The Dead Pan Contest
Darkly Dreaming
A Dexter Parody
Characters: Eric, Sookie, Pam, Sophie-Ann, Chow, Clancy, Sam
Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to any of the characters or situations presented. They belong to Charlaine Harris, HBO, Jeff Lindsay and Showtime.
Summary: In a pre-Revelation alternate universe, Eric is a blood spatter expert for the Miami PD who kills serial killers in his spare time. His girlfriend, Sookie, and a new killer who is draining the bodies of his victims and chopping them up present him with exciting new challenges.
A/N: A friend recommended I start watching Dexter to curb my True Blood cravings (It worked like methadone for a heroin addict). While I thoroughly enjoy the original, I couldn't help but wonder what the story would be like if the show featured a vampire serial killer. You know, because everything is better with vampires. This is rated M for a reason. Think sex and violence in the style of HBO and Showtime.
^v^
Tonight's the night. And it's going to happen again and again. Because it has to.
Miami is a great town, and it's a great night. As I drove toward my destination, I passed nightclubs, alive and thick with people, bodies pressed against one another, gyrating in time with the thumps of the electronic dance music, and I couldn't help but smile. I love this city. Even from the inside of my car, I could smell sex—the anticipation of it, the idea of it, wafting through the air, mixed with the aromas of Cuban pork sandwiches and the faint hint of saltwater. But the strongest odor, no matter what part of Miami I find myself in, is always sex. Even though I do not allow myself to participate directly in the act itself, I still appreciate the scent of it.
It used to make people uncomfortable that I had no sex life to speak of; sometimes they thought I was gay or interested in what they considered to be even more deviant sexualities since I never dated or even bragged about a fuck-buddy. No one could believe that a man like me—six foot six with chiseled muscles, striking blonde hair, and bright blue eyes (an attractive guy, so I'm told)—could not be interested in sex. It certainly wasn't for lack of opportunity that I was celibate, or lack of libido, for that matter. Only discipline. The Code has kept me from indulging in carnal pleasures. There is too much risk that I wouldn't be able to satisfy one urge without acting on the other.
Luckily, for the last six months, I've had the perfect excuse for politely turning down the advances of the beautiful women of Miami—my girlfriend, Sookie. She's perfect for me, because in her own way, she's just as damaged as I am. Pam, who if I were to have friends, would be the only person I could label as such, was called to a domestic dispute one night and hauled off Sookie's piece-of-shit husband. Pam and Sookie kept in touch, and she later introduced us. The deadbeat, Bill, used to shoot up and smack her around, and that night, he'd raped her in the trunk of a Cadillac. Unfortunately for me, he hadn't ever killed anyone. I'm not the type of guy that bends the rules, but when I think of that bastard, I think maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I were less principled.
But, there have to be boundaries to this world. Order. Lines. Killers, I can kill. That's the code. Gray areas are not for me. At least not the "me" I am now. I don't recall the person I was before I was a vampire, or how I came this way. This is unusual for those of my kind, I was told, though I don't associate with other people like me. It's easy to do, here in America, which is why I initially came (plus, they sent all those prisoners here—many of them murderers). Though the population was much thinner then, still, the ratio of vampires to humans has always been quite favorable. According to my estimates, in a country just below 400 million people, it puts it at about a 1: 100,000 ratio. Good odds, if you are indiscriminate, but I do well enough myself even with my strict standards. Still, you'd be surprised how many humans are killers. Just last year, there were over 14,000 murders in the United States, and only 616 of them were ruled justifiable homicides. Sure, law enforcement catches some killers, but there's plenty of them left over to keep me up and moving, if not alive and kicking.
Now, some might wonder why I confine my victims to those who are killers themselves; after all, I'm a vampire. Much like a lion hunts a gazelle, vampires generally kill humans indiscriminately. The weak one, the one who wanders away from the herd, those are the ones that die. So, why do I meticulously research in order to be certain that I only kill those that are killers themselves?
Godric. A vampire hunter himself. Centuries ago when I was turned, he stumbled across me freshly risen after my maker and the rest of his nest abandoned me—at least that's what I'm told. Rather than stake me, he took it as an opportunity to teach me and to learn about my kind himself. I would never have lasted had it not been for him. He taught me how to blend in with humans, how to find shelter, even how to feed. But most importantly, he taught me the Code. Kill only killers, and don't get caught. Sure, there were other rules, and I'd had to adapt it over time to suit this modern world. Working in law enforcement had certainly helped my cause. But those two simple tenets formed the foundation. Like I said, I don't need any complications or muddled shades of gray.
Though at times, I feel the lines slipping, bending, warping, a result of the introduction of more variables into what had been such a simple formula. Sometimes I struggled to keep Sookie confined to this black-and-white way of thinking. What began as a convenient experiment (and a way to get Pam off my back about my need to "get laid") was slowly developing into something more. Recently she revealed to me that she had a childhood history of physical and sexual abuse, which hadn't surprised me. What came as a shock was that I cared.
As a result of her traumatic childhood and her depraved husband, she wasn't interested in sex at all, which worked out perfectly for me. Sookie didn't understand how a man like me could carry on a relationship with her all this time, content to hold her hand and receive a chaste good night kiss. She often called me her saint and told me I'd restored her faith in men.
The irony of her trust is not lost on me. I intended for her to be a prop, an asset. Blend in a little. Dabble in humanity. I had already secured my job working for the Miami Police Department, and made my first friend, Pam. I am more human than ever; they even believe I am one of them. Sometimes I wonder if that is what I want to believe myself.
And sometimes, when Sookie looks at me, it's as if she sees that something else in me. Some sort of future, something she didn't think she'd ever get. A man who can love her and take care of her, who will treat her with respect and as his equal. Part of me wants to be that man for her, even though I know it's not possible. If I could love anyone, I would love Sookie.
I worry about what will happen when we inevitably have to part ways. I'll have to end it eventually. She can't know what I am, and after a few years, she'll notice that I don't age, and she'll start to grow suspicious. The sun allergy has worked well enough at work, but if we get too involved, Sookie will realize I don't just have to stay indoors during the day—I'm actually dead from dawn until dark. Then it will be time for me to move on to a new town. Again.
But tonight, it is the dark city of Miami that I will rid of one more killer. Finally, I pulled up to the park, right outside the gazebo under the twinkling white lights strung in the trees. The faintly angelic sounds of a boys' choir performance wafted into the night. And there he was—the one. Or at least the next one. There will be more. There has to be.
This one might be almost too easy; he didn't even lock his car doors, and it would be nearly effortless to trap him and force him to drive to his own reckoning. As the concert ended, the parents of the boys' choir stood around talking amongst themselves in happy, carefree conversation, congratulating each other on having produced such talented offspring. They didn't even know that I am quite possibly the reason their boys are alive. That they did not fall victim to the predator I'm about to make my prey. Of course, I didn't do it only, or even primarily, for them. I did it because something inside me, something ancient and primal, craves—needs—blood.
My name is Eric—Eric Northman. At least that's the name I go by now. I don't know who made me this way, but it left a hollow place inside me. People fake a lot of human interactions, but I fake them all. After centuries of practice, I do it quite well. Now, I don't blame the man who helped me understand what I am—what I need. If I was destined to be a killer, if I needed to kill to live, then I'd rather know how to blend into society rather than hide forever in the shadows, to have the deaths I cause be somehow noble. Godric may not have been my maker in the literal sense, but he taught me the Code. He's dead now.
I didn't kill him. Honest.
But Victor Madden, the choir director who likes to rape little boys before murdering them and burying their bodies in the park, him, I am going to kill. And soon.
As I sat waiting and thinking of all the things I would do to my target before he expired, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
"Sookie," I answered.
"Hi there," came her all too sweet-sounding voice. Something about her Southern accent always stirred something in me, something I had fought for so long to bury. "What'cha doing?"
"Oh, work stuff. You?" Luckily Sookie is never interested in my work, so I don't have to lie. Something about blood made her queasy, and since I was the blood spatter expert for the Miami PD forensics unit, all my work involved blood.
"Well, I was thinking. There's this Halloween party some people from work are having on Friday, and I was wondering if you might go with me."
I tried to picture it. Sookie and I going to a party. Talking to other couples. They'd ask me what I did for a living, and I'd get to regale them with stories of multiple knife wounds, of the patterns of blood left from a machete versus a pair of kitchen shears. They'd ask how we met, and Sookie would explain that a mutual friend had introduced us, and give a detailed account of how Pam had found her in that trunk, bruised and battered and violated and nearly suffocating. You know, the casual getting to know you chit-chat. Isn't that what humans did at parties?
"I didn't think we were really party people," I replied delicately. I didn't want to have to explain my reluctance. It wasn't that I didn't want to spend time with her. Oddly enough, though I had to be constantly on guard around her to protect my secret, I still felt comfortable with her.
"If we never leave my house, Eric Northman, I'm going to think you don't want people to see us together. I'll assume you're married or ashamed of me."
"You aren't that ridiculous."
"I know. But I've got to learn to be around people, Eric. And it would be good for you too." She was right.
"Sure, that sounds fun. Friday? I'll go." That's what normal boyfriends did. That was the point of all this. Blend in, appear normal. It was just a bonus that I did actually enjoy Sookie's company.
"It's a costume party. There are prizes," she added hesitantly, as if that might change my mind. I wore a mask all the time, so the fun of dressing up and playing a monster didn't appeal to me. I was, after all, a monster who played human every day.
"Do I have to pick one out myself?" I asked.
"Oh no, I'll take care of that."
"Great," I said. I was trying to focus on our conversation, but the socializing after the choir concert was coming to an end. And soon, so would Victor Madden's life. "I'm in."
"Do you want to stop by later? I DVR'd some of those nature shows you like. We could watch one."
"Maybe. I'll call you. I'm just about to wrap up one of my cases, but I'm not sure how long I'll be. I've got to go," I said and readied myself for the capture portion of tonight's main event.
He didn't even notice me sitting in the backseat of his dark blue BMW sedan. The second he settled into his seat and put the key in the ignition, I put the wire around his throat and pulled. Hard.
"Drive," I commanded as he struggled against the hold, no doubt trying to figure out how an evening choir concert had led him to this moment. He attempted to speak, to argue, to plead with me, but I only pulled harder so that he choked on his words. "Drive," I snarled at him. I almost wished I could let him put up a fight, that we were evenly matched, that I was not unequivocally the hunter and he the prey.
After the short drive, Madden had followed my directions, and we arrived at the location for his trial, at which I would serve as judge, jury, and most importantly, executioner.
I dragged him by the scruff of his neck, and though my leather racing gloves were slick against the sweat that had pooled inside his collar, he still had no chance of escaping my grip. After all, I have inhuman strength; I am a vampire. I dragged him into the abandoned warehouse, which I had already prepared for the evening's events. All the evidence I'd collected against Madden—the decaying corpses of young boys, the pictures of them with their families, the newspaper articles detailing the family's grief at their disappearances, as well as the inability of the police to even identify a suspect—had been neatly laid out. I enjoyed forcing my victims to face their own crimes. Something felt poetic about that, almost like there was justice in the world. Almost.
My prey's eyes grew wide and betrayed his fear as I flipped on the harsh, industrial lights in the building, so he could see the small, familiar bodies lined up across the floor. Realization flashed across his face; he now knew why I'd brought him here.
"Oh, no, please, I'll do anything. Keep my car, Ill give you money, whatever you want, just don't … I have a family, please …"
"Did the little boys beg too, Victor? Do you get off on that?"
"I'm sorry, you don't understand, I can't help myself …"
"That's where you're wrong. Not being able to control your urges? That I get. But children? Children I could never do."
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou amongst sinners … " The sound of the prayer made my temper flare, and I slapped him across the face hard enough to bust his lip open. Who could offer this man forgiveness? Who could he plead to for salvation? He was damned, as surely as I was. That is, if he truly believed in this Christian God to which he called. Me, I wasn't convinced. But hey, everyone's got to have something to live by. At any rate, the idea of a system so cruel and unjust as to spare this monster and condemn me really pissed me off, so I didn't want it to give him any sort of comfort.
"That never helped anyone," I said, my fangs now bared for him to see. He turned as pale as the corpse he was about to become, as all the blood drained away from his face. No, I couldn't have him passing out before I'd had a little bit of fun. After all, the blood cools so quickly after they are dead. Easily holding him against the wall with one hand, I reached into my back pocket and retrieved my glass slide. I held it beneath his bleeding lip just long enough for one drop to fall on its center, replaced the cover, and set it aside.
"You know why I'm going to kill you, right?" I asked him as I grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to look me in the eye.
"Because of those little boys," he said between gasping sobs, tears now running down his face. If I had the capacity to feel empathy, I might have felt sorry for him. He was probably right about not having a choice and I truly did understand compulsion. But that didn't mean I would spare him.
"Yes. But also so that I may survive." And though sometimes I glamoured my victims—not him, and not tonight. I plunged my fangs into his neck, and there was no doubt that he would feel every pull of his blood into me, would feel himself being drained dry. The Code was satisfied, and so was I.
When I was done feeding, I went about the rest of my routine. These are my favorite kills—the ones where I had the time, the freedom, to let myself go. I learned quickly that it was prudent to buy plastic sheeting by the case. It makes clean up so much easier. Even after I have taken my full of him, there is always some still left in the body when I rip it apart. If death is my art, blood is my paint. There is always so much blood. A beautiful mess.
Blood. Sometimes it sets my teeth on edge. Literally. It required years of practice to prevent my fangs from distending at the thought of blood, and decades to develop the discipline to keep them under wraps while I was in the presence of freshly spilled blood. But now, it helped me control the chaos. This was my ritual, my routine.
When I finally made it home, spic and span and sans one dead body, I first put away the little memento of Madden. This was the final act of my ceremony. I removed the cover my air conditioner unit, a prerequisite in this Miami heat, even for me, and withdrew from it my wooden case. I retrieved the newest glass slide in my collection, slipped it into place, and ran my fingers over the two-dozen already in the case before closing the lid and returning it to its concealed home. Then I hit the button to play the one message on my machine.
"Eric—I'm at a crime scene at the Princess Ann Motel in Miami Beach, and I fucking need your help," a familiar voice said.
Pam. Got to love that colorful vocabulary of hers. She was the first person I allowed myself to be around—well, the first person since Godric. Pam's human, though, so I could only get so close to her. She has a big heart, but doesn't let anyone see it. Maybe that's why she's the person I've allowed myself to get close to.
Sometimes, I think about turning her. So I could let someone see the real me. But there's the Code. It's stopped me so far. I'd been successful at keeping the loneliness at bay, and so far, I'd been able to ignore the burning desire that motivated so many of my kind to make themselves a companion. Still, something told me that Pam would enjoy this existence. She got so frustrated by the inadequacies of the legal system to exact justice all the time. She followed the rules, but she hated the hurdles of search warrants and other such legal formalities. I think she'd take quite well to doing things my way.
I glanced at my watch—three in the morning. There was time to swing by Pam's crime scene before dawn. On my drive over, I called and let Sookie know I couldn't make it, and promised to make it up to her tomorrow night. How, I didn't know. It's Thursday night—pizza night—I would bring it over and I would watch her eat it. How do you make that special? Extra cheese?
There's something about a Miami crime scene under the cover of darkness that makes it seem artificial. Maybe it the palm trees or the bright colors that the cheap motel had been painted, but it felt contrived, staged, even grotesque, like a set from some bad eighties TV show or some new and daring attraction at a theme park. The great number of disturbing things humans find entertaining never ceased to amaze me.
"Eric! Over here!" I saw Pam waving at me from her dingy room. Poor girl, still stuck in vice. She's young and fresh and ambitious, though. She'd make a great detective some day. Which was why I should have been careful about getting too close to her. I didn't want her to get so good at her job that she'd figure me out. Then I'd really have no choice but to turn her. That might be the one exception to the Code—I could kill someone who wasn't a murderer to keep from getting caught, from having someone discover what I truly was.
She put out her cigarette and lit another one after ushering me into her room. "They found another body in the pool," she said after taking a drag. In her current get up, she was almost unrecognizable—the short cutoffs, cheap stilettos, and halter-top were definitely not her style. Though I knew she was only blending in with her working girls, working undercover herself, I found it hard to believe that real men found that sort of packaging attractive. It's just so … obvious.
"Another?" I wasn't aware of any open homicide cases—at least no good prospects had crossed my desk in a week or so. My ears perked up at the news. I was almost itching for a new project.
"Just like those two they found across town last week. All cut up. All hookers. This is my ticket out of vice and onto the homicide squad," she said, her eyes glittering. Pam liked finding killers as much as I did. She wanted to put them behind bars, and I wanted to drain them dry, cut them up, and throw their bodies into the ocean in black Hefty bags, but still. Didn't people like to say the ends justified the means? I'd never really decided myself whether to adhere to some Kantian notion of ethics or to adopt a more utilitarian model. Luckily the Code didn't require settling on either.
"The Captain put you on the case?" I turned to ask Pam.
"Sophie-Anne was pissed, but there wasn't much she could do. So you think you can help me? At least bounce some ideas around? I always get smarter when I'm talking to you," she said. "This is my chance to prove myself, Eric."
"You better watch it around the Lieutenant. She may be dumb, but she's got power. You could actually take a lesson from her on how to get ahead. And you're the cop—I just analyze the evidence. The blood. You don't need me."
"You get these hunches, though. Just let me know if you come up with anything, okay?" she said as she inhaled those toxic fumes again. Luckily I wasn't really affected by second-hand smoke, what with no need to breathe. I nodded to her, then exited her dump of a motel room and made my way to the pool to check out the crime scene.
"Why are you here?" My colleague on the Miami PD forensics team asked as I edged up beside him to look down at the pool after flashing my ID badge to the beat cops holding back the tourists from snapping photos. I shook my head at the crowd, and turned my attention back to the short, annoying figure in white gloves and wire-rim glasses that had just asked me a question.
Chow was a perverted, creepy Asian science nerd who I wouldn't call a friend, but I was forced to tolerate his presence on a regular basis. Luckily, we didn't have to work together often, since he generally worked the normal nine-to-five hours, and not only did I only work part time, I also, obviously, only came out at night.
"Got a call there was a crime scene. Plus this is my shift." That had been difficult to explain, at first, but now everyone more or less took it for granted that I could only work nights, and because I was so good at what I did, they didn't ask questions. I didn't think anyone had even bothered to research my rare sun allergy. Needless to say, I was the palest man in Miami, and that seemed proof enough to them of my need to stay out of the sun.
"You're the blood spatter guy. There's no blood," Chow said with a complete lack of respect for what I did. Sometimes I fantasized about finding out he was really a murderer. But I hadn't found any evidence yet, though he did have a disturbing interest in crush videos. I thought I had issues with sex, but getting off on that shit? Now that is fucked up. Still, that was the thing about America. Here, they said you had a right to be into that. Even though the first amendment didn't protect what I did, I still had to appreciate America for all its idiosyncratic political, social, and cultural beliefs. I didn't share them; my values were much less subjective, less complicated. Kill only killers; don't get caught. Simple. Direct. That was all there was to the Code.
Then I processed what he had just said. "No blood?" I asked, incredulously.
"None. Hey, did you see Pam? Hot . . . " he said, and if I hadn't been distracted by the crime scene, I might have just told him that Pam much preferred female sexual partners. My general contempt for most of mankind was only confirmed any time I tried to have a conversation with Chow about anything other than blood. I looked down into the empty pool at the neat, disembodied corpse, chopped up and neatly reassembled like pieces of a puzzle. Clean, white parcels of human tissue and bone, but not a trace of blood. Chow was right; I would have been able to smell it if there was even a drop.
No blood. No sticky, hot, messy, awful blood? No blood at all? What a beautiful idea. I thought back to a few hours earlier, at my own crime scene, of all that wasted blood. If I could be that efficient, that neat . . .
"How does he do it?" I turned to ask the detective, Andy Bellefleur. If I could master this technique, no more getting by with only stolen blood between kills. I could drain it, store it, and drink it at my leisure. I couldn't help but smile at the possibilities.
"This is unique," he remarked. "I've never seen anything like it before. And this is the third one." Though his contradictory statements may have seemed confusing, I understood—Pam had mentioned there had been two other dismembered, bloodless hookers found recently. They just hadn't made an appearance on my radar until now, for obvious reasons. Chow was right about one thing: I am the blood guy.
I'd seen a lot of corpses in my time, both ones of my own making and ones that were the work of the human monsters in the world. But I'd never seen such clean, dry, neat looking dead flesh.
No blood. I had to get out of here. I couldn't think. A bloodless body? This one might have exceeded my own abilities. And I'd had centuries of practice.
I was just about to cross that yellow tape, when a small, slender hand touched my arm.
"Eric! So nice to see you," Lieutenant Leclerq said, looking me up and down in a way that was wholly inappropriate for her position. "I never mind getting called into these late-night cases if it means you'll be on scene," she said, obviously trying to flirt with me. I'd never understood this human ritual, this dance. When I was human, things were different.
"No use for me here, I'm afraid," I said with an ironic smile and headed back home to die for the day.
Just before I succumbed to the pull of dawn, I couldn't help but think of that corpse. Why would someone go to all that trouble, to drain that body so thoroughly before chopping it up? What would someone do with all that blood?
Another day had ended, and I rose with the same thought I went to rest with—that beautiful, bloodless body. The exciting tingle of a fresh target rushed through me. I should have been excited because with a killer on the loose, I had a new mark. The Miami Metro PD only solved twenty percent of its homicide cases; the chances were in my favor that I'd get to handle this guy on my own. So why was the prospect of swapping notes and exchanging technique more appealing than the thought of killing him?
But I didn't have all night to lie in bed thinking about it; I had to get on with my normal, "human," routine. A shower and a shave; flossing; replace a warm mug of blood with the traditional ham and eggs, and I was the picture of the American Dream: blonde hair, blue eyes, a job that was a service to the community. Hell, I even paid taxes.
No one knew my secret. No one suspected what I was. Deception is an art at which I was very practiced. Blending in was all about routine—predictability. Being someone that people can relate to was the key to earning their trust. So instead of just being the blood guy, I was also the donut guy.
Every work night began the same way—with a trip to Sadie's Donut Shop, open 24 hours. There was nothing special about that place. I liked that. How normal and everyday it was. The signs were made of poster board with handwritten lists in marker outlining the various pasty offerings, and the neon sign in the window crackled and spurted, never emitting a steady stream of light. Nothing fancy, but I was told the donuts were delicious. Much better than the national chain.
There was nothing remarkable about the mixed dozen I picked up, fresh and hot, to bring in to the station for everyone burning the midnight oil. Cops and donuts might be a little cliché, I had to admit, but it was a well-earned stereotype. I never made it to my station in the lab with anything more than an empty box, and no one had yet to notice that I never ate one myself.
Tonight was no exception; I glanced at the floppy cardboard, nothing but loose sprinkles and grease marks to show that donuts had even been inside. Empty—like me.
When I made it to my lab, I let out an internal groan, though my outward appearance was friendly and congenial. Chow was still here, working overtime apparently, and not by himself. Sam Merlotte, the only detective in homicide who didn't like me, was grilling him about the Butcher. I assumed that was the name they'd given to the apparent serial killer dismembering the hookers of Miami.
"Northman," Merlotte said, appraising me. A whole building full of trained law enforcement personnel, and he was the only guy that I gave the creeps. What the detective didn't know was that even if he did know something wasn't right about me, he didn't know what it was. I knew his secret.
"Detective, Chow," I said cheerfully, as I flipped on my computer and began scanning the files in my inbox. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"Just trying to wrap our heads around this new case. I heard you made an appearance at the crime scene last night. How'd you find out about it so quick?" Merlotte asked, laying his arms across his chest, apprising me as if I were a suspect.
"Pam called me," I replied nonchalantly. He couldn't get under my skin, even if he continued to glare at me like that for the rest of his life.
"You two are awful close," Sam observed. "If you're having a personal relationship with an officer, you need to disclose it."
"I'm aware of the fraternization policies. Pam and I are just friends. I have a girlfriend."
"And she's as hot as Pam. You should meet her. Great rack," Chow added, and I leveled a frightening look at him, effectively cutting off what was sure to be further exposition on the appeal of Sookie's body.
"Does she know what kind of a sick freak you really are, Northman?" Merlotte asked.
"She knows me well enough," I replied ambiguously. I grabbed a fresh supply of corn syrup and red dye, along with the photos from a crime scene. The victim had been cut up with some sort of power tool, and it was my job to find out the make and model. It was an easy enough task. I went down to the test room to do some experimenting, trying to replicate the patterns of blood. This shouldn't take long. Sookie got off from her shift at the bar at eleven, so if I could make it to her place by midnight, we'd have time for our pizza and movie date night. "Good luck with the Butcher," I called over my shoulder, as I walked out of the lab.
This was the part of my job I enjoyed. I put on my white lab coat and clear plastic goggles after mixing up my solution, just like what they used in horror movies. It was remarkably consistent with the real thing in appearance, though of course, not in taste. Maybe I'd move to Hollywood next and get a job as a special effects guy working on a particularly gory TV show. Those seemed to be rather popular right now, and I was sure there were lots of murderers in Los Angeles, too, and plenty of those killers are sure to evade law enforcement. Which meant plenty of killers to sate my appetite.
But right now, my job was to find out what sort of weapon had been used on Maudette Pickens. I opened my cabinet of chain saws with nearly every make and model on the market, from small electric to your big, cordless power saws. Where to begin …
The Skil 8.5-Amp Variable Speed Corded Reciprocating Saw. A very unique serrated edge. Yes. I'd start there.
A few hours later, I'd left my blood spatter papers out to dry and dropped my report on the Pickens murder in Lt. Leclerq's inbox. I called in a carry-out order to Casola's. Sookie's favorite: pepperoni and pineapple. She had of course wondered why I never ate with her, but so far she'd accepted my noncommittal response that you don't get a body like mine by feeding it junk. True, if not honest. Sookie had been skeptical of course, because she seemed to be able to eat whatever she wanted and keep her perfect, voluptuous curves. When I'd reminded her that she was quite the anomaly in that respect, she merely shrugged her shoulders and said she was quite the anomaly in many ways. I hadn't been able to help myself from smiling at that—at least we had one thing in common.
"Sookie," I called when I let myself into her little condo, marveling at how easy it was to enter a mortal's home.
"Oh, Eric, I'm back here."
I set the pizza on the counter and followed the sound of her voice. I'd never been back to Sookie's bedroom before. This was different.
It was much like I pictured it: clean and tidy, feminine and soft without being fussy or delicate. Just like her. She had her hair pinned up on top of her head, a messy blonde twist, exposing the curve of her neck and displaying her even, regular pulse. Nothing more than a short, floral print bathrobe covered her body. She had one tan, smooth leg propped up on the bed, and she was bent over slightly, rubbing lotion into her skin.
"Sorry, I just got out of the shower. I was late getting off tonight," she said. I could barely speak after watching the sensual movements of her small hands massage the lotion into her thigh. I had to remember to continue my unnecessary breathing while still focusing on not allowing my fangs to run out. A difficult task.
"I picked up some dinner for you," I managed to say in response.
"Thanks," she said brightly as she rubbed her palms together and made her way over to where I was standing. "I'm more excited to see you, though." She placed her hands on my shoulders, and I couldn't help mine from going to her waist. This was new, too, like being in her bedroom. I could hear her heart beating, see the blood flowing in the vein on her neck. She only smiled at me, looking up at me with complete trust.
This feeling was definitely new.
"Oh, while you're back here, let me show you something!" she said, her eyes suddenly bright and excited. "I've got our costumes for tomorrow night." She fluttered back across the room, and I took a second to compose myself. This was fine; this was just me and Sookie. Same as the last six months. Platonic and chaste. That was our relationship. She was my beard, in a way. I imagined I filled a similar role for her. If she had a boyfriend, she wouldn't have to endure being set up on blind dates or the advances of pricks at the bar. Everyone wins.
"Here's mine," she said, holding up a plain, black dress that I'm sure would hug her curves marvelously, but other than that, it didn't seem all that profound. "And, my old black motorcycle jacket from college over it, and I bought this cheap necklace with a cross, and of course, what really holds it together—Mr. Pointy," she said with a laugh, grabbing what appeared to be a wooden stake, but upon further inspection, was only plastic.
If my system functioned like a regular human's, which it of course did not, the blood would have drained from my face. This had to have been some sort of sick joke. Should I laugh? Or should I kill her?
"Buffy—get it? You know, the vampire slayer? And you're Spike." I cocked my eyebrow at her, to let her know I had no idea what she was talking about. 'Buffy'? What the fuck kind of name was that? And Spike? Equally foolish. "The badass vampire who falls hopelessly in love with her," she said as if I were dense, uneducated, for not immediately understanding what to her was such an obvious pop culture reference, She set aside her dress and stake, and went back to rummage in her closet. "See, all you have to do is wear a black t-shirt and jeans, and hopefully you have some sort of black boots, and I got you these. We'll gel your hair back. Easy, huh?" she said, handing me a small plastic box from a costume store with a smile.
"Plastic fangs?" I said.
"Yeah. They were cheap, and I didn't figure you for the type of guy to wear a mask or something elaborate. It's a couple's deal, you know, everyone dresses as a famous couple, and we're both blue-eyed blondes, and I wanted an excuse to get that black dress. Is this okay?" she asked, reluctantly. I could see where she would think this was a big step. We rarely left her house. She didn't seem one for crowds, and I wasn't much of a people person either. A party—that was a big step. She pulled the corner of her lip between her teeth, which she nearly always did when she was nervous.
I looked down at the little white molded pieces of plastic made to look like extra long canine teeth. No, she didn't know. Just Halloween, a cheap and easy costume and an excuse for her to buy a dress that made her feel sexy and confident. Quite a step for her, considering what she'd been through. I shook my head and let out a small chuckle.
"Oh, of course it's fine. Very clever, Sookie. I did not immediately get the reference, but I'm sure you can fill me in on the details of this, uh, famous couple," I said. "But under no circumstances are you putting any sort of product in my hair."
"Fine," she said, but not without rolling her eyes. A human woman, rolling her eyes at me, and I thought it was cute. I'd have thought this sassy side of Sookie would annoy the hell out of me, but I found I actually enjoyed it. She wasn't afraid of me, and it was sexy as hell. "Now, take those, and get out of here so I can get dressed, and we'll watch an episode of the show tonight so you can understand only the greatest love story of all time."
I let out an unnecessary sigh of relief as I went back into the living room. I sat down on Sookie's worn sofa and ran my hands through my hair and over my face, feeling the stubble on my skin. That had been close. For a second, I had actually thought that Sookie knew what I was and was trying to bring up the issue in a roundabout way. It was just a coincidence that she had selected this vampire-human couple for us to dress as.
I laughed with relief. That was impossible—ridiculous, even. I got up and went to her refrigerator, retrieved her shaker of Parmesan cheese, and then a plate from the cabinet. This comfortable familiarity with Sookie's home was calming. I could do this. I had been doing this for six months. The next big step after the job and the friend. The relationship. I didn't want to live in the shadows anymore, and in the last century, that had become impossible anyway. Birth certificate, driver's license, credit report, all of that paperwork, all of the work necessary to keep up the charade; it was becoming more cumbersome every day. Now I could be forced to show proof of my immigration status if there were any suspicion of me in some places. I couldn't just glamour my way out of a sticky situation anymore, or I'd be altering the memories of nearly everyone I came into contact with. This modern world required a new set of skills. If I wanted to keep up, I needed to adapt.
I often wondered if humans weren't close to finding out about the existence of vampires altogether with advances in technology. In some places, there are video cameras on every corner, recording everything. How long before one catches a vampire feeding on human? Sometimes I thought the government might be keeping their knowledge of vampires secret, sort of like they did with aliens. Humans liked the comfort of thinking that they were the most advanced creatures in existence. But until vampires were out in the open, I had to maintain the illusion that I was one of them, just a regular guy. And if I was going to blend in, I needed a girlfriend. And I couldn't think of anyone better for me than Sookie.
I wasn't really just on edge about her, though. I hadn't been able to get that body out of my mind all night. Not during my trip to the donut store, or my time playing with handheld motorized tools, or my conversation with Sookie—that bloodless, dismembered body was always there, in the background, taunting me.
I couldn't stop thinking about it, even now. Not as I finished making a plate of pizza for Sookie, or when I took it over to her on the couch while she played the DVD of the show with the characters we were to dress as tomorrow night. I still thought about it after she had finished eating and curled up against me, my arm around her.
It definitely said something about the monster I was, that I could think of corpses with this soft, warm, beautiful woman here next to me. That was enough to shake me out of my brooding state of mind. This was what I had worked so hard to have—the appearance of being a normal man. I found I liked it more than I'd anticipated, and I didn't want to go back.
I pulled Sookie more securely against me and leaned down into her hair, rubbing my nose in it. The scent of her citrus shampoo and the sun and saltwater was early intoxicating. I couldn't explain what made her smell so much better than any other human, clean and sweet without being artificial, but I certainly enjoyed it. She nuzzled back against my chest and gave my hand a squeeze. "What's been on your mind all night, Eric? You feel a million miles away," she said, as the credits began to roll, signaling the end of the episode. "Grr, arrgh," the little cartoon monster said. Indeed.
"Oh, Sookie, I'm sorry. It's just work," I said. "These images are just hard to get out of my mind," I added, pulling my free hand up to play with strands of her hair. She shifted against me, as if gearing up for something, and took a deep breath.
"You can talk about that with me, you know. It must be an awful burden for you—all that death and everything …" she said, trailing off.
"You don't need to hear about any of it," I assured her.
"But, Eric, you can trust me, you know. And I know you think I'm fragile, but there's another part of me too. I'm strong. And I understand, more than most, after all the things I've seen …" she said as she turned so she could look me in the eye. "You've been so understanding and supportive these last few months. I don't know how I would have gotten through all this without you. I want you to feel like you can rely on me in the same way. You can confide in me, Eric," she leaned a bit closer and her voice dropped to just above a whisper. "You can tell me your secrets."
"Sookie, I …" What could I say? What was she getting at? Did she want to know more about my gruesome job, the nitty-gritty details of what it meant to work on murder cases? Or was this about something else entirely …
"Tell me about the case you're working on now," she said, taking my hand back into both of hers, running her fingers over mine, tracing patterns over my skin.
"It's pretty disturbing," I said.
She looked up into my eyes, and all I saw was bravery. She wanted to know.
"It's just … this killer, he's so precise. The body was completely drained and cut perfectly into sections …" I said, and looked down at her bare thigh, the short hem of her nightgown doing little to conceal her skin. My hand was suddenly wrapped firmly around her, and I could feel the blood pulsing through her femoral artery, warm, and thick, and … I couldn't help but squeeze. So easy. It would be so easy … I could even glamour her. That was it. No harm, right? I wasn't going to kill her. I couldn't do that. For one, she was undeniably good, even tragically good. Then I realized that more importantly, if she died, it would hurt me. That sudden insight felt like I had been struck with white-hot lightning. A great flash in my perpetual darkness. She meant something to me—this human woman, who had experienced so much pain and suffering in her quarter of a century, yet still greeted each day with a smile. It wasn't just our eventual separation that weighed on me. Some day, this beautiful, fierce creature would die, and that loss would hurt me.
Death hadn't touched me since Godric. This had to mean something. Yes. This was right. This feeling—whatever it was—I wanted more. I knew she could never discover what I was, but she wouldn't have to, not if I altered her memory, not if I healed any marks, not if I didn't take too much. Besides, I knew I could give her so much in return, surely that would more than make up for the morally ambiguous decision to glamour her. I leveled the full force of my gaze on her, pulling at her mind, willing her accept my influence … and nothing.
"Eric, stop," I heard her say, and the plea in her voice let me know that she meant it. I was still gripping her thigh, and when I released my hold I left a white imprint of my fingers in her skin.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," I said, my voice pleading with her to understand. Why had I touched her like that? Why had I tried to glamour her? Why had it not worked? What was happening to me? I had been in such control, until that crime scene last night, until I'd walked in on Sookie tonight …
"No, no. It's not you, it's me," she said, bringing her hand up to the side of my face. "I just … a bit more time is all I need. I don't want …"
"Sookie, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," I said with what I hoped was a tone of gentle conviction. She nodded, but I could tell she didn't believe me. That didn't surprise me; Sookie may look like nothing more than a well-endowed, blonde waitress, but I knew she wasn't stupid. What did catch me off guard was what she did next.
Slowly and deliberately, Sookie leaned in close as she placed her other hand on the side of my face, her eyes bright but unreadable. I realized she was going to kiss me, so I steeled myself for that soft brush of her mouth against mine to which I had become accustomed to, though it still felt like an extraordinary miracle each and every time. This kiss was not what I had come to expect from Sookie, however. Instead of immediately pulling away, she lingered, holding my face to hers. When she did back away enough to look into my eyes, she seemed as if she were searching my face for something, something she had anticipated finding, but I couldn't imagine what it was she saw. All I knew was tonight, I wasn't sure that my one kiss would be enough; I wanted more, and she seemed willing to give it to me. Maybe glamour would be unnecessary after all. Gently, as to not spook her, I mirrored her position and brought my hand to cup her cheek, and for the first time, I returned her kiss. Her lips parted to receive my tongue, and I found that Sookie tasted even better than she smelled. My hands seemed to move to touch her of their own volition; one found her hip, the other moved from her cheek to nestle into her hair, resting at the nape of her neck, holding her to me. For all my avoidance and fear of this particular activity, it was completely natural, as if I'd done nothing but practice kissing for centuries, as if I was made to kiss Sookie.
When she finally broke it off by pushing on my chest, I realized she was panting, completely out of breath. I, of course, wasn't. It took enough control to keep my fangs from running out; I certainly didn't have enough self-control to keep up my human façade. Her eyes were wide, but whether it was with fear or desire, I couldn't tell. But I knew if I allowed this to continue, it would not end well for Sookie. Not tonight, at least.
"I should go," I whispered, though I didn't want to leave, but there would be consequences if I didn't. "Just for tonight, I mean. It's getting late." She nodded, and brought her hand down from its resting place above my unbeating heart and took my hand instead.
"I'll walk you out," she said softly. We rose from the couch and walked hand in hand to the door.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow night for the party, then. Ten o'clock?" I said, looking down at her. She was so beautiful. I glanced away from her clear, blue eyes down to our hands, her fingers intertwined with mine. Her skin, perpetually tanned from all her time spent on the beach soaking up the sun, contrasted beautifully with the stark whiteness of mine. There it was again. This new feeling ––a warm, rush in my chest, gushing like oil from a well. If I didn't get this under control, it could be a disaster.
Just as the sun set on the horizon, I woke with a start in my light-tight basement apartment. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a mosquito, biting my arm. I smirked before slapping it. Like the previous night's target, I understood the insect's need for blood, but that didn't mean he could sample mine. I showered and shaved, then warmed a mug of blood, brushed my teeth (couldn't neglect them, after all) and flossed. I retrieved the box of plastic fangs Sookie had given me the night before. No, I wouldn't need these. Judging from how difficult it was becoming to keep my fangs under wraps in Sookie's presence, I didn't think I'd have any trouble displaying them tonight.
I continued to dress for the evening, but instead of playing my usual part in my non-threatening khakis and white t-shirts, I'd be pretending to be what I truly was—and not without a hint of irony. Sookie had specified jeans and a black t-shirt, which was easy enough. I even had the thick-soled black boots that this Spike character apparently favored. What she hadn't known was that back in the deep recesses of my closet, I also had a full-length black leather duster. (Don't ask me how I got it; long story. I may be a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy now, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my own hot pink spandex. Yes, they come in big and tall). Most wouldn't be able to stand wearing it in the muggy Miami heat, but luckily, I ran a bit cooler than a human. After liberating it from my closet, I slipped it on to make sure I didn't look like a total ass and gave myself a once-over in the mirror. James Marsters could stake himself; I was ready to challenge him for the title of sexiest vampire.
When I let myself into Sookie's condo, she rushed to meet me at the door.
"Hey!" she said, that wide smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "What's that?" she gestured toward the coat draped over my arm.
"Well, I noticed when we were watching the show last night that this 'Spike' character sports a trademark leather jacket, and I just happened to have a similar one of my own." I slipped my arms into it and posed menacingly, imitating this Spike. "What do you think?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.
"Oh my god, it's perfect," she said, beaming at me. It could have been a coincidence, but I swear, she licked her lips. "I didn't even think you were paying attention last night while we were watching TV," she said.
"Well, there was this problem with a delectable blonde … She can be very distracting," I said in a teasing voice. She looked back at me skeptically, but I could tell her smile was genuine. "And now you're doing it again in that dress …" Oh, had she been right about that dress. On the hanger it had been nothing of note, but with her in it—another story entirely. It hugged her curves in all the right places, and the neckline revealed just enough to hint at the bounty that lay beneath it. I might do my best to be a noble vampire, but I was still a vampire, and a man, and therefore unable to resist appreciating Sookie's charms.
"Well I'm glad you're here. I couldn't get the zipper up all the way. It's really the little things you miss about living with someone. You should see the drawer of bracelets I never wear because I can't work the clasp on by myself," she said, turning around so I could access the closure of her garment. With a sigh, I pulled it up, though I was more inclined to rip the dress from her body. As I secured the top eye-and-hook fastener, my fingers brushed against the bare skin of her neck, and her breath hitched.
"Oh, let me see your fangs. Did you get them secured alright?" she asked as she swept her hair back over he shoulders and turned to face me.
Luckily for me, it was no problem to show them to her. "Take a look for yourself," I said, flashing her my best sinister-yet-sexy smile.
"Wow," she said, and I couldn't help but watch the movement of her throat as she gulped. She took a step closer and reached her hand up to my mouth as she looked me in the eye. "Can I …"
"Oh, yes," I uttered without thinking, and it came out in a low pleading voice. Her fingers came up to brush my fangs. I fought the urge to pierce the tips so that I could savor her blood. Our eyes locked; that heat, that new feeling inside my chest, roared in response to her caress, and all too soon (but just in time), she stepped back.
"I'm almost ready to go. Just let me get my purse and jacket," she said as she pulled away, composing herself.
"Yes, off to the party," I said, though I would have much rather stayed right there, and picked up where we left off last night. But that was wrong—even dangerous.
"You know, you can barely make out your lisp with those in," she remarked as she went to collect her things.
We never did make it to the party; though, in retrospect, it didn't seem to disappoint Sookie too much. She later told me that a couple dressed as Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein won the contest. Apparently they had excellent makeup, and she had teased her real hair into a beehive and sprayed in the white lightning bolt. That didn't mean much to me, but Sookie seemed impressed with the effort, so I had merely nodded and smiled. Nothing would be able to top our costumes in my mind.
About a half of a mile from her house, we ran into a roadblock. Ten or so cop cars with lights flashing had the street blocked to one lane. Ahead of the vehicles, I saw a cop rolling out yellow tape. So this was a crime scene, not just a fender-bender. I recognized Pam, in uniform—not the skank suit—amidst the activity.
"Stay here and lock the doors behind me. I'm going to go check it out," I said to Sookie as I reached for my ID lanyard. I didn't have a badge, but I still had a pass to get behind that yellow line.
"Oh, Eric. I'm glad you're here. We found another one. The other victims were killed a few days apart, so we didn't think he'd strike again so soon," Pam said as I came up to stand beside her. "What's with all the black?" she added, sarcastically.
"Sookie and I were on our way to a Halloween party," I said.
"So things are going well between you two?" she asked. Pam and I didn't talk much about anything too personal (for good reason), so I was surprised she'd asked at all, let alone seemed genuinely interested.
"As well as can be expected," I replied. Pam and Sookie had remained friends, and I knew they did talk about more personal things. That seemed to be the way with women.
"You just have to be patient with her," Pam said with authority. I had all the time in the world, but I couldn't explain that to Pam. "Just be gentle with her. She's been fucked over by men before, Eric—so you better not."
"I haven't—calm down, Pam," I said. "We haven't even—I've barely touched her." But I couldn't help but remember last night … her warm, soft mouth … I was hard just thinking about it.
"That's not what I meant!" Pam exclaimed, exasperated. "Don't fuck her over emotionally, Eric. I think what you both need is a good screw. You can be so uptight sometimes. But you can't just be a total guy about it. You got to make it good for her, too." This conversation was quickly moving out of my comfort zone, but that was the thing about Pam. She didn't have a filter. She just said whatever was on her mind. "I'll be blunt," she added, and I wondered if her previous comments were supposed to be tactful. "You should just go down on her." Part of me wanted to turn Pam just so that I wouldn't have to endure these sorts of comments. I did enjoy her cutting remarks when directed towards others, but if I were her Maker, I would never tolerate her teasing me.
Then again, Pam was not only a woman herself but also a lover of women. Maybe she had a point. Unfortunately, now was not the time to think about it. I had to see this new body.
"Well, right now she's waiting in the car, so why don't I take a look at this so I can get back to her?"
This time, the killer had left the body in the middle of a park, right near the beach. It wasn't a neighborhood frequented by working girls, so I didn't think the killer had chosen this place for its convenience. It was symbolic. It was a message. The Butcher had chosen it for a reason, though I wasn't sure what it could be.
To my chagrin, it wasn't Andy Bellefleur, who was so frightened of me he wouldn't dare question my presence, but Sam Merlotte who was the detective on scene tonight. It didn't surprise me, though, that he had weaseled his way on to this case.
"What are you doing here, Northman?" he asked in an accusing manner.
"I was driving by and saw the big crime scene. Thought I'd stop and see if I could offer a hand," I replied in an even tone, with a bit of a smirk. He could look all he wanted for a reason to support his suspicion of me.
"Well, you might as well just move on, because there's no blood, again. No use for you." But I had to see. There was no going back, and I pushed past him.
Beautiful. How'd he do it? It was as if he grew more accomplished with each kill. The body found in the pool hadn't been this perfect. Some of the cuts had been jagged, hurried, even emotional. Not this one—clean and straight lines in perfect proportion. Just as white, just as dry. Amazing.
"He's getting bolder. Striking again this soon. The media will have a field day," Pam groaned.
He'll slip up. You'll find him. Don't worry," I said, turning to Detective Merlotte. "My girlfriend's waiting in the car. Best be going, but let me know if I can be of any assistance," I offered cordially. "Goodnight, Pam."
"Remember what I said, Eric," she added as I walked off, a coy smile on her face. Oh, I hadn't forgotten. In fact, the thought of acting on her suggestion made it difficult to move at less than vampire speed back to the car.
Still, I was angry when I returned; Sookie had ignored my words of caution and was leaning against the car, rather than locked safely inside.
"Sookie," I said, unable even to express my frustration when I saw her in that short, black dress.
"I know, I should be in the car," she began to say, but I cut her off with a kiss. What began as urgent slowed to a soft, languorous movement of my mouth against hers. Determined to let her lead and decide how far it would go, I didn't even place my hands on her, though they ached to be there. To my surprise and delight, she stepped forward and offered her tongue by gently touching it to my lips. I could have done this forever; the spectacle surrounding us didn't matter, not when I was with Sookie like this. The blue and red flashing lights, the sound of the bustling activity of the crime scene yards away, it all faded from my perception. In that moment Sookie was all there was—the way she felt, the way she smelled, the way she tasted.
Before things could go too far, she broke away from me. "I even like doing that with those fangs in," she said, with a small laugh. I felt my eyes widen slightly, but I tried to disguise my surprise, even fear. Tonight was one thing, but I couldn't slip up like that again. "Let's go home. I don't really feel like being around other people right now," she whispered, and I couldn't agree more.
We were silent on the short drive back to Sookie's; silent as she led me back to her bedroom; silent as she slipped off her shoes, her jacket, and that cross necklace before turning her back to me and pulling her hair over to one side. She wanted me to pull down her zipper. I took the tiny piece of metal between my thumb and forefinger and slowly drew it down; the only sound was the teeth of the zipper unhinging and Sookie's breath and heartbeat. I couldn't help but brush the tip of my finger against the exposed skin of her back before pulling away, and her breath caught in a gasp, just as before.
This feeling, the tightening in my chest, the warmth that felt as if it came from within me, though I knew I was cold and dead inside, threatened to overwhelm my senses and my judgment. "I'll let you change, then," I managed to choke out, but as quickly as I turned to leave, she reached for my hand.
"Don't go, Eric," she whispered and she squeezed my hand before releasing it. She shrugged out of the top of her dress, letting it fall to the floor, and stepped out of it and toward me, wearing nothing but her black lace lingerie. "I trust you," she added, before reaching up to kiss me.
That was it—there was no going back now. It took my centuries of practice in restraint to not take her hard and fast right there. But no, that wasn't what Sookie deserved. She needed to be shown that I was worthy of her trust. There would be time for hard and fast later. First, I would make her mine. Right then and there, I decided no other man would ever touch her, let alone hurt her. I kissed her with a thousand years' worth of passion as my hands greedily ran over her body, down from one shoulder to the curve of her hip, the other down her back, over her shoulder blade, to rest at the small of her back. I picked her up and gently set her on the bed.
Oh, where to begin. I would have been content to continue exploring her mouth until dawn pulled me under, but now the options seemed endless. I started just behind her ear, a particularly sensitive spot, judging by the soft moan my tongue elicited. I continued to tease down the side of her neck, allowing the tips of my fangs to graze her pulse. Had I known how liberating a costume would be, I certainly wouldn't have been reluctant. I had never imagined that a disguise could make things so much more interesting.
Sookie was definitely not satisfied being a passive participant; she ran her hands down my back until they landed on my butt, pulling me down onto her as she arched her hips up against me, creating the most delicious friction. My hands reached underneath her to release the clasp of her bra, and she willingly moved to slide her arms out of the straps. If I continued for another thousand years, I doubt I would find another pair of breasts to compare with Sookie's. They were the perfect size for my large hands, and I continued kissing my way down across her throat as I gently caressed in light circles around her nipple, before descending to take one in my mouth. Sookie moaned in appreciation of the attention, which produced a deep swell of satisfaction in me; she wanted this. She wanted me. It made me want her even more, and not only that—it also made me want to please her.
And I planned on pleasing her. She watched me with intense eyes as I drew my tongue and my fangs from one breast to the other through the valley in between, as my fingers trailed lower, down over the velvety soft skin of her abdomen, to just her hips, curling underneath the sides of her panties and easing them off her. My lips followed the path of my hands as Sookie's breath became heavy and erratic. Her legs opened for me, and I grazed the inside of her folds tentatively.
The heady, buttery scent of her was nearly intoxicating. I could feel the heat rising from her, feel the quickening of her pulse, her blood racing through her veins. If I couldn't taste it, then I would have what could only be the next best thing.
I teased her sensitive skin with my tongue, settling in on her center, licking and sucking until she came with a shudder. That strange sensation had emanated from somewhere deep inside me all the way down to the tips of my toes as I watched her.
"You're perfect," I mumbled against her skin as I kissed my way back up her body to her mouth. "Beautiful," I whispered in her ear, settling down beside her. I felt more content than I could remember, even considering I hadn't had a release of my own. Almost enough to believe that if I could do that every night, I wouldn't ever need to kill again.
"I love that I can't tell you what you're thinking," she said with a smile as she brushed my hair back from my face. "I've never been able to enjoy that before," she added. "Not like that, at least." A beautiful blush colored her face, and she turned her eyes away from me, slightly embarrassed. I, of course, beamed with pride. I had known that I would be a fantastic lover.
"I thought women wanted to know what men thought," I teased before laying a kiss on her temple.
"Even if they do, I imagine they wouldn't like it if they found out," she said a bit too seriously.
"What do you mean?" I asked delicately. After that perfect moment we had just shared, I didn't want to ruin it, but I felt there was more to her words than she was letting on.
"I told you. That's why I like you so much, why it is so easy to be around you. But still, it's so scary not being able to hear what you're thinking. It's why I've been so reluctant and have wanted you earnestly at the same time. What makes you so different that I can't hear your thoughts when I can hear the constant chattering of everyone else? Is it your—" but I had to interrupt her. Had she just admitted to being telepathic?
"You hear the thoughts of others?" I knew it. There was something supernatural about Sookie. I knew there was some reason I was drawn to her, why I felt compelled to protect her, to please her, to simply be with her, though getting this close inevitably risked exposure, and thus violated the Code. I could so easily break either tenet by inadvertently killing her or by revealing the truth about myself. Kill only killers; don't get caught. Why did that no longer seem like an adequate ideology? This woman and this new killer were suddenly threatening the very foundation of my existence. And rather than fighting it, I was welcoming it.
"Yes, and your mind is like a big, cool, inviting, empty space, where I can let the world around me fade away and finally find some sense of peace," she said softly, and I could literally feel the tremor in her voice as well as hear it, I was holding her so closely. Only the threat of the sun could motivate me to release her now that I had her in my arms. "I know you have a secret, too. That there's more to your condition than you let on. And you can trust me with that. Who am I to judge someone for being different?"
"Even if it frightened you?" I whispered against her ear and loosened my grip so she wouldn't feel trapped.
"I trust you," she said firmly. The resolve echoed in the way she nestled back against me, rather than pulling further away.
"Sookie … that's crazy," I said. That she could trust me, knowing there was something dangerous and otherworldly about me, even if she didn't know exactly what, was certainly not logical.
"I don't think so," she said, and yawned contentedly. I glanced at the digital alarm clock on her beside table. Could the night really be coming to an end?
"I need to go," I mumbled, dipping down to take one more opportunity to kiss her neck.
"I know," she said.
"But I'll come back," I assured her.
"I know that, too," and I kissed her one last time before leaving.
Oh, what a night. I turned the lock to my apartment. Though I'd had my usual drink when I rose for the evening, after the extreme control I'd exerted to keep from biting Sookie, I was burning with thirst. With less than enthusiasm, I went to my fridge, knowing I had nothing fresh, just an emergency reserve, stolen from the blood bank.
When I opened the door, there was a clear, plastic container, with a big red bow on it, filled with what I knew instinctively was pure, fresh, human blood. The light of the refrigerator shone on it like a beacon. I had no doubt it had been drained from the body the police had found tonight in the park.
Earlier tonight, I had thought it was merely my inflated ego and my sense of self-importance, which were both natural parts of being immortal and inhuman, when I had thought the Butcher was placing bodies for me to immediately discover them. First, at the hotel where Pam was staying while working undercover, and then tonight, at a park I frequented, that I drove past nearly every night to and from Sookie's house. This confirmed my suspicion. He was trying to get my attention.
This gift was a friendly gesture, a sort of hello. A challenge, but playful, not threatening. I took the contents and heated them, smiling. Not only did Sookie understand and accept me, offering herself to me as well as to share in my secret, but I had a new target as well, someone who promised to be much more challenging than my average murderer, someone who challenged me in a new and exciting way. This was going to be fun.
END