"It's heavier than I imagined," Bill says, drinking him in. "Is it loaded?" The cop looks at him, fascinated in the eldest sense. Sookie informs him quietly that he is freaking her out, but he can't look away. Neither of them can. Bill points the officer's gun at him. "Now, you listen to me, officer. I do not take kindly to you shining your light in the eyes of my female companion. And as I have more than a hundred years on you, I do not take kindly you to calling me son. So the next time you pull somebody over on suspicion of being a vampire, you better pray to God that you're wrong. Because that vampire may not be as kind to you as I'm about to be. I'm not gonna kill you, but I am gonna keep your gun. Does that sound fair?" They were kings of this world, for so long. The cop agrees. "Yes what?" Yes, sir. Just call him what he wants to be called.
Bill pulls the gun off him and the spell breaks; the cop still can't move, terrified. Having seen what powerlessness really is, what it's like to have a gun in your face and no power at all. To realize your power was only ever part of the pretense, that the rule of law extends only to those who agree to follow it. The spell breaks. "Now, you have a nice night," says Bill, and starts the car. Sookie stares at him as they drive away. The cop stands in the clearing, alone with fear, unable to move. He pisses himself, and begins to cry.
A begloved Sam Merlotte lets himself into Dawn's house with his key, as is a man's prerogative. The screen slams shut behind him. He follows his nose to the bedroom, sniffing all the way. He smells the bedding piled at the foot of the bed and climbs onto it, impossibly lithe. His body stretches across to her pillow; he inhales the scent deeply, gratefully. Lovely broken Dawn, with the voice like angels and parakeets; funny Dawn with her gun, and those short-short-shorts. The smell of her death, the death she wanted, the death she went looking for: it's all around him.
"Can't you smell that smell?/ The smell of death surrounds you... Angel of darkness is upon you...Say you'll be alright come tomorrow, but/ Tomorrow might not be here for you.../ Got a monkey on your back/ Just one more fix, Lord, might do the trick/ One hell of a price for you to get your kicks..."
Sam twists himself into the sheets, writhing with it. It is a funeral.