Dead Ever After

a line dance by grabbing a dancer. Their brains were full of righteous indignation. And I loved each and every one of them.
    “Help!” I yelled, as I made my way through the corn. “Help!”
    “Are you Sookie Stackhouse?” called a deep bass voice.
    “I am!” I called. “I’m coming out now!”
    “The lady’s coming out,” the bass voice boomed. “Don’t shoot her!”
    I broke out of the corn about ten yards to the west of where the van had gone in, and I ran down the edge of the field toward the line of saviors.
    And the man with the bass voice yelled, “Duck, honey!”
    I knew he meant me, and I dove into the ground like I was entering the ocean. His rifle took out Johan Glassport, who’d broken out of the corn behind me. In a second I was surrounded by people who were helping me up, exclaiming over my bleeding arm, or passing me by to stand in a silent knot around the body of the murderous lawyer.
    One down.
    A large posse headed out into the cornfield to see what had happened at the van, and Sam and Jason and Michele claimed me. There were fraught feelings bouncing around, there was self-blame, there were tears (okay, that was Michele), but what mattered was that I was safe and I was with the people who cared about me.
    A heavy, silent man drew near and offered me his handkerchief to bind my arm. I accepted and thanked him sincerely. Michele did the binding, but my arm would need stitches. Of course.
    There was another wave of exclamations. They were bringing Claude and Steve Newlin through the trail of wrecked stalks the van had made.
    Claude was badly wounded. Glassport had gotten to use the knife on him at least once, and Steve Newlin had pummeled his face.
    They’d made Newlin help him to the road, and he hated that worse than anything.
    When they were close enough to hear me, I said, “Claude. Human jail.”
    His thoughts focused, though I couldn’t read them. Then he understood. As if someone had given him a shot of vampire blood, he went nuts. Utterly reenergized, he spun on Steve Newlin, throwing him down with a terrible force, and then he leaped for the nearest Good Samaritan, a man wearing a Stompin’ Sally’s shirt, and the Good Samaritan shot him dead.
    Two down.
    To make things even simpler, Claude had thrown Steve Newlin down with enough force to fracture his skull, and I heard later that he died that night in the Monroe hospital, where they moved him after stabilizing him in Clarice. Before he did, he was moved to confess his part in Arlene’s murder. Maybe the Lord forgave him. I didn’t.
    Three down.
    After I talked to the law, Sam took me to the hospital. I asked after Xavier; he was in surgery. The ER doctor thought a butterfly bandage was enough for my arm, to my profound relief. I wanted to get back home. I’d spent enough time in hospitals, and I’d spent enough nights scared.
    Now, everyone who wished me ill was dead. That is, everyone I knew of. I wasn’t happy about that, but I wasn’t grieving, either. Each of them would have been glad enough if I’d been the one on my way to the grave.
    I was pretty shaken up by my abduction from Stompin’ Sally’s. A few days later, Sally herself called. She said she’d sent me a gift card for ten free drinks at her establishment, and she offered to buy me a new pair of cowboy boots, since mine would never be the same after my flight through the cornfield. I appreciated that—but right then, I wasn’t sure about any future line dancing.
    And I knew I’d never be able to watch Signs again.
    There was no way to thank everyone who poured out of the bar and into their trucks to try to track down the van. At least five other vehicles had headed south, just in case Claude had doubled back that way. As the bartender told me, “We had your back, little lady.”
    This little lady was grateful. And also grateful that out of all the people who heard me remind Claude of what he’d be facing, only the Stompin’ Sally’s bartender who’d shot him found a moment while we were waiting for the police to ask me what I’d meant. I’d explained as simply and tersely as I could. “He wasn’t human, and I knew he’d be in a human jail for a century or more. That would have been pretty awful for him.” That was all I had to say.
    “You know I had to shoot him ’cause you said that,” the man said steadily.
    “If I’d had a gun, I would have done it myself,” was all I could offer. “And you know he was attacking you and