry.”

I could sure believe the packmaster’s sister had lusted after him. The rest of the story was not outrageous, if you’ve had many dealings with the Weres. S
ure,
they’re all human and reasonable on the outside, but when they’re in their W
ere
mode, they’re different.

“So, they’re here to get you and keep on beating you up?”

He nodded somberly. I didn’t have the heart to tell him to rewind the towel.

I
took a deep breath, looked away, and decided I’d better go get the shotgun.

Howls were echoing, one after another, through the night by the time I fetch ed
the shotgun from the closet in the living room. The Sharp Claws had tracked Preston to my house, clearly. There was no way I could hide him and say tha t
he’d gone. Or was there? If they didn’t come in . . .

“You need to get in the vampire hole,” I said. Preston turned from staring at the back door, his eyes widening as he took in the shotgun. “It’s in the guest bedroom.” The vampire hole dated from when Bill Compton had been my bo yfriend,
and we’d thought it was prudent to have a light-tight place at my house in ca se
he got caught by day.

When the big Were didn’t move, I grabbed his arm and hustled him down the hall,
showed him the trick bottom of the bedroom closet. Preston started to protest—all Weres would rather fight than flee—but I shoved him in, lowere d the

“floor,” and threw the shoes and junk back in there to make the closet look realistic.

There was a loud knock at the front door. I checked the shotgun to make sure it
was loaded and ready to fire, and then I went into the living room. My heart was
pounding about a hundred miles a minute.

Werewolves tend to take blue-collar jobs in their human lives, though some of
them parlay those jobs into business empires. I looked through my peephole to
see that the werewolf at my front door must be a semipro wrestler. He was h uge.

His hair hung in tight gelled waves to his shoulders, and he had a trimmed b eard
and mustache, too. He was wearing a leather vest and leather pants and motorcycle boots. He actually had leather strips tied around his upper arms, and
leather braces on his wrists. He looked like someone from a fetish magazine

.

“What do you want?” I called through the door.

“Let me come in,” he said, in a surprisingly high voice.

Little pig, little pig, let me come in!

“Why would I do that?” Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.

“Because we can break in if we have to. We got no quarrel with you. We kn ow this
is your land, and your brother told us you know all about us. But we’re track ing
a guy, and we gotta know if he’s in there.”

“There was a guy here, he came up to my back door,” I called. “But he made a
phone call and someone came and picked him up.”

“Not out here,” the mountainous Were said.

“No, the back door.” That was where Preston’s scent would lead.

“Hmmmm.” By pressing my ear to the door, I could hear the Were mutter, “

Check it
out,” to a large dark form, which loped away. “I still gotta come in and chec k,”

my unwanted visitor said. “If he’s in there, you might be in danger.”

He should have said that first, to convince me he was trying to save me.

“Okay, but only you,” I said. “And you know I’m a friend of the Shreveport pack,
and if anything happens to me, you’ll have to answer to them. Call Alcide Herveaux if you don’t believe me.”

“Oooo, I’m scared,” said Man Mountain in an assumed falsetto. But as I sw ung
open the front door and he got a look at the shotgun, I could see that he truly did look as if he was having second thoughts. Good.

I stood aside, keeping the Benelli pointed in his direction to show I meant business. He strode through the house, his nose working all the time. His sen se
of smell wouldn’t be nearly as accurate in his human form, and if he started to
change, I intended to tell him I’d shoot if he did.

Man Mountain went upstairs, and I could hear him opening closets and look ing
under beds. He even stepped into the attic. I heard the creak its old door mak es
when it swings open.

Then he clomped downstairs in his big old boots. He was dissatisfied with hi s
search, I could tell, because he was practically snorting. I kept the shotgun level.

Suddenly he threw back his head and roared. I flinched, and it was all I coul d
do to hold my ground. My arms were exhausted.

He was glaring at me from his great height. “You’re pulling something on us

,
woman. If I find out what it is, I’ll be back.”

“You’ve checked, and he’s not here. Time to go. It’s Christmas Eve, for goodness’ sake. Go home and wrap some presents.”

With a final look around the living room, out he went. I couldn’t believe it.

The bluff had worked. I lowered the gun and set it carefully back in the close t.

My arms were trembling from holding it at the ready. I shut and locked the door
behind him.

Preston was padding down the hall in the socks and nothing else, his face anxious.

“Stop!” I said, before he could step into the living room. The curtains were open. I walked around shutting all the curtains in the house, just to be on the safe side. I took the time to send out my special sort of search, and there wer e
no live brains in the area around the house. I’d never been sure how far this ability could reach, but at least I knew the Sharp Claws were gone.

When I turned around after drawing the last drape, Preston was behind me, and
then he had his arms around me, and then he was kissing me. I swam to the surface to say, “I don’t really . . .”

“Pretend you found me gift-wrapped under the tree,” he whispered. “Pretend you
have mistletoe.”

It was pretty easy to pretend both those things. Several times. Over hours.

When I woke up Christmas morning, I was as relaxed as a girl can be. It too k me
a while to figure out that Preston was gone; and while I felt a pang, I also felt just a bit of relief. I didn’t know the guy, after all, and even after we’d been up close and personal, I had to wonder how a day alone with him woul d have
gone. He’d left me a note in the kitchen.

“Sookie, you’re incredible. You saved my life and gave me the best Christm as Eve

I’ve ever had. I don’t want to get you in any more trouble. I’ll never forget how great you were in every way.” He’d signed it.

I felt let down, but oddly enough I also felt happy. It was Christmas Day. I went in and plugged in the lights on the tree, and sat on the old couch with my
grandmother’s afghan wrapped around me, which still smelled faintly of my visitor. I had a big mug of coffee and some homemade banana nut bread to have
for breakfast. I had presents to unwrap. And about noon, the phone began to ring. Sam called, and Amelia; and even Jason called just to say “Merry Christmas, Sis.” He hung up before I could charge him with loaning my land out
to two packs of Weres. Considering the satisfying outcome, I decided to forg ive
and forget—at least that one transgression. I put my turkey breast in the oven

,
and fixed a sweet potato casserole, and opened a can of cranberry sauce, and made some cornbread dressing and some broccoli and cheese.

About thirty minutes before the somewhat simplified feast was ready, the doorbell rang. I was wearing a new pale blue pants and top outfit in velour, a gift from Amelia. I was feeling self-sufficient as hell.

I was astonished how happy I was to see my great-grandfather at the door. H
is
name’s Niall Brigant, and he’s a fairy prince. Okay, long story, but that’s wh at
he is. I’d only met him a few weeks before, and I couldn’t say we really kne w
each other well, but he was family. He’s about six feet tall, he almost always wears a black suit with a white shirt and a black tie, and he has pale golden hair as fine as cornsilk; it’s longer than my hair, and it seems to float around his head if there’s the slightest breeze.

Oh, yeah, my great-grandfather is over a thousand years old. Or thereabouts.

I
guess it’s hard to keep track after all those years.

Niall smiled at me. All the tiny wrinkles that fissured his fine skin moved w hen
he smiled, and somehow that just added to his charm. He had a load of wrap ped
boxes, to add to my general level of amazement.

“Please come in, Great-grandfather,” I said. “I’m so happy to see you! Can you
have Christmas dinner with me?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s why I’ve come. Though,” he added, “I was not invit ed.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling ridiculously ill-mannered. “I just never thought you’d b e
interested in coming. I mean, after all, you’re not . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to be tacky.

“Not Christian,” he said gently. “No, dear one, but you love Christmas, and I thought I would share it with you.”

“Yay,” I said.

I’d actually wrapped a present for him, intending to give it to him when I ne xt
encountered him (for seeing Niall was not a regular event), so I was able to bask in complete happiness. He gave me an opal necklace, I gave him some new
ties (that black one had to go) and a Shreveport Mudbugs pennant (local colo r).

When the food was ready, we ate dinner, and he thought it was all very good

.

It was a great Christmas.

The creature Sookie Stackhouse knew as Preston was standing in the woods.

He
could see Sookie and her great-grandfather moving around in the living roo m.

“She really is lovely, and sweet as nectar,” he said to his companion, the hulking Were who’d searched Sookie’s house. “I only had to use a touch of magic
to get the attraction started.”

“How’d Niall get you to do it?” asked the Were. He really was a werewolf, u nlike

Preston, who was a fairy with a gift for transforming himself.

“Oh, he helped me out of a jam once,” Preston said. “Let’s just say it involv ed
an elf and a warlock, and leave it at that. Niall said he wanted to make this human’s Christmas very happy, that she had no family and was deserving.”

He
watched rather wistfully as Sookie’s figure crossed the window. “Niall set u p
the whole story tailored to her needs. She’s not speaking to her brother, so h e
was the one who ‘loaned out’ her woods. She loves to help people, so I was

‘hurt’; she loves to protect people, so I was ‘hunted.’ She hadn’t had sex in a long time, so I seduced her.” Preston sighed. “I’d love to do it all over again.

It was wonderful, if you like humans. But Niall said no further contact, and h is
word is law.”

“Why do you think he did all this for her?”

“I’ve no idea. How’d he rope you and Curt into this?”

“Oh, we work for one of his businesses as a courier. He knew we do a little community theater, that kind of thing.” The Were looked unconvincingly mo dest.

“So I got the part of Big Threatening Brute, and Curt was Other Brute.”

“And a good job you did,” Preston the fairy said bracingly. “Well, back to m y
own neck of the woods. See you later, Ralph.”

“’Bye now,” Ralph said, and Preston popped out of sight.

“How the hell do they do that?” Ralph said, and stomped off through the wo ods to
his waiting motorcycle and his buddy Curt. He had a pocketful of cash and a story he was charged to keep secret.

Inside the old house, Niall Brigant, fairy prince and loving great-grandfather

,
pricked his ears at the faint sound of Preston’s and Ralph’s departures. He knew
it was audible to only his ears. He smiled down at his great-granddaughter.

He
didn’t understand Christmas, but he understood that it was a time humans received and gave gifts, and drew together as families. As he looked at Sook ie’s
happy face, he knew he had given her a unique yuletide memory.

“Merry Christmas, Sookie,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.