Disclaimer: The Southern Vampire Mysteries are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.
CAETERA DESUNT (The Rest is Wanting)
Chapter 1: What Child is This?
"Why lies He in such mean estate, where ox and ass are feeding? Good Christians fear: for sinners here the silent Word is pleading."—William Chatterton Dix/lyrics, Richard Jones/music
Chase Brandon's blue eyes watched the girl walk away from the bus stop across the street from Fangtasia, knowing she would turn into the alley which ran behind the bar. He'd seen her do the same thing every night since he began handling security (read that: a bouncer) for Northman's club. It made sense to hire well-trained people since the vampire club was a target-rich environment for all the would-be saviors out to rid the world of the parasitic plague. That, coupled with the threat of lawsuits by patrons caught in the crossfire, made the Viking adhere to the theory of "better safe than sorry."
Thus why Chase stood just inside the glass front doors of Shreveport's "Bar With A Bite," watching the girl for the tenth night in a row. The sun was already down, but the club wouldn't open for another three hours. Outside, the winter night grew colder. Forecasters predicted temperatures in the low 30s, but what was cold to a nearly 500-year old vampire? Brandon stepped outside, the self-locking door closing behind him with a solid click.
Brandon saw her turn the corner, so he headed around the building to the employee parking lot. The alley was dark beyond streetlights illuminating the immediate proximity of the bar; certainly too dimly lit for a young woman to safely walk alone, but there she was. She left behind the relative safety of more populated Southern Ave., taking the dubious shortcut with no apparent concern.
Chase figured she was either entirely too trusting, or just plain stupid. Either was dangerous in a large city. Didn't she realize there were worse predators prowling the streets than vampires? Ones of her own kind who preyed on the unwary. She'd make a perfect target: head down, shoulders slumped, steps slow and weary as she passed beyond the first street lamp. Hell, she didn't even see him watching her from behind the bar's black van. Not once did she even look around, apparently trusting some divine being to watch her back. It was one thing for a vampire, were or any of a dozen other supernatural beings to tread such a dangerous path, but a human woman? Pure insanity.
They do say angels watch over children and fools.
Night made her a pallid ghost most humans would ignore, but Chase wasn't human. He moved from behind the van to an empty space next to the dumpster. Her own kind would call her average because she wasn't beautiful. Men wouldn't give her a second glance; women would never see her as a threat. Neither tall nor short, thin nor stout, to them she was ordinary. The alley wasn't well lighted, but Brandon could see beyond human ken. A sweet face, a dreamy expression shamed the gray, gritty alley. Wisps of pale, blonde hair escaped from beneath an old woolen hat. Slender hands emerged from the sleeves of a worn coat. Large, dark eyes never lifted from the filthy concrete as Chase watched her. Humans would never notice her grace the way he did.
She was the kind predators loved, and Brandon knew it was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of her trusting nature. At best, she'd lose her purse. At worst?—rape, torture, death. Police would find her mangled, nude body dumped in a vacant lot or in a ditch. There'd be an out-cry, a demand for the city to clean up the slums. The pious would blame vampires. The media would sensationalize her fate, calling it a tragedy. Some politico would use her death as a campaign platform from which to springboard an ambitious career, but she'd be just as dead.
Then there was the other kind of predator. Equally as dangerous to an innocent girl, though they wielded no weapon. That type would smile, give her hope. She'd believe the lies, believe in happily ever after. They'd break her heart, and leave her bitter and despairing. Chase even knew the kind of man who'd do such a thing: handsome, reckless, dangerous, dark. A man who swept women like her off their feet and into a bed of empty promises. Afterwards? He'd leave with no regrets, walking away uncaring what he left behind. It would be—
—someone like me.
The thought came unbidden, but Chase knew it was true. He'd found her type on the streets of London, Paris and Moscow. Women who fell before him like wheat before a scythe. Hundreds, maybe thousands over five centuries. It didn't matter the era, the city or the culture, there were always downtrodden women desperate for a modicum of happiness. Some he left as he'd found them, no better and no worse off. Others he raised up, educating them to be a fit companion for someone of his lineage because it amused him. Untold numbers of them he left dead in alleyways, catacombs and slums throughout Europe. He loved a few, but shared the dark gift with only one.
Helene—how I miss you.
This girl bore a faint physical resemblance to Helene, but nothing more. Helene was no timid mouse; she showed spirit from the first time he saw her to the last moment of her un-life. She would never allow anyone to see her as meek, weak, or—
—vulnerable.
Helene had been many things, but a victim?—never! Everything about this woman spoke volumes. A lackluster life, probably a dead-end job. Wearing such dowdy clothing and worn shoes, she might be a waitress or a cashier at Wal*Mart. At a stretch, a student. It wasn't hard for Brandon to picture her living in one of the colorless places near Fangtasia.
Once a decent residential neighborhood, the Cedar Grove area fell on hard times in the 80s. It was now the rundown, faded shadow of the lower middle class South. A former apartment building now housed prostitutes, gang members and drug dealers. Condemned building were havens for crack-heads, addicts and vagrants. Once nice homes showed the passage of time in peeling paint and sagging steps. Some had "For Sale" or "Condemned" signs nailed to the front porch, abandoned when they got too uninhabitable.
In the 20's, it was known for brothels, honky-tonks and violence. Progress swept through the area, leaving in its wake even worse. Seedy thrift stores, triple-X theaters, dirty streets and vacant lots languished in a drug-induced stupor. Other than Fangtasia, much of the area was industrialized. Train tracks bordered one side, the interstate another. The entire area was sorely in need of a face-lift.
It'll never change as long as it suits Northman as it is.
Chase considered this as he went to back entrance of the employee parking lot. He watched the woman pass beyond a pale aura of light from a lamp attached to the side of a brick building. He should go back inside. Northman would have grounds to fire him, but it wasn't like he needed the money. Besides, it was more a case of the Viking wanting Brandon in Fangtasia because his dark, brooding looks attracted women (and some men). Always dressed impeccably in black, he cut quite a swath through the bar, leaving more than one person lusting after him.
There were other perks to working there, not the least of which was being in the political hub of Area Five. Even if he refused to hold a position of power, or one of the Viking's favorites. Chase might run the occasional errand, or do Northman a favor, but he was by no means Eric's lackey. He helped keep the peace, escorted patrons safely to their vehicles, flashed fangs upon request, and looked powerful. He was fine as long as he didn't infringe on Eric's limelight. So, Brandon minded his own business, kept his hands off Northman's pet telepath, and didn't waste time on the fangbangers.
What's that they say? It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
A check of his watch; it was early and he was by no means the only person at the bar. Others could handle things without him. The girl piqued his interest, and Chase wanted to know more. For the first time since the Great Reveal, his senses felt aroused. Not with lust, but with something else. Something primal. Nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of her scent—soap, talcum powder, lavender. Hunting skills honed over centuries made his fangs drop, cutting the inside of his lip. He tasted his own blood. Preternatural eyes pierced the darkness, watching her walkl leisurely down the alley as if no danger lurked in the shadows.
So easy to take them in the old days. He simply followed, glamoured them, bent their will to his. He satisfied his lust, drank his fill and left. Couldn't do that now. Vampires were 'out of the coffin' as the media so loved to say, and the law was very precise when it came to vampires feeding from humans. Besides, willing donors were literally coming out of the woodwork. Every night, they threw themselves at Chase, begging to be bitten by a real Creature of the Night.
Why hunt when the prey comes to you?
All Chase need do was snap his fingers and any number of fangbangers would stampede over themselves to serve him. No thrill of the hunt unless he hired a prostitute to resist his advances. (There was a nationwide escort service which specialized in that particular fetish.) It was all quite amusing; at first a novelty to be out in the open after hundreds of years concealing his true nature. Other vampires still got off on the "Vampire Lord" shtick, but Chase was bored. Most of the time, he missed Before.
Brandon cast a long shadow on the asphalt as he leaned against the concrete fence behind the bar. She was totally oblivious of his scrutiny: head down, shoulders hunched inside her coat. A few cars pulled into the lot as other employees arrived, but no one paid him any mind as he marveled at the girl's naivete. Chase stared at her back, wondering if she might somehow know Northman kept a tight control over what he considered his personal territory, thus her lack of concern. Gangs not already on Eric's leash steered clear of Fangtasia because Northman made complications disappear. Nor was he fond of the police interfering in his business, even if Shreveport's finest had vampire cops on the force.
The less humans know of vampire business, the easier they'll sleep.
Personally, Chase thought it stupid to have vampire police. It sounded logical, until one realized all the vampires in Area Five owed their allegiance to the King, and to Eric as His Majesty's representative. Apparently, humans hadn't quite put all the pieces together. Chase dreaded the day they came to fully understand the mad, mad world in which they lived.
After five centuries, Chase had stopped noticing the insanity. Humanity rarely surprised him. He'd seen war, peace, feast and famine. Human nature remained a constant: an excuse for the horrific deeds of madmen like Stalin and Hitler. Christians condemned his kind as killers, but vampires were rank amateurs when it came mass murder. Hard to tell who is and isn't monstrous, and at this point Brandon saw humans as one of two things: useful or food.
Debating that issue is as futile as milking a bull.
Before Chase realized, his curiosity got the best of him. He was a blur in the darkness. Let the rest of security handle things. The bar regulars might note he was missing, but plenty of other vampires would be glad to take advantage of their eager veins. Eric could threaten to fire him, but Brandon was confident in the Viking's greed. Chase was good at his job, and in the grand scheme of all things vampire, Northman could care less about the safety of humans. Unless they served him, or spent money in his bar, they were expendable.
A step past the fence and Chase leapt effortlessly to the second story roof of a building next to the bar. Any noise he made was lost in the sound of traffic on Southern Ave. Cars sped by, eager for home and hearth. Brandon followed the girl, leaping from rooftop to fire escape to window ledge. The gaudy neon of Fangtasia quickly faded as she covered four blocks, then turned east into a seedier part of the area. Few streetlights survived here, and not many shabby houses showed signs of life. Dogs barked as she passed rusty chain-link fences and dirt yards. Trees struggled for life here, straggly limbs bare of leaf.
On one side of the street sat a row of frame houses due for demolition. Brandon kept to the shadows. Senses were vigilant; he knew before stepping where his foot would land. Nostrils drank in the scent of night: acrid car exhaust, dying vegetation, stagnant water, smoke from chimneys. No telltale cloud of air betrayed breathing; his lungs had long ago shriveled to husks in a body which no longer needed oxygen. Nor did the near pitch darkness prove an obstacle; his eyes pierced the night better than any cat. Dogs cowered as he passed, aggressive barking faded into submissive whimpers. Vermin scattered from his path, hiding to escape notice.
The perfect hunter following the perfect prey.
Bare bulbs lit decrepit porches, casting weak light toward a sidewalk they never reached. Time was, those porches would be white-washed, decorated with pots of colorful flowers sitting on the railing. White-haired black women would sit on those porches watching pigtailed children playing. Black men would lounge in the shade, exchanging results of the "hoss races" at Bossier Raceway with their friends. The sipped Iced tea and lemonade—house wines of the South. Sadly, those days were over, and few dared sit outside, afraid of what hid in the dark.
She was a block ahead, halted in front of a lopsided mailbox, slipping whatever she held inside. The screech of rusty hinges echoed across the stillness. Then, she continued down the empty street. Few cars drove along these streets after dark; even police warned people not to stop at red lights here. Danger lurked in every shadow, and beneath the I-49 overpass ahead, but she seemed unaware. She made her way along the deserted sidewalk, his supernatural hearing picking up her soft humming. Joy to the World.
Surprisingly uplifting for such dismal surroundings.
Light flickered in the darkness underneath the highway bridge; a fire burned in the obligatory 50-gallon drum. A half-dozen men stood around it, passing paper-bag covered bottles between them. Hands alternately grasped the bags, then emptied and stretched over the flames for warmth. Chase wasn't unaware of the cold, just unaffected. The human's breath fog mingled with smoke from the fire. Bathed in red and orange, their faces looked demonic. Brandon heard one break off his ribald story, peering toward the girl as she came toward them. Drinking stopped, and one man stepped forward.
"Thatchu, Miz Ward?" The old man's voice was raspy, and he coughed heavily. "Whatchu doin' out, mam? You gonna catch yer death." A couple of others nodded, murmuring agreement.
"Yes...?" She stopped, turning toward them. "Roscoe?" There was a brief pause, then, "That's a bad cough. You better go to the clinic tomorrow." Chase saw her brows knit in concern. "It's too cold to be sleeping out tonight. You get yourselves over to St. Vincent Mission," she told them. "Doors're open till midnight."
There was a pleasant timber to her voice, a gentility Chase hadn't heard in a while. He hid behind a pile of debris, listening to the brief exchange. It was very dark under the bridge; not even light from lamps on the highway above penetrated more than a few inches into the shadows. She stood across from the men, only the flickering flames providing light.
"Yes'm, Miz Ward." The one she called Roscoe passed the bottle to another man, gathering up an old military duffle. "Then I best be headin' there." All but two of the bums followed his example, gathering their meager possessions. "God bless, mam!"
Their voices echoed in the man-made tunnel, and they trudged off, coming within a foot or two from where Brandon crouched. Vampire senses as keen as they were, he smelled the stench of unwashed bodies and stale wine as they passed. Conversation over, she continued, ignoring the other two who remained at the fire-filled drum.
It wasn't difficult for Brandon to slip past the duo unnoticed, and he dismissed them from his mind. He had to move quickly lest he lose her, ducking from one to the other of the massive, round concrete pilings. At least he now had a surname. That would make it easier to find more information.
By the time Chase reached the last column, she had stopped in front of a wrought iron gate not far beyond the overpass. Brandon took advantage of the shadows to cross the street, hoping for a better look at the place. Rusty hinges protested loudly as she pushed the gate open. Chase watched from beside an overgrown shrub, peering at a two-and-a-half story house which must have once been a lovely Victorian home.
Sadly, neglect and exposure to harsh elements had taken a toll, and the house was now a mere shadow of its former glory. The wrought iron fence was missing more than a few bars, and the gate groaned as she closed it. Only one old live oak withstood the passage of time; others were stumps in the yard. The tree stood on one side of the porch, gnarled limbs severed at the fence line to make room for electrical lines. Mistletoe and Spanish moss choked the branches; the ancient sentinel would likely soon join its brethren. Grass and weeds were brown from the cold. A broken birdbath lay half in/half out of an empty cement pool. Despite disrepair, the house bore testament to a more genteel era, towering over its single story neighbors.
Chase figured much of the adjacent land had probably once belonged to the estate; now it sat on a tiny patch of ground, withered ivy nearly covering the front yard. He heard the girl's footsteps echo as she climbed the stone steps, crossing what must have been an elegant veranda. Intricate gingerbread trim clung stubbornly to the eaves, still lending a timeless grace to the architecture. The old lady might need new paint and shutters, but she was a trooper. Like many a Southern matron, she wouldn't give up without a fight, and God help the carpetbagger who came calling.
Brandon smirked, remembering many an evening spent in a home like this one, come calling a gentle woman whose family still kept Southern traditions of hospitality, dignity and pride even after The Late Unpleasantness.
Such foolishness. So many still fight for what was always a lost cause.
But, 500-years ago he'd also been eager to prove himself in war and politics. He fought at the behest of his friend Henry Tudor, ever loyal to the king. He lived a life of luxury until a warm spring night when he met a comely lass while on his way home after carousing with friends. Randy and impetuous, Brandon followed the girl's come hither, having his way with her, and she with he, until the first cock crowed. He then passed out in that dank, damp root cellar, and woke in darkness. There was a pain in his throat, and a thirst no amount of water could quench. Stumbling from the cellar, he was greeted by full night and the winsome lass suckling a milkmaid's breast. Her eyes locked to his from above the pale flesh, and with sudden, terrifying clarity, he knew what it was he craved. Together, they drained the girl—
A sudden burst of childish giggling from inside shattered the memory. The porch was empty, but lights of a Christmas tree were framed in a front window. A silent blur, he was at the glass in less than a heartbeat, one shadow amongst many. Eyes peered through the evergreen to the room beyond. As shabby as the exterior, a worn, Oriental rug covered the parlor floor. Across from the tree, a fireplace flickered brightly. Right angle to that, a sagging sofa. Other furnishings seemed an eclectic mix probably acquired from a thrift store.
From within, Chase heard the dulcet sound of a lute. Leaning slightly to one side, he caught sight of the girl. Seated on a faded wing-back chair, three children sat at her feet. In her hands, an instrument familiar to anyone born in his century. Each note floated on the cold night air: rising, falling, soaring, plummeting. Gone was her old coat and hat, revealing a neat black sweater and a gray plaid skirt. Pale blonde hair fell below her shoulders, and long-fingered hands plucked the strings like a virtuoso. Not a single error nor missed note. The children joined her, singing as she played, her own voice lost in their enthusiasm.
Behind her, a middle-aged black woman stood like a guardian angel. Lighted candles sat on the mantle, reflected in an old mirror. Happiness radiated from each child's face—two white, one black—as they merrily sang Jingle Bells, then Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. When the final chorus of "you better watch out" faded, the black woman whispered something to the girl, who smiled and nodded.
A moment passed while the older woman silenced the children. Then Chase heard her singing. Clear as a bell, her voice wrapped around him, reaching deep to grasp his withered heart. He knew the song, had heard it performed at a feast in honor of Henry's latest love, a winsome witch with black hair and a penchant for green. Memories again flooded Brandon's mind: candlelight and courtiers, a smoke-filled great hall and a Yule log burning. The words she sang were different, but the melody was the same as the first time Henry played it for Anne Boelyn.