Note: I really loved these books, and even if I felt the plots of the final two novels fell a bit short, I had to hand it to Ms. Harris (who owns all rights to these characters) for sticking to her guns and keeping Sookie a human and a heroine. My intention is to keep it canon. But this is a post-canon world. It begins around 50 years after Sam and Sookie's wedding, and about a week after Sam's death. I'm a sucker for doomed romances. Hence I'm a sucker for Sookie and her former fanged beaux. The first chapter is short, perhaps view it as a prologue of sorts. Apologies for any errors. Enjoy and review, if you please. Cheers!

Chapter One

I stood at the grave, the flowers wilting in my hands. The evening heat sweltered around me—with a sudden surge I longed for those days of former Decembers when frost would crystallize from the dew and my breath would burst in the air as puffs of clouds. But it had been many years since December had ushered in the winter. The climate had finally been "stabilized," that's what all the scientists agreed. Ten years ago had marked the beginning of "stabilization," yesterday had marked the world-wide celebration for humanity's triumph against global implosion. Well, okay, not only humanity's triumph—all creatures' victory over a dying world. Supernaturals and humans, working together for the common good of survival. That's what had at last ushered in the era of prosperity and peace. Plenty was still out of reach for many, but those years of hardship and famine, the floods and storms—those had now passed. New Orleans had even been drained, the levees built high and the oceans pushed back.

The world felt much as it had decades ago—at almost 80 years old, I should have already accepted the ancient adage that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Except for December. I would never have the Decembers of my childhood. I sighed, a tear easing out of the corner of my eye. Somehow this loss hurt more tonight. Somehow every loss hurt more tonight. I knew my children and grandchildren waited for me to return to the house. There to eat the leftover funeral casseroles, the pies and sweets and buttery carbs that neighbors and friends seemed to believe, as they had for generations, could somehow fill the shocking void of a loved one gone.

"You promised me you'd be right back, Sam. It's the only promise you broke to me, darling," I whispered after a spell. A lone mockingbird trilled a single note, seconding my words. Another tear glided down my cheek and a strange breeze blew across my wet skin. I brushed the tear aside with the back of my hand. I shivered from the breeze.

He'd taken my car into town to change the hydro battery—all cars ran on reusable hydro batteries these days—I had told him to wait until tomorrow, it had looked like a tempest was brewing. The clouds were pillow-tops and the sky had shone almost green. He'd laughed, reminding me that he'd flown as a bird in worse storms. But supe or not, he wasn't a young man. The twister must've been a hopper. It had knocked out a few cell towers and a few trees and a house or two—all about a half mile from the next. Sam hadn't had a whistle or a warning. That tree had smashed through the windshield before my husband had a chance to shift gears, let alone shift his body into a form more indestructible than an elderly human being.

Sheriff Fortenberry—Hoyt's son—had been the unlucky man to knock on my door and deliver the blow. And it was very much a blow. My lungs had flattened and my stomach had clenched. It had been more than fifty years since I'd been beaten up, maimed, bitten or tortured—but in that moment, in that rush of emotional pain so acute, I had felt all the ache of my past misadventures wound up and bundled together into a single, lethal punch. I had reeled from the smack down of grief. A week later and I was still reeling.

I knew the hurt would lessen, eventually. I knew the shock would subside. I knew, this too would pass. I may be a mere mortal—minus the minuscule fairy blood in me—but I'd done a heap of healing in my lifetime. Not to toot my own horn, but I'd done a heap of healing during my later twenties that would've ended most other mere mortals. Granted, at times, I'd been given a helping hand then. Or rather, some helping and immortal blood.

I shrugged at those remembrances rising from the nethers of nostalgia. Apart from a traveler passing through, there hadn't been a vampire living in Bon Temps for a couple decades. Bill Compton had moved to a town somewhere outside of New Orleans. I should say King Bill, of course. His nest of dutiful coders had grown too big for this tiny town's britches. He'd held out for as long as possible. But he finally gave in about fifteen years back and moved his kingdom nearer to proper civilization, though he did occasionally return to his old stomping grounds. In fact, I'd seen him briefly in the woods out back of my home about a day or two before Sam's accident. He'd wave then, his eyes shimmering in the moonlight and a soft smile on his lips. I'd waved back, my hand soapy from the dishes I'd been washing in the sink. Some bubbles had flicked from my fingers to my nose. I'd sneezed and when I had focused again on the tree line outside, the vampire had vanished.

This sorta thing didn't happen often to me—this thing being a long-ago ex spying at me from my own woods—but it wasn't unusual. It wasn't even unexpected. It was weird. But I'd gotten over weird. Most humans had. It's been about sixty years since vampires had come out of the coffin. A bit fewer years than that since weres had shown the world what they could do. Witches even outed themselves awhile back. Humans had finally adapted. Weird was now and had been for years, the new normal. I'm not saying everything was honkey-dorey between the species. There were still factions. Still bigots. The kum-bye-ya vibes of the "stabilization" had not erased prejudices and centuries of hate. And hey. When you see liver-spots on your arms while the guy you lost your virginity to looks the exact same—well that's not something to smile about. But I can't say I'd call any of it weird anymore. I'd lived too much to blink at the unknown. Life was always unknown. Life never came with guarantees. Might as well keep my eyes open to the possibilities.

I sniffled, realizing that my tears had been flowing freely for several minutes. "Goodnight, darling," I uttered as I lay my drooping bouquet of night lilies onto my husband's grave.

As I rose, another strange breeze ruffled over me. I tensed up. Something tingled in the back of my head. I turned toward the uneasy feeling, straining my eyes in the dim. I had the impression that I was not alone. Cold fear began to swirl in my gut. My tongue grew thick in my mouth.

And then, I saw him. He stood at the edge of the cemetery. The twilight sky coated him in an iridescent violet. His skin glowed in the pastel darkness. He smiled at me, beckoning me. I did not trust my eyes until I heard him call my name. Still my approach was cautious, uncertain. When I was about a yard away from him, I stopped. Words escaped me. My single thought was: How?

His smile grew, a peace overwhelming me, and my voice returned. I had a new question. One I prayed he was here to answer.

"Is Sam in the Summerlands, Great-grandfather? Is he well?"