Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Southern Vampire Mysteries one-shot story from Pam's POV. Disclaimer: I do not own the Southern Vampires series. All rights belong to Charlaine Harris. I receive no compensation for this, and just really like the characters. Enjoy.
It was just after sundown when Pam rose from her resting place and felt the familiar burn of hunger and lust that usually accompanied waking from her day death. She stretched her thin bone white arms and wondered what excitement the night would hold for her. It was another night of door duty at Fangtasia for the old vampire.
Her brain ran through all the possible scenarios that could play out. The array of images came rapid-fire, and each consisted of much the same material: boring night at Fangtasia; catching up on business with her Master; and finally, feeding off one of her favorite fangbangers (preferably young, brunette, and female, though she wouldn't turn down a young, brunette male either), or perhaps two. These last images only served to increase her hunger and lust, and she cursed herself for having thought them. She was beginning to understand why some of her less "mainstreaming" fellow vampires kept human "pets."
Pam was like her Master in that way—a pragmatist. She saw the utility in the idea of having 24-7 access to blood and sex, but also saw all of the potential downsides. Most humans were annoying, demanding, and unintelligent. She would tire of them in a fortnight, and would be forced to glamour, turn, or kill them. It seemed like a lot of work for a little blood.
She shifted her long legs over to the side of her luxurious and rounded bed, pulled aside the ivory silk privacy drapes enclosing its frame, and slipped her feet into her peach-colored satin slippers. She enjoyed the contradiction of being a deadly predator that came wrapped in an innocent package of sedate pastel clothing and loafers. It wasn't so much that she had a preference for this style—she couldn't care less as long as the things were well-made. But, she did love seeing the surprised expressions on vampire and human faces alike when she donned her loafers and sweater sets shortly after removing her black vinyl Fangtasia garb. Personally, she believed death and danger were most effective and enticing when disguised. Her Master disagreed.
From her bedroom she walked, brain still heavy with the dissipating haze of her day death, over to her refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of TrueBlood. She popped the bottle into the microwave and shook it until the warmth was evenly distributed. She slugged back a deep gulp and cringed, cursing the vampires who wanted to mainstream, and the stupid Japanese humans who had invented the vile liquid. She wished the fairies and other supes would come out of the damn closet already so they could manufacture something better that would be reasonably priced. She was not going to pay the arm and a leg those humans wanted for their damned bottles of royal blood.
She recalled the first time she'd tasted the bottled synthetic blood. At first she had thought it was some kind of poison, and couldn't understand why vampires seemed happy about the idea. Then, when she'd survived the whole first bottle with nothing more than slight retching, she'd thought it was some kind of joke humanity was playing on its predator, punishing it with misplaced humor. Well, it was she who would have the last laugh tonight when some unsuspecting fangbanger submitted to her every unsatisfied whim. She smirked at the prospect, and her fangs ran down at the imagined scene in which whips, leather, and of course, real fresh blood played prominent figures. She licked her lips in anticipation.
Gagging down the rest of her TrueBlood, her thirst only partially sated, she perused the Shreveport human newspapers, and then the Louisiana vampire newspapers. Nothing new or exciting in those departments, she sighed to herself. She checked her horoscope for the day—Gemini (her birthday was in early June, when she became vampire, of course)—and was not pleased with what she read. She chastised herself for reading the foolish human nonsense, but was irritated by it all the same. She read it again just to further agitate herself. Oh yes, some fangbanger vermin is in for a hell of a time tonight, she wickedly thought to herself as her mood grew still blacker.
"You are on the verge of big changes," read the offending material. "Certain people in your life will remind you of who you really are, and your true purpose in life. Don't be afraid to ask others for help, open yourself to new experiences, or rely on someone you perceive as weaker than yourself. You'll feel a little insecure today, but you should embrace this feeling as part of the change."
She threw the paper across the room. There were more than a few things about that horoscope that bothered her. First, she didn't want change. She'd had enough change over the last few years. She wanted predictable sex and bloodletting with some attractive human blood sacks. That wasn't too much to ask, was it? Second, she didn't want a purpose other than to be a good vampire, good minion, and good fuck. That was her true self. She wanted nothing beyond what she already had. She was sure she didn't. Then there was the real problem. The very idea of asking another for help, especially someone weaker than herself made the synthetic bile she'd just consumed rise to the center of her throat.
Still, she knew why she was upset—she felt that there was some truth to the worthless human drivel. She felt it the same way she thought there was some wisdom to Dear Abby's often insipid and obvious advice.
When being truly honest with herself and not hiding behind her carefully cultivated feeling-less vampire façade, she realized that she was feeling insecure. This bothered her because a vampire as old as she should feel anything but insecure. She was beautiful. She was the child of a powerful and ancient Master. She was feared and respected throughout the vampire community, and was desired throughout the human community—by men and women alike. She started to feel better as she repeated these mantras in her own mind, but was unable to divest herself of the underlying feeling of insecurity.
Pam then stood and ventured a glance at her face in a hallway mirror, located opposite her bedroom door. This particular mirror was, in a way, oddly reflective of her. It was rounded with two sets of copper wiring throughout. The first (and outermost) copper wire pattern was cut in a jagged octagon throughout the mirror, dividing it into equal sections. It looked harsh and linear. The second (and innermost) copper wiring was a circle that framed the useful part of the mirror. She thought she was like this—a contradiction of round softness on the edge, jagged danger in the middle, and another round, soft core at her center.
Tired of gazing only at her face, which was revealing to her no secret insight into her insecurity, Pam ambled over to the full length mirror on the inside of her closet door. Once in front of the mirror she dropped her silky robe, and regarded her naked body with a critical eye. She knew she was close to flawless. She was thin, but with hips and medium sized breasts. She had been turned fairly young, so her body was preserved in its youth—prior to any unsightly gravity-induced effects. She ran her hands over her iridescent skin, enjoying its cool softness.
Pam smiled at her reflection, and was about to replace the robe in its rightful place over her shoulders when the realization hit her like a stake to the heart. She knew the source of her insecurity—or rather, she knew the sources. There was, of course, one main source, but a few collateral sources as well. She was nearly knocked over by the force of the realization, and had to sit down on the edge of her bed.
She heard her clock tick off several uncomfortable minutes before the spinning of the world's axes slowed, and she was willing to deal with the truth. The primary reason for her insecurity and moodiness was none other than her friend, the telepath Sookie Stackhouse.
She rolled the idea around in her head like she would roll different vintages of blood around in her mouth to savor each unique flavor. She needed to be cautious with how she approached this revelation. At first, she laughed out loud and refused to believe it. It was delusional. How could a beautiful and powerful vampire such as herself feel cowed by a little human woman? To a nearly immortal like her, the length of Sookie Stackhouse's life would resemble the length of a mid-afternoon summer thunder storm that passes rapidly by with vibrant and brilliant intensity.
She recalled listening to her various human companions as she had made them describe this phenomenon. She had never experienced such a thing in her youth, but encountered the pleasing after-storm scent when she had lived on the eastern coast of the United States many years prior. She'd smelt the heady dampness of the drying rain rise up through the thick night air and had become intrigued with its source, demanding a description of the event from any who would indulge her.
She listened quietly and rapturously as her companion would describe with great detail (mostly due to glamour) the initial presence of the hot and oppressive summer sun, the impending approach of a dark cloud (a thunderhead, one had called it), the intense bursts of thunder and lightning, the torrent of rain, and the streaming burst of sunlight that inevitably parted the dark clouds. They had said this could all occur within the course of a few minutes. It had touched her, the brief intensity of the event, and she was momentarily awed by the natural things she was deprived of knowing. A solitary tear had broken free as she thought this. She had immediately fed from her human to ease her pain.
The longer she reflected on it, the more apt she felt the description. In her mind, Sookie Stackhouse was a mid-afternoon summer storm. The plucky and stubborn little telepath had blown into their lives on a thunderhead, and would dissipate after a brief but intense spell. Why her life and the lives of those vampires around her had become the summer day was not for her to know. She could only blame (and thank) the vampire Bill Compton.
When she thought on that, she could blame Bill Compton for many things. She'd never really cared for the vampire, thinking that he was incredibly foolish for a vampire of his age. She knew her master shared some of those feelings about Bill as well. She'd thought Bill doubly foolish when he walked into Fangtasia with the luscious blond girl, who clearly had no business in a vampire bar, (she'd even tried to shake my hand, for crying out loud!) and expected none of the other vampires to take notice. Then, when he permitted the fragile mortal to risk her life by asking questions about dead fangbangers—and of Eric, no less!—she'd thought him beyond foolish. She'd thought he'd lost his mind.
After the little telepath had alerted them to the presence of police and they'd taken shelter nearby, she'd told her Master of her suspicions about Bill's state of mind. She had begged him to let her stake the crazy vampire before he could cause more trouble than he was worth. He'd just laughed and told her that it would all end up working in their favor. She'd sulked for an entire day night after that. In hindsight, of course, her Master had been correct. He usually was. She was glad it was he who had changed her and not some stupid fool of a vampire like Bill.
Of course, after she'd gotten to know Sookie Stackhouse a little better, she realized that Bill never really had much of a choice about that night. She also thought he might be a bit smarter and saner than she'd surmised. She knew enough of Sookie Stackhouse and her obstinate refusal to bend to the sage advice of others to know the little danger magnet would have gone to Fangtasia alone. She would have asked questions. Then she probably would have been killed and dumped in a swamp somewhere.
When Pam learned that Bill had been acting under order of the Queen of Louisiana to seduce and protect the little telepath, she was awestruck. She understood why the Queen chose Bill—easy to use and manipulate—but couldn't understand how he'd managed to keep Sookie Stackhouse alive as long as he had. She didn't think he had it in him. When he'd agreed to let the little human help her Master question their human servants, she'd thought for sure the fragile woman's days were numbered. They probably still were.
Of course, she realized that Bill wasn't the only one with an interest in keeping Sookie Stackhouse alive and useful. No, the little telepath really had a legion of men—shifters, Weres, and vampires—who wanted her (alive, that is). The biggest shock for Pam came when her own Master, an ancient vampire who was also a powerful sheriff, staked another vampire in order to save the telepath's life. She'd thought Bill's brand of madness and stupidity might have been contagious, and wondered if she'd be infected too.
Her Master had explained his reasons, but it all sounded like subterfuge. She'd known that he, like Bill, had fallen victim to some obsessive fascination with the little telepath. She'd also known that Eric was too old and proud to admit such to himself. He'd give her a barrage of reasons, and she'd roll her eyes until he bellowed and threatened about no less than fifty different types of painful torture as punishment for her impertinence. She would quickly drop her gaze to the floor and apologize, ever the submissive child, but he'd known she hadn't meant it. He couldn't really be angry with her anyhow, not when he knew she was right.
It was this sort of madness and danger that seemed to surround the little telepath. In Pam's view Sookie left broken-hearted men, and destroyed empires in her wake. But, Pam reasoned, she also has saved lives—including mine. It was this bravery in the face of an obviously cursed life that made Pam so insecure.
Pam chewed on that thought for a moment because she realized it wasn't the full explanation. In a way she envied the little mortal's unyielding loyalty in the face of certain death. She knew she would never have done many (or any) of the brave things Sookie had. Still, her envy was fleeting and superficial. She regarded Sookie as a friend, and an extraordinary human—not that this was any high compliment—but she thought Sookie was an extraordinary being. Well, at least she is never boring, Pam revised to herself with a smirk.
After some knitting (she'd unconsciously picked up a pair of mittens she was knitting for Sookie's witch-friend, and her occasional playmate, Amelia) and introspective thinking, she decided that the additional reasons for her insecurity extended from her Master's attachment to the danger magnet that was Sookie Stackhouse. Her fear was wrapped up in the fact that she thought this attachment eventually would lead to all three of their deaths (and probably even the fool Bill's death).
Pam glanced up at her doorway, as if negative thoughts of her Master's bonded would make him suddenly appear raging and swinging his old broadsword. She was being paranoid. She knew he would have staked her for doubting his ability to protect them. He would have staked her twice, were it possible, for thinking ill of his bonded. She kept all of her doubts to herself—all the time—and it weighed on her after a while. She had felt the weight grow heavier in the months since that ruthless asshole de Castro had swept in and pulled the rug out from under their feet. She felt almost a grudging respect for the intrepid vampire, but that was as positive as she would allow her feelings for the scheming lothario and his irritating underling to become.
She knew that the de Castro/Madden combination was an especially tricky and dangerous pairing. They had controlled the Nevada regime with an iron fist, and had extensive dealings with the human mafia and governments. It was no small matter that this was the regime that had taken over. She thought it likely that both De Castro and his scheming underling would come to covet much of what her Master and his area had to offer—including a percentage of Fangtasia's profits, Bill's database, and the plucky little telepath who was well-known and had saved the King's own pathetic life.
She knew the Master and remaining Louisiana vamps would need their wits about them to prevent any further hostile action. De Castro would take no issue with destroying all the remaining Louisiana vamps, and would happily replace them with his own people. Of course, the easiest path to accomplishing this would be through manipulation or theft of her Master's greatest weakness. Everyone in the Louisiana territory knew this. Everyone except the little telepath herself, that is.
Still, you cannot undo what has been done. You must take what you have and adapt it to suit your needs. This is why she has repeatedly tried to convince her Master to go and claim what is his. She counted the times she has nearly kidnapped her only human friend for her Master. The total came somewhere close to around ten times. The plots always consisted of snatching her during this absurd "Girl's Night Out" Sookie was always referring to. Each time she had told her Master of her plan to attend a "Girl's Night Out," he'd threatened her with a different fifty forms of torture and death. He wanted to do it on his own time.
Well, she'd told him, your time is eternal. Hers is brief. You better make your move before one of those damn shifters or humans or whatnot swoops in and pulls her right out from under you. Or worse, that old mortal enemy, Death! He'd punished her for that comment. She hadn't enjoyed it, and had remained out of his Sookie affairs for the last two weeks. She was growing ever less patient and ever more concerned as her Master avoided his bonded. Realizing the futility of her thoughts, she decided to dress for Fangtasia in an attempt to chase the doubt from her mind. As much as it displeased her to do nothing, she would have to trust her Master's thousand years-worth of decision-making and collective instinct.
Sighing, she rose from her bed and drifted past her open closet doors. She scoured the "Fangtasia" section of her closet, and selected her favorite fangbanger-magnet outfit. It was a black satin, low-cut, and fitted floor-length dress with an accompanying corset. The sleeves of the dress were trailing, and the insides, which turned out and created the trails, were blood red. The trails matched the ties patterned across the black corset. She admired her reflection in the mirror and sighed, wondering if she was getting all "vamped" up for nothing. Hey, even vampires get the blues.