He didn’t look it, but I was sure I didn’t, either. I’d said as much as I could, so I sat by while Immanuel crouched awkwardly before Thalia’s chair. The height differential was not in their favor. Thalia wrapped her good arm around Immanuel’s neck and sank her fangs in without any further discussion. The expression on Immanuel’s face went from bleak to blissful.

Thalia was a noisy eater.

Indira squatted beside her in her blood-drenched sari, patiently holding the severed limb to its source. As Thalia drank, I noticed that the arm looked more and more natural. The fingers flexed. I was astonished, but it was only one more extreme event during an evening of them.

Pam looked a little put out once her victory celebration with Eric was over and she saw that Immanuel was offering his blood to someone else. She asked Mustapha if he’d give her a drink, and he shrugged. “Comes with the job,” he said, pulling down the neck of his black T-shirt. Pam looked incredibly white against Mustapha, and Mustapha’s teeth bared in a grimace when she bit in. He, too, looked happier after a second.

Eric came over to me, beaming. I had never been more undilutedly glad that our bond was broken, because I didn’t want to feel what he was feeling, even a little bit. He put his arms around me, kissed me with enthusiasm, and all I could smell was blood. He was wet with it. It was getting all over my dress and my arms and my chest.

After a minute he drew back, frowning. “Sookie?” he said. “You’re not rejoicing?”

I tried to think of what to say. I felt like a big fat hypocrite. “Eric, I’m glad we don’t have to worry about Victor anymore. And I know this was what we planned. But surrounded by dead people and body parts is not my idea of a good place for a celebration, and I’ve never been less horny in my life.”

His eyes narrowed. He didn’t like my raining on his parade. Understandable.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? I found all of this understandable . But I still hated it, hated myself, wasn’t too fond of anyone else. “You need some blood,” I said. “I really am sorry you were wounded, and you go ahead and take some.”

“You are being a hypocrite, and I will take blood,” he said, and he struck.

It hurt. He didn’t make it feel good, an action almost automatic for a vampire. Tears ran down my face without my wanting them to. In an odd way, I felt the pain was merited, justified—but I also understood this was a turning point in our relationship.

Our relationship had been marked by a thousand turning points, seemed like.