Free From Dead to Worse by Charlaine Harris

back, so when she came to a halt, I didn’t immediately recognize that she’d stopped at the table where we were to sit. She stepped aside. Seated facing me was the lovely man who’d been at the wedding two nights before.
    The hostess spun on her high heel, touched the back of the chair to the man’s right to indicate I should sit there, and told us our server would be with us. The man rose to pull out my chair and hold it for me. I glanced back at Eric. He gave me a reassuring nod. I slipped in front of the chair and the man pushed it forward with perfect timing.
    Eric didn’t sit. I wanted him to explain what was happening, but he didn’t speak. He looked almost sad.
    The beautiful man was looking at me intently. “Child,” he said to get my attention. Then he pushed back his long, fine golden hair. None of the other diners were positioned to see what he was showing me.
    His ear was pointed. He was a fairy.
    I knew two other fairies. But they avoided vampires at all costs, because the smell of a fairy was as intoxicating to a vampire as honey is to a bear. According to a vampire who was particularly gifted in the scent sense, I had a trace of fairy blood.
    “Okay,” I said, to let him know the ears had registered.
    “Sookie, this is Niall Brigant,” Eric said. He pronounced it “Nye-all.” “He’s going to talk to you over supper. I’ll be outside if you need me.” He inclined his head stiffly to the fairy and then he was gone.
    I watched Eric walk away, and I was bowled over with a rush of anxiety. Then I felt a hand on top of my own. I turned to meet the eyes of the fairy.
    “As he said, my name is Niall.” His voice was light, sexless, resonant. His eyes were green, the deepest green you can imagine. In the flickering candlelight, the color hardly mattered—it was the depth you noticed. His hand on mine was light as a feather but very warm.
    “Who are you?” I asked, and I wasn’t asking him to repeat his name.
    “I’m your great-grandfather,” Niall Brigant said.
    “Oh, shit ,” I said, and covered my mouth with my hand. “Sorry, I just ...” I shook my head. “Great-grandpa?” I said, trying out the concept. Niall Brigant winced delicately. On a real man, the gesture would have looked effeminate, but on Niall it didn’t.
    Lots of kids in our neck of the woods call their grandfathers “Papaw.” I’d love to see his reaction to that. The idea helped me recover my scattered sense of self.
    “Please explain,” I said very politely. The waiter came to inquire after our drink orders and recite the specials of the day. Niall ordered a bottle of wine and told him we would have the salmon. He did not consult me. High-handed.
    The young man nodded vigorously. “Great choice,” he said. He was a Were, and though I would have expected him to be curious about Niall (who after all was a supernatural being not often encountered), I seemed to be of more interest. I attributed that to the waiter’s youth and my boobs.
    See, here’s the weird thing about meeting my self-proclaimed relative: I never doubted his truthfulness. This was my true great-grandfather, and the knowledge just clicked into place as if it fit into a puzzle.
    “I’ll tell you all about it,” Niall said. Very slowly, telegraphing his intention, he leaned over to kiss my cheek. His mouth and eyes crinkled as his facial muscles moved to frame the kiss. The fine cobweb of wrinkles did not in any way detract from his beauty; he was like very old silk or a crackled painting by an ancient master.
    This was a big night for getting kissed.
    “When I was still young, perhaps five or six hundred years ago, I used to wander among the humans,” Niall said. “And every now and then, as a male will, I’d see a human woman I found appealing.”
    I glanced around so I wouldn’t be staring at him every second, and I noticed a strange thing: no one was looking at us but our waiter. I mean, not even a casual glance strayed our way. And