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sizable, his face was crowded. He was about my height,five foot six, and he was wearing a black poet shirt and black pants and high black boots. All he needed was a bandanna tied around his head and a pistol.
    “Maybe a parrot on your shoulder?” I said.
    “Aaargh, dear lady, you are not the first to suggest such a thing.” He had a wonderful rich baritone voice. “But I understand there are health department regulations against having an uncaged bird in an establishment serving drinks.” He bowed to me as deeply as the narrow area behind the bar permitted. “May I get you a drink and have the honor of your name?”
    I had to smile. “Certainly, sir. I’m Sookie Stackhouse.” He’d caught the whiff of otherness about me. Vampires almost always pick up on it. The undead usually note me; humans don’t. It’s kind of ironic that my mind reading doesn’t work on the very creatures who believe it distinguishes me from the rest of the human race, while humans would rather believe I was mentally ill than credit me with an unusual ability.
    The woman on the barstool next to me (credit cards maxed out, son with ADD) half turned to listen in. She was jealous, having been trying to entice the bartender into showing her some attention for the past thirty minutes. She eyed me, trying to figure out what had caused the vamp to choose to open a conversation with me. She wasn’t impressed at all with what she saw.
    “I am delighted to meet you, fair maiden,” the new vampire said smoothly, and I grinned. Well, at least I was fair—in the blond-and-blue-eyed sense. His eyes took me in; of course, if you’re a woman who works in a bar, you’re used to that. At least he didn’t look at me offensively; and believe me, if you’re a woman who works in a bar, you can tell the difference between an evaluation and an eye fuck.
    “I bet good money she’s no maiden,” said the woman next to me.
    She was right, but that was beside the point.
    “You must be polite to other guests,” the vampire told her, with an altered version of his smile. Not only were his fangs slightly extended, but I also noticed he had crooked (though beautifully white) teeth. American standards of tooth straightness are very modern.
    “No one tells me how to act,” the woman said combatively. She was sullen because the evening wasn’t going as she’d planned. She’d thought it would be easy to attract a vampire, that any vamp would think he was lucky to have her. She’d planned to let one bite her neck, if he’d just settle her credit card bills.
    She was overestimating herself and underestimating vampires.
    “I beg your pardon, madam, but while you are in Fangtasia, most definitely I shall tell you how to act,” the bartender said.
    She subsided after he fixed her with his quelling gaze, and I wondered if he hadn’t given her a dose of glamour.
    “My name,” he said, returning his attention to me, “is Charles Twining.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” I said.
    “And the drink?”
    “Yes, please. A ginger ale.” I had to drive back to Bon Temps after I’d seen Eric.
    He raised his arched brows but poured me the drink and placed it on a napkin in front of me. I paid him and deposited a good tip in the jar. The little white napkin had some fangs outlined in black, with a single drop of red falling from the right fang—custom-made napkins for the vampire bar. “Fangtasia” was printed in jazzy red script onthe opposite corner of the napkin, duplicating the sign outside. Cute. There were T-shirts for sale in a case over in a corner, too, along with glasses decorated with the same logo. The legend underneath read, “Fangtasia—The Bar with a Bite.” Eric’s merchandising expertise had made great strides in the past few months.
    As I waited my turn for Eric’s attention, I watched Charles Twining work. He was polite to everyone, served the drinks swiftly, and never got rattled. I liked his technique much better than that of Chow, the