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THE FINAL SOOKIE STACKHOUSE NOVEL
Following a shocking murder, Sookie will learn that nothing is ever clear-cut in Bon Temps. What passes for the truth is only a convenient lie. What passes for justice is more spilled blood. And what passes for love is never enough....
Includes an excerpt from MIDNIGHT CROSSROAD, the first book in Charlaine Harris’s new Midnight, Texas, series
- Sales Rank: #341861 in Books
- Published on: 2015-03-03
- Released on: 2015-03-03
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.99" h x .84" w x 5.13" l, 1.00 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 352 pages
Review
“Thank you, Ms. Harris, for a wild and wonderful ride!”*
“One of the most beloved vampire series ever published comes to a satisfying and fitting end…The superbly talented Harris closes out her story in a spine-tingling manner that also brings back many familiar characters for a final bow. The resolution of this series will spark some controversy, but for me it worked wonderfully and felt true to the evolution of Sookie.”—*RT Book Reviews
“Harris does excel in writing dialogue for each of her characters that is distinct…Her description of Bon Temps is again spot-on. From its back roads to its swampland, Bon Temps feels like a real place.”—Chicago Sun-Times
“Harris’s wry humor and the novel’s strong sense of place in working-class Louisiana shines throughout…Amid the fast-paced, action-filled novel, Harris manages to tie up loose ends for the series’ large cast of characters and longtime readers will appreciate Sookie finding closure.”—Publishers Weekly
“Dead Ever After satisfied me intellectually and emotionally, to a surprisingly high degree…I think the book struck a nice balance between larger social issues and the individual focus on Sookie’s happiness and emotional growth that bore and carried the weight of the series.”—Dear Author
About the Author
Charlaine Harris is the New York Times bestselling author of the Sookie Stackhouse fantasy/mystery series; the Aurora Teagarden, Harper Connelly, and Lily Bard mystery series; and Midnight Crossroad, the first Midnight, Texas novel. She has lived in the South her entire life.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Prologue
JANUARY
The New Orleans businessman, whose gray hair put him in his fifties, was accompanied by his much younger and taller bodyguard/ chauffeur on the night he met the devil in the French Quarter. The meeting was by prearrangement.
“This is really the Devil we’re going to see?” asked the bodyguard. He was tense—but then, that wasn’t too surprising.
“Not the Devil, but a devil.” The businessman was cool and collected on the outside, but maybe not so much on the inside. “Since he came up to me at the Chamber of Commerce banquet, I’ve learned a lot of things I didn’t know before.” He looked around him, trying to spot the creature he’d agreed to meet. He told his bodyguard, “He convinced me that he was what he said he was. I always thought my daughter was simply deluded. I thought she imagined she had power because she wanted to have something . . . of her own. Now I’m willing to admit she has a certain talent, though nowhere near what she thinks.”
It was cold and damp, even in New Orleans, in the January night. The businessman shifted from foot to foot to keep warm. He told the bodyguard, “Evidently, meeting at a crossroads is traditional.” The street was not as busy as it would be in the summer, but there were still drinkers and tourists and natives going about their night’s entertainment. He wasn’t afraid, he told himself. “Ah, here he comes,” the businessman said.
The devil was a well– dressed man, much like the businessman. His tie was by Hermes. His suit was Italian. His shoes were custom made. His eyes were abnormally clear, the whites gleaming, the irises a purplish brown; they looked almost red from certain angles.
“What have you got for me?” the devil asked, in a voice that indicated he was only faintly interested.
“Two souls,” said the businessman. “Tyrese has agreed to go in with me.”
The devil shifted his gaze to the bodyguard. After a moment, the bodyguard nodded. He was a big man, a light–skinned African American with bright hazel eyes.
“Your own free will?” the devil asked neutrally. “Both of you?”
“My own free will,” said the businessman.
“My own free will,” affirmed the bodyguard.
The devil said, “Then let’s get down to business.”
“Business” was a word that made the older man comfortable. He smiled. “Wonderful. I’ve got the documents right here, and they’re signed.” Tyrese opened a thin leather folder and withdrew two pieces of paper: not parchment or human skin, nothing that dramatic or exotic—computer paper that the businessman’s office secretary had bought at Office Max. Tyrese offered the papers to the devil, who gave them a quick glance.
“You have to sign them again,” the devil said. “For this signature, ink is not satisfactory.”
“I thought you were joking about that.” The businessman frowned.
“I never joke,” the devil said. “I do have a sense of humor, oh, believe me, I do. But not about contracts.”
“We actually have to . . . ?”
“Sign in blood? Yes, absolutely. It’s traditional. And you’ll do it now.” He read the businessman’s sideways glance correctly. “I promise you no one will see what you are doing,” he said. As the devil spoke, a sudden hush enveloped the three men, and a thick film fell between them and the rest of the street scene.
The businessman sighed elaborately, to show how melodramatic he thought this tradition was. “Tyrese, your knife?” he said, looking up to the chauffeur.
Tyrese’s knife appeared with shocking suddenness, probably from his coat sleeve; the blade was obviously sharp, and it gleamed in the streetlight. The businessman shucked off his coat and handed it to his companion. He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve. Perhaps to let the devil know how tough he was, he jabbed himself in the left arm with the knife. A sluggish trickle of blood rewarded his effort, and he looked the devil directly in the face as he accepted the quill that the devil had somehow supplied . . . even more smoothly than Tyrese had produced the knife. Dipping the quill into the trail of blood, the businessman signed his name to the top document, which the chauffeur held pressed against the leather folder.
After he’d signed, the businessman returned the knife to the chauffeur and donned his coat. The chauffeur followed the same procedure as his employer. When he’d signed his own contract, he blew on it to dry the blood as if he’d signed with a Sharpie and the ink might smear.
The devil smiled when the signatures were complete. The moment he did, he didn’t look quite so much like a prosperous man of affairs.
He looked too damn happy.
“You get a signing bonus,” he told the businessman. “Since you brought me another soul. By the way, how do you feel?”
“Just like I always did,” said the businessman. He shrugged his coat back over his shoulders. “Maybe a little angry.” He smiled suddenly, his teeth looking as sharp and gleaming as the knife had. “How are you, Tyrese? ” he asked his employee.
“A little antsy,” Tyrese admitted. “But I’ll be okay.”
“You were both bad people to begin with,” the devil said, without any judgment in his voice. “The souls of the innocent are sweeter. But I delight in having you. I suppose you’re sticking with the usual wish list? Prosperity? The defeat of your enemies?”
“Yes, I want those things,” the businessman said with passionate sincerity. “And I have a few more requests, since I get a signing bonus. Or could I take that in cash?”
“Oh,” the devil said, smiling gently, “I don’t deal in cash. I deal in favors.”
“Can I get back to you on that?” the businessman asked after some thought. “Take a rain check?”
The devil looked faintly interested. “You don’t want an Alfa Romeo, or a night with Nicole Kidman, or the biggest house in the French Quarter?”
The businessman shook his head decisively. “I’m sure something will come up that I do want, and then I’d like to have a very good chance of getting it. I was a successful man until Katrina. And after
Katrina I thought I would be rich, because I own a lumber business. Everyone needed lumber.” He took a deep breath. He kept on telling his story, despite the fact that the devil looked bored. “But getting a supply line reestablished was hard. So many people didn’t have money to spend because they were ruined, and there was the wait for the insurance money, for the rest. I made some mistakes, believing the fly–by–night builders would pay me on time. . . . It all ended up with my business too extended, everyone owing me, my credit stretched as thin as a condom on an elephant. Knowledge of this is getting around.” He looked down. “I’m losing the influence I had in this city.”
Possibly the devil had known all those things, and that was why he’d approached the businessman. Clearly he was not interested in the businessman’s litany of woes. “Prosperity it is, then,” he said briskly. “And I look forward to your special request. Tyrese, what do you want? I have your soul, too.”
“I don’t believe in souls,” Tyrese said flatly. “I don’t think my boss does, either. We don’t mind giving you what we don’t believe we have.” He grinned at the devil, man to man, which was a mistake. The devil was no man.
The devil smiled back. Tyrese’s grin vanished at the sight. “What do you want?” the devil repeated. “I won’t ask again.”
“I want Gypsy Kidd. Her real name is Katy Sherboni, if you need that. She work at Bourbon Street Babes. I want her to love me the way I love her.”
The businessman looked disappointed in his employee. “Tyrese, I wish you’d asked for something more lasting. Sex is everywhere you look in New Orleans, and girls like Gypsy are a dime a dozen.”
“You wrong,” Tyrese said. “I don’t think I have a soul, but I know love is once in a lifetime. I love Gypsy. If she loves me back, I’ll be a happy man. And if you make money, boss, I’ll make money. I’ll have enough. I’m not greedy.”
“I’m all about the greed,” said the devil, almost gently. “You may end up wishing you’d asked for some government bonds, Tyrese.”
The chauffeur shook his head. “I’m happy with my bargain. You give me Gypsy, the rest will be all right. I know it.”
The devil looked at him with what seemed very much like pity, if that emotion was possible for a devil.
“Enjoy yourselves, you hear?” he said to both of the newly soulless men. They could not tell if he was mocking them or if he was sincere. “Tyrese, you will not see me again until our final meeting.” He faced the businessman. “Sir, you and I will meet at some date in the future. Just give me a call when you’re ready for your signing bonus. Here’s my card.”
The businessman took the plain white card. The only writing on it was a phone number. It was not the same number he’d called to set up the first rendezvous. “But what if it’s years from now?” he said.
“It won’t be,” said the devil, but his voice was farther away. The businessman looked up to see that the devil was half a block away. After seven more steps he seemed to melt into the dirty sidewalk, leaving only an impression in the cold damp air.
The businessman and the chauffeur turned and walked hastily in the opposite direction. The chauffeur never saw the devil again. The businessman didn’t see the devil until June.
JUNE
Far away—thousands of miles away—a tall, thin man lay on a beach in Baja. He was not in one of the tourist spots where he might encounter lots of other gringos, who might recognize him. He was patronizing a dilapidated bar, really more of a hut. For a small cash payment, the proprietor would rent patrons a large towel and a beach umbrella and send his son out to refresh your drink from time to time. As long as you kept drinking.
Though the tall man was only sipping Coca–Cola, he was paying through the nose for it—though he didn’t seem to realize that, or perhaps he didn’t care. He sat on the towel, crouched in the umbrella’s shade, wearing a hat and sunglasses and swim trunks. Close to him was an ancient backpack, and his flip–flops were set on the sand beside it, casting off a faint smell of hot rubber. The tall man was listening to an iPod, and his smile indicated he was very pleased with what he heard. He lifted his hat to run his fingers through his hair. It was golden blond, but there was a bit of root showing that hinted his natural color was nearly gray. Judging from his body, he was in his forties. He had a small head in relation to his broad shoulders, and he did not look like a man who was used to manual labor. He didn’t look rich, either; his entire ensemble, the flip–flops and the swim trunks, the hat and the dark glasses, had come from a Wal–Mart or some even cheaper dollar store.
It didn’t pay to look affluent in Baja, not with the way things were these days. It wasn’t safe, gringos weren’t exempt from the violence, and most tourists stayed in the established resorts, flying in and out without driving through the countryside. There were a few other expats around, most unattached men with an air of desperation . . . or secrecy. Their reasons for choosing such a hazardous place to live were better not discovered. Asking questions could be unhealthy.
One of these expats, a recent arrival, came to sit close to the tall man, too close for such proximity to be an accident on a thinly populated beach. The tall man gave the unwelcome newcomer a sideways look from behind his dark glasses, which were obviously prescription. The newcomer was a man in his thirties, not tall or short, not handsome or ugly, not reedy or muscular. He was medium in all aspects, physically. This medium man had been watching the tall man for a few days, and the tall man had been sure he’d approach him sooner or later.
The medium man had carefully selected the optimum moment. The two were sitting in a place on the beach where no one else could hear them or approach them unseen, and even with satellites in the atmosphere it was probable that no one could see them without being spotted, either. The taller man was mostly hidden under the beach umbrella. He noticed that his visitor was sitting in its shadow.
“What are you listening to?” asked the medium man, pointing to the earbuds inserted in the tall man’s ears.
He had a faint accent, maybe a German one? From one of those European countries, anyway, thought the tall man, who was not well traveled. And the newcomer also had a remarkably unpleasant smile. It looked okay, with the upturned lips and the bared teeth, but somehow the effect was more as if an animal were exposing its teeth preparatory to biting you.
“You a homo? I’m not interested,” the tall man said. “In fact, you’ll be judged with hellfire.”
The medium man said, “I like women. Very much. Sometimes more than they want.” His smile became quite feral. And he asked again, “What are you listening to?”
The tall man debated, staring angrily at his companion. But it had been days since he’d talked to anyone. At last, he opted for the truth. “I’m listening to a sermon,” he said.
The medium man exhibited only mild surprise. “Really? A sermon? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a man of the cloth.” But his smile said otherwise. The tall man began to feel uneasy. He began to think of the gun in his backpack, less than an arm’s length away. At least he’d opened the buckles when he’d put it down.
“You’re wrong, but God won’t punish you for it,” the tall man said calmly, his own smile genial. “I’m listening to one of my own old sermons. I spoke God’s truth to the multitudes.”
“Did no one believe you?” The medium man cocked his head curiously.
“Many believed me. Many. I was attracting quite a following. But a girl named . . . a girl brought about my downfall. And put my wife in jail, too, in a way.”
“Would that girl’s name have been Sookie Stackhouse?” asked the medium man, removing his sunglasses to reveal remarkably pale eyes.
The taller man’s head snapped in his direction. “How’d you know? ” he said.
JUNE
The devil was eating beignets, fastidiously, when the businessman walked up to the outside table. The devil noticed the spring in Copley Carmichael’s step. He looked even more prosperous than he had when he was broke. Carmichael was in the business section of the newspaper frequently these days. An infusion of capital had reestablished him very quickly as an economic force in New Orleans, and his political clout had expanded along with the money he pumped into New Orleans’s sputtering economy, which had been dealt a crippling blow by
Katrina. Which, the devil pointed out quickly to anyone who asked, he’d had simply nothing to do with.
Today Carmichael looked healthy and vigorous, ten years younger than he actually was. He sat at the devil’s table without any greeting.
“Where’s your man, Mr. Carmichael?” asked the devil, after a sip of his coffee.
Carmichael was busy placing a drink order with the waiter, but when the young man was gone he said, “Tyrese has trouble these days, and I gave him some time off.”
“The young woman? Gypsy?”
“Of course,” said Carmichael, not quite sneering. “I knew if he asked for her, he wouldn’t be pleased with the results, but he was so sure that true love would win in the end.”
“And it hasn’t?”
“Oh, yes, she’s crazy about him. She loves him so much she has sex with him all the time. She couldn’t stop herself, even though she knew she was HIV positive . . . a fact she didn’t share with Tyrese.”
“Ah,” the devil said. “Not my work, that virus. So how is Tyrese faring?”
“He’s HIV positive, too,” Carmichael said, shrugging. “He’s getting treatment, and it’s not the instant death sentence it used to be. But he’s very emotional about it.” Carmichael shook his head. “I always thought he had better sense.”
“I understand you wish to ask for your signing bonus,” the devil said. Carmichael saw no connection between the two ideas.
“Yes,” Copley Carmichael said. He grinned at the devil and leaned forward confidentially. In a barely audible whisper he said, “I know exactly what I want. I want you to find me a cluviel dor.”
The devil looked genuinely surprised. “How did you learn of the existence of such a rare item?”
“My daughter brought it up in conversation,” Carmichael said, without a hint of shame. “It sounded interesting, but she stopped talking before she told me the name of the person who supposedly has one. So I had a man I know hack into her e–mail. I should have done that earlier. It’s been illuminating. She’s living with a fellow I don’t trust. After our last conversation, she got so angry with me that she’s refused to see me. Now I can keep tabs on her without her knowing, so I can protect her from her own bad judgment.”
He was absolutely sincere when he made this statement. The devil saw that Carmichael believed that he loved his daughter, that he knew what was best for her under any circumstance.
“So Amelia had been talking to someone about a cluviel dor,” the devil said. “That led her to bring it up with you. How interesting. No one’s had one for . . . well, in my memory. A cluviel dor would have been made by the fae . . . and you understand, they are not tiny, cute creatures with wings.”
Carmichael nodded. “I’m astounded to discover what exists out there,” he said. “I have to believe in fairies now. And I have to consider that maybe my daughter isn’t such a screwball after all. Though I think she’s deluded about her own power.”
The devil raised his perfect eyebrows. There seemed to be more than one deluded person in the Carmichael family. “About the cluviel dor . . . the fae used them all. I don’t believe there are any left on earth, and I can’t go into Faery since the upheaval. A thing or two has been expelled out of Faery . . . but nothing goes in.” He looked mildly regretful.
“There is one cluviel dor available, and from what I can tell, it’s being concealed by a friend of my daughter’s,” Copley Carmichael said. “I know you can find it.”
“Fascinating,” the devil said, quite sincerely. “And what do you want it for? After I find it?”
“I want my daughter back,” Carmichael said. His intensity was almost palpable. “I want the power to change her life. So I know what I’ll wish for, when you track it down for me. The woman who knows where it is . . . she’s not likely to give it up. It was a legacy from her grandmother, and she’s not a big fan of mine.”
The devil turned his face to the morning sun, and his eyes glowed red briefly. “Imagine that. I’ll set things in motion. The name of your daughter’s friend, the one who may know the whereabouts of the cluviel dor?”
“She’s in Bon Temps. It’s up north, not too far from Shreveport. Sookie Stackhouse.”
The devil nodded slowly. “I’ve heard the name.”
JULY
The next time the devil met with Copley Carmichael, three days after their conversation at Café du Monde, he dropped by Carmichael’s table at Commander’s Palace. Carmichael was waiting for his dinner, and busy on his cell phone with a contractor who wanted to extend his credit line. Carmichael was unwilling, and he explained why in no uncertain terms. When he looked up, the devil was standing there in the same suit he’d worn when they’d met the first time. He looked cool and impeccable.
As Carmichael put the phone down, the devil slid into the chair across from his.
Carmichael had jumped when he recognized the devil. And since he hated being surprised, he was unwise. He snarled, “What the hell do you mean coming here? I didn’t ask you to visit!”
“What the hell, indeed,” said the devil, who didn’t seem to take offense. He ordered a single malt whiskey from the waiter who’d materialized at his elbow. “I assumed you’d want to hear the news of your cluviel dor.”
Carmichael’s expression changed instantly. “You found it! You have it!”
“Sadly, Mr. Carmichael, I do not,” said the devil. (He did not sound sad.) “Something rather unexpected has thwarted our plans.” The waiter deposited the whiskey with some ceremony, and the devil took a sip and nodded.
“What?” Carmichael said, almost unable to speak for anger.
“Miss Stackhouse used the cluviel dor, and its magic has been expended.”
There was a moment of silence fraught with all the emotions the devil enjoyed.
“I’ll see her ruined,” said Copley Carmichael venomously, keeping his voice down with a supreme effort. “You’ll help me. That’s what I’ll take instead of the cluviel dor.”
“Oh my goodness. You’ve used your signing bonus, Mr. Carmichael. Mustn’t get greedy.”
“But you didn’t get me the cluviel dor!” Even though he was an experienced businessman, Carmichael was astonished and outraged.
“I found it and was ready to take it from her pocket,” said the devil.
“I entered the body of someone standing next to her. But she used it before I could extract it. Finding it was the favor you requested. You used those words twice, and ’locate it’ once. Our dealings are concluded.” He tossed back his drink.
“At least help me get back at her,” Carmichael said, his face red with rage. “She crossed us both.”
“Not me,” said the devil. “I’ve seen Miss Stackhouse up close and talked to many people who know her. She seems like an interesting woman. I have no cause to do her harm.” He stood up. “In fact, if I may advise you, walk away from this. She has some powerful friends, among them your daughter.”
“My daughter is a woman who runs around with witches,” Carmichael said. “She’s never been able to make her own living, not completely. I’ve been researching her ’friends,’ very discreetly.” He sighed, sounding both angry and exasperated. “I understand their powers exist. I believe that now. Reluctantly. But what have they done with those powers? The strongest among them lives in a shack.” Carmichael’s knuckles rapped against the table. “My daughter could be a force in society in this town. She could work for me, and do all kinds of charity stuff, but instead she lives in her own little world with her loser boyfriend. Like her friend Sookie. But I’ll even the score there. How many powerful friends could a waitress have?”
The devil glanced over to his left. Two tables away sat a very round man with dark hair, who was by himself at a table laden with food. The very round man met the devil’s eyes without blinking or looking away, which few men could do. After a long moment, the two nodded at each other.
Carmichael was glaring at the devil.
“I owe you nothing for Tyrese any longer,” said the devil. “And you are mine forever. Given your present course, I may have you sooner than I’d expected.” He smiled, a chilling expression on his smooth face, and he rose from the table and left.
Carmichael was even angrier when he had to pay for the devil’s whiskey. He never even noticed the very round man. But the very round man noticed him.
Most helpful customer reviews
2545 of 2705 people found the following review helpful.
Dead: you got that right.
By Tracey
** SPOILER ALERT! **
When the other books in the series were released, I burned through them like a spark through a tinderbox, even though the last two or three weren't all that spectacular. I made it through DEA in one day only because I was sick in bed and couldn't go to work.
DEA was so awful, in my opinion, that I actually took breaks to watch a little Food Network on TV, play Candy Crush Saga, nap, and lurk on Facebook.
Yeah, it's that bad.
I have to agree with a friend of mine who is convinced this was done by a ghost writer. The feel of the whole story is off...way off. And NEVER has CH used third person point of view in any of the SVM books. It was used frequently in this one. It's almost like she didn't want to bother with having to figure out how to relate what the extraneous characters were up to while telling the story in Sookie's POV.
It's a common sentiment that most of the characters have totally gone lame during the last few books, but this time they're just flat-out strange. After being publicly divorced by Eric, Sookie appears to pretty much just shrug it off like she hasn't spent the last nine books agonizing over, fighting with, fighting against, and rolling in the hay with him.
Amelia comes back and Sookie forgives her Alcide transgression. Alcide himself comes back and is forgiven his (grossly stupidly written) bedroom incident. Hell, Sookie is even tickled pink to see John Quinn when he comes strolling in after she selfishly kicked him the curb.
And we all know Sookie always forgives Bill. This go-round she even momentarily considers rebound sex with him after Eric divorces her. Really, Charlaine? Bill lovers the world over were probably holding their collective breaths over this juicy tidbit while the rest of us were throwing up in our mouths a little.
In addition to the completely out-of-character characters, much of the continuity of this book makes little to no sense. For five books, Sookie obsessed over whether or not the fact her blood bond with Eric was guiding her feelings of affection and/or love for him. She even went so far as to go behind his back and break the bond to find out if what she felt was truly love. (Turns out, it was.) Yet she doesn't bat an eye over the fact that her use of the cluviel dor on Sam could influence her feelings toward him.
Also, Sookie's ability to read Sam's thoughts throughout the series has always been made plain. Now, all of a sudden, the most she can get is feelings of emotions? What a convenient turn of events for a writer who is trying to justify sticking her telepathic heroine with someone whose thoughts she will have to shield for life or longer...a heroine who was drawn to vampires in the first place because of their silent brains.
And honestly, the whole premise of Copley Carmichael's plot to steal the cluviel dor from Sookie so he can use it to control Amelia's life? At least that's what I understood the gist to be. Then again, by the time it got to that point in the book my brain was so fried I could be way off base. All I know is I sure don't want to read it again for clarification. So if anyone wants to help me out on this one, be my guest.
The parade of long-gone characters--Copley Carmichael, Steve Newlin, John Quinn, Johan Glassport, Arlene Fowler--in my opinion read like a thrown-together This Is Your Life, Sookie Stackhouse. Throw in one pissed off Claude Crane, and lumping these characters together for plot makes about as much sense as a monkey, a donkey, and a chicken on the same bowling team.
What upsets me the most is the complete annihilation of the Eric character. I admit I've been an Eric fan since somewhere around LDiD, so I'll try not to be biased here. But since DUD he has been written as powerful, mysterious, brooding, and beautiful. He always went out of his way to make sure Sookie was protected, and he never failed to show his affection for her, however subtle it may have been at times.
Eric ends the series, however, as pouting, spiteful, and spineless, whining over the fact that Sookie used the cluviel dor to save Sam's life instead of using it to get him out of his arranged marriage to the queen of Oklahoma. The Eric from books prior would have had the cunning and wherewithal to come up with his own plan to free himself from the yoke of his maker's arrangement with Oklahoma. Instead, the ghost of the Viking vampire we came to love ends up as Felipe de Castro's whipping boy, sold into what is tantamount to sexual slavery for not the customary 100 year royal marriage, but a 200 year sentence.
The author's dislike and disdain for the Eric character couldn't be more evident if she'd titled this book Why I Hate Eric Northman. One last big Eff-You to the Eric lovers of the world. What she failed to realize was it was mostly us Eric lovers who have lined her pockets and padded her coffers with money from all the books we bought from her over the years.
I canceled my pre-order for the limited edition, linen-bound, autographed copy of DEA, as well as After Dead. Not spending $100 on a sham. I could buy Sookie choosing Sam (always said she would end up with him) had we not had 9 -- I repeat -- NINE books of a relationship with Eric with no mention of romantic inclinations toward Sam, always just a close friend. She was also paired with several characters during the course of the series; ending up with Bill, Alcide, or Quinn would have been a surprise, but at least we could have considered it plausible, yanno?
I agree, this book series went into the toilet once True Blood came onto the scene. It's like once Alan Ball totally massacred the characters, Ms. Harris decided she would, too. She has repeatedly said they are her characters to do with as she sees fit, and I totally agree. But wouldn't it make more sense, at least from a financial standpoint, to write something you know your readers will buy? It's pretty high handed on her part to think that just because we bought all the other books that we would be beholden to buy this farewell F-you to her readers.
I don't feel like I've been gypped out of a Sookie/Eric HEA; she doesn't deserve him. I just feel like I've been screwed out of an ending that makes sense.
Did I want Sookie and Eric to end up together at the end of the series? Initially, yes. Even though Sookie has made it plain from Day One that she has no wish to become a vampire, I always hoped that they would discover some way--fae magic from Naill, perhaps--to stay together for centuries, at least. But with the deterioration of the characters for the last few books, it doesn't make sense for them to end up together. That being said, it also doesn't make sense that she would choose Sam, a best friend/boss character for whom there has been no romantic interest, no build-up WHATSOEVER to being Sookie's HEA. If Sookie didn't end up with Eric, it would have made more sense for her to end up with Alcide, or even *chokes* Bill.
The decline in reader ratings on both Goodreads and Amazon.com for each successive book since From Dead to Worse is testament to the fact the author has lost her passion for and interest in these characters. Maybe this series was stretched out just a little too long. Slapping words together for a paycheck is not the hallmark of a great author, even if you do have a few New York Times bestsellers under your belt.
354 of 381 people found the following review helpful.
The Essential Spark....fizzled out
By Beach Reader
For 10+ years many have been caught up in the tales of Sookie Stackhouse, the telepathic waitress who was born with an "essential spark", destined to "experience and accomplish great things". Dead Ever After is the highly anticipated ending to this series..... and it fizzled out.
DEA is a hodgepodge of our beloved characters acting OUT of character laden with token curtain calls for minor players awkwardly crammed into scenes. I disliked the beginning. I suffered through the middle. By the final page, I was just glad to be done. For me, each chapter felt forced and stilted. Where was the spunky, witty Sookie? Where was the caustic-but-lovable Pam? Where was the zest-for-life Eric? One by one Ms. Harris redefined these beloved characters as shallow, cold, and selfish. I found myself longing for Bill's irritating declarations of his unrequited love for Sookie - anything to remind me of the Sookie World Ms. Harris left behind.
*WARNING - SPOILER TO FOLLOW*
The HEA is Sam. Surprised? You ought to be. He was hardly present in the last 9 books. In the final pages of DEA Ms. Harris springs this sudden passion on Sookie and Sam ... followed by 3 paragraphs of icky seal-sex that will forever haunt me during visits to Sea World. Post coital Sookie surmises that the "love" was manufactured by the magical fairy device. THIS is the long-anticipated "Happily Ever After"? I've seen dish soap commercials with higher emotional impact.
This book did not flow, it jerked and spasmed between scenes as you guessed whose POV was speaking. It was as if Ms. Harris had a specific agenda and would check off each item instead a weaving it into the story: Make Sookie a selfish, whiney twit [check!]; Punish Eric for loving a human [check!]; Establish Christianity, Reproduction and "Being Normal" as TOP priorities [double check!]; Villainize all vampires and fae [check!]; Make Sam sexy and a convincing Sookie-mate [ch--oops, didn't quite get that one done!]. Her story was filled with contradictions and inaccuracies as Ms. Harris re-wrote numerous "rules" of her supernatural world to accommodate her story. DEA is evidence that this author was tired of riding the Sookie-verse money train and just wanted it to end. After the first few chapters, I heartily agreed with her.
I had great hopes for Sookie and her Essential Spark. I wanted to see her using the courage and heart vested in her `spark' to fulfill her destiny of great accomplishments. Unfortunately, Ms. Harris had other plans. At the end of DEA, our Sookie-the-Vampire-Friend-and-Villain-Slayer rejects all things supernatural and regresses to her pre-Dead Until Dark life as just a barmaid. The `spark' has been extinguished. RIP Sookie.
1059 of 1156 people found the following review helpful.
Southern Vampire Misery...
By Charlotte Clark
**Contains Spoilers***
I was so very excited for the finale of the SVM series by Charlaine Harris. I had a 7 hour flight ahead of me, returning to Boston from London, and was ready to fill the entire flight time with saying goodbye to Sookie and finally accepting it was over. All I can say is this; Dead Ever After should have been titled, Dead on Arrival, A Southern Vampire Misery. Never would I have expected my favorite series to be ended in such an awful and incomplete way. Charlaine Harris really, really dropped the ball on this book. Books 11 and 12 were a bit lacking, but not enough to deter me from wanting to read the next installment. This book, however, made me want to weep for those few hours of my life I wasted reading and will never get back. My problem with this book is not necessarily Sookie's "HEA" choice, but with the author's complete and total disregard for the characters and world she had created. Charlaine Harris spent almost 14 years pulling us deeper and deeper into the world of Sookie Stackhouse. With each book the stakes got higher, making us feel that much closer to her characters. Each book had a pivotal moment when our hearts broke right along with Sookie, making us feel the emotions she so expertly brought out. Perhaps it was a huge Sookie moment, like when Bill admits his deceit and his true intentions for coming to Bon Temps. Or, perhaps it was a smaller, more intimate moment, when Eric stays by her side to help ease her pain after she is staked in Club Dead. No matter what was happening, readers of these books felt it deep within their souls. Dead Ever After had none of these moments...not one.
This book read as though it was penned by a complete stranger. It is full of inconsistencies, distracting me to the point of wanting to pull out the 12 previous books to cross reference. Maybe Charlaine didn't have the time to double check her own story lines, but it feels more like she just didn't care. This book was not told by the Sookie we have come to know and love. I can not overlook her complete personality change, it just wasn't her. At only 338 pages, it feels rushed and completely reaching, as though the author was desperate to create some ridiculous mystery that would somehow bring all of her original characters back together. This book would have been infinitely better if she simply decided to focus on Sookie and her future life, versus trying to weave this convoluted tale.
One of the hardest parts of this book for me to accept, and there are many, is how Sookie doesn't bat an eye at her thoughts regarding the cluviel door. She spent countless books going back and forth with Eric on how their blood bond was manipulating her feelings. She wasn't willing to admit how much she and Eric loved each other because she was too caught up in the bond. But, for the final book of the series, she seems pretty sure the cluviel door is the cause of her feelings for Sam, yet she just doesn't care? Where is her outrage? Where is her stubborn attitude? Where is her southern temper demanding to know how and why she feels this way? Sookie became a hypocrite, and settled for a man she has no chemistry with. She had more fireworks with Alcide and Quinn, but she settles for safe...not our Sookie at all.
The character of Eric, besides Sookie, was probably Charlaine's most beloved. She spent 12 books developing his character, 12 books making his fans fall more and more in love with him, 12 books building his and Sookie's relationship. In comparison, it took Charlaine 3 books to reveal Bill's true nature. By the end of Club Dead, Bill has not only betrayed Sookie, but he also manages to rape her and almost kill her. Charlaine managed to destroy the character of Eric in about 10 pages. The Eric we grew to love would never have sat back with his hands tied; he would have plotted, schemed, and killed in order to avoid his arrangement with Freyda. The Eric from previous books put his life on the line to come to Sookie during Felipe's coupe, he put his life on the line to stand by Sookie in Rhodes while she held the soda can bomb, he protected her from every enemy she had...he loved her. I am heartbroken over Charlaine's choice to make him seem weak and disconnected.
The series ended with almost no answers...and it's my opinion Charlaine did this to boost sales of the yet to be released Coda. I do not believe Charlaine anticipated such a negative reaction to her series finale, and was banking on everyone being desperate to find out what happens to our favorite Bon Temps residents. If she had provided a well written, well thought out book perhaps people wouldn't be this upset. I would be willing to bet she has major loss of sales revenue for her Coda because of her handling of Dead Ever After.
I have read several times that we critics are acting entitled and just being sore losers because Sookie didn't live HEA with Eric, or Bill, or Alcide, etc.. Charlaine has received hate mail, death threats, all sorts of crazy responses, and while I do not condone this type of behavior, after all this is a piece of fiction, people have the right to be upset. I look at it like this; you have a favorite restaurant, it is simply the best food you've had. You go there all the time because you can't get enough of the best steak you've ever eaten. (apologies to the vegetarians out there, feel free to insert a meat free option, LOL) Sometimes you get a different waitress or bartender, you might not really like them, but you have to have that steak so you overlook this. Then, one day you order this amazing meal, your favorite waitress takes your order and smiles like everything is as it should be. When your meal arrives it is NOT what you ordered. The ingredients are wrong, the sauce is so bland you might as well be eating nothing, it is burned, and it looks as though an animal got to it first. It is simply unacceptable. Would you call over your favorite waitress and question what was put in front of you? Would you want to know why the ingredients were changed? Would you maybe even ask for your money back? Does this make you entitled? Does this make you a bad person for voicing how unhappy you are? No... but it might make you think twice before handing over your hard earned money again. Her upset fans are not entitled, we're just mourning the life and loss of our beloved Sookie.
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