AN: Hey everybody *waves*

I thought this up for a Halloween contest, oh, over two years ago now. Failed to finish it then, tried and failed last October too. But hey, third time lucky. It's all written, 12 chapters so fairly short. I'll be posting on Fridays and Mondays.

It's also my first, and probably only, attempt at all human. Hope you like it.

...

"Told you the place had potential," Pam said smugly.

Eric gave a non-committal grunt in reply and dropped his cigarette onto the wet gravel of the driveway. Grinding it under his heel, he made a frame of his hands and looked through it at the property Pam had brought him to see.

A sprawling manor house dominated the view, its slate roof mossy and uneven, its stone walls rain-darkened and lichen-stained. Narrow windows encased in thick stonework gave the place a brooding, heavy look and their diamond-leaded panes glinted darkly under the overcast sky, adding to the general air of gloom. A square, single-storey porch thrust out from the middle of the house and its entrance, a wide archway deep in shadow, gaped like a hungry maw. The roof was topped with a mismatched assortment of chimneys and, ruining any semblance of symmetry, a squat, open-sided bell tower perched at one end, the bell hanging inside it silhouetted ominously against the steel-grey clouds.

On a wet, dismal day like this, the house was near picture-perfect for their purposes. That is, filming an episode of Phantom Science, an amateur web series that debunked the spooky and the spectral with rational thought and scientific explanation. It had been their pet project for almost seven years now.

"The camera will just eat it up," Pam continued, "and the rent is very reasonable."

"I can see why," Eric said, dropping his hands and looking pointedly around.

The house sat in a shallow valley, in grounds that had once been beautifully landscaped but were now unkempt, the lawn weedy, the shrubs overgrown to the point of neglect. The place looked abandoned. It really was perfect, but Eric wasn't about to admit that.

"Everywhere's cheaper this time of year," Pam said defensively. "October is off-season and we're a little off the beaten track."

"A little?" Eric scoffed. Pretending to be doubtful, he frowned at the manor and rubbed his chin. "Hm. We'll have to lose that To Let sign. And those windows are tiny. Stan will whine about the lighting."

"Let him whine. The interior is fabulous, if I do say so myself. Hunting trophies on the walls, oak panelling, stone fireplaces, the works. It just oozes the right atmosphere."

It did sound fantastic. "Tudor, you say."

"Originally, but it's been added to over the years."

"How big are the beds?"

Pam put a hand on her hip, a sign his lack of enthusiasm was getting to her. "They have updated the furniture in the last five hundred years. And it's only three nights, petal. You'll live."

"Don't call me that."

"Then don't be such a precious flower."

"You try sleeping on a bed a foot shorter than you are. Oh wait, you can't. You'd have to raid a dolls-house for that."

"You're just jealous." Pam gestured at herself and her designer ensemble with a beautifully manicured hand. "Small is beautiful."

"Big is better." He smirked. "Or so she said."

Pam rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, you're a giant among men. A giant Neanderthal. Mind you don't scrape your knuckles on the gravel."

"Bitch," he said, laughing. The drizzle had restarted. He shrugged up the collar of his coat against it and admitted grudgingly, "Good call on the house. When's the Yank arriving?"

"Don't you dare call her that. She's from the South."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I know."

"Eric," Pam warned, narrowing her eyes, "if you make her miserable enough to quit, I'll skin you alive. We need to keep her sweet."

"You said that about Flanagan too. Until you begged me to get rid of her."

Two years ago Nan Flanagan, a cash-flush and recently-widowed Irish woman, offered to invest a chunk of capital in their tiny production company. The company was just a vehicle for Phantom Science so it was more of a hobby than a going concern, but Pam had some crazy ideas about where they could take the show if they had a backer and she was tempted by Nan's offer. Eric, however, warned that the woman couldn't be trusted and his instincts were spot on. Nan had an unhealthy obsession with the occult, as they soon discovered, and she insinuated herself into more and more of the decision-making, eventually demanding complete editorial control.

That was Pam's province and suddenly Nan's interference was not to be borne. Never mind that Nan had been flirting sickeningly with Eric for weeks by then, as if her money somehow bought her a ticket to his bed. Mostly by text thankfully, but still. It made his skin crawl.

Pam had insisted he play along, but once she decided Nan had to go all bets were off. Eric was only too happy to make life unbearable for the delusional old bat, and Nan left in a storm of offended dignity after a particularly vicious row that ended with Eric making several unprintable suggestions for what she could do with the sizeable stick wedged up her arse. Fortunately, Pam had the foresight to include a cooling-off period in the contract and took great delight in returning Nan's investment, severing their association for good. She'd given Eric a very expensive bottle of whisky as a thank you too.

He'd taken it as an unspoken apology. Pam didn't do the spoken kind; it wasn't her style.

"Flanagan was a special case," Pam said airily. "Besides, she was an investor. Co-hosts are different. And this is just a one-off, but you know how important the Halloween episode is. Don't mess it up."

"If this American is anything like the last co-host you saddled me with, it'll be a disaster without any help from me."

Pam grimaced. Yes, Sophie-Ann LeClerq had been a nightmare of epic proportions. If she'd known the Z-list French starlet came with the most annoying nasal whine and the demands of an entitled Hollywood diva, but very little talent to speak of to make up for it, she'd never have hired her. But Sophie-Ann had been very photogenic, and sufficiently flirtatious in their email exchanges to prick Pam's interest.

"The American won't be as bad as LeClerq," Pam assured. She was fairly sure that wasn't actually possible; no-one else could be that irritating, surely. "But if she is, you'll just have to grit your teeth and bear it. I've already billed this episode as the Transatlantic Alliance."

She said the title so seriously that Eric could almost hear the capitals. Laughing, he parroted it back at her, complete with mocking air quotes. Pam slapped him on the arm.

"Ouch," he dead-panned.

"I mean it, Eric. We don't have time to hunt down another American. It took me months to find this one and I don't want her walking before the episode is in the can. Behave yourself."

"I always behave. On camera."

"Off camera is what I'm worried about," she muttered. "No pulling pigtails, you overgrown child."

He put on a ridiculously innocent expression and thickened his accent. "Pig's tails? Pulling the curly tails of little piggies? Is this some quaint English custom, like chasing the fox with the doggies?" He wiggled his eyebrows and leered. "Those red jackets and tight trousers are so sexy."

"Fox hunting was banned two years ago," Pam snapped. "And the dumb Swede act doesn't work on me, remember? I know you've been here for years."

Eric gave her an impish grin. "Ah, but the Yank won't know that."

Pam punched him, hard. While he was swearing and rubbing his arm back to life, she made a note to bring some painkillers when they came back to film. She had a feeling it was going to be a long, headache-inducing weekend.

…

Eric waited outside the manor house, smoking and one eye on the clouds. The forecast promised blustery rain, typical mid-October weather and just what they needed. He was wearing the jeans that Pam said flattered his arse, the blue cashmere jumper that she said brought out his eyes — whatever the hell that meant — and the battered leather jacket that he credited with more successful conquests than either of them.

Not that he was anticipating anything like that with a co-host, not after Sophie-Ann. But it paid to make an impression.

At the noise of a car coming down the long gravel drive, he stamped out his cigarette. He raised an eyebrow when a black London taxi-cab came into view. The Americans hadn't driven themselves? Maybe they weren't comfortable driving on the left. Or perhaps none of them could drive a manual.

What was it they called that again? Ah, yes. Stick-shift.

The taxi swung in a sharp arc, scattering gravel. Before it came to a complete stop, the back door flew open and a woman hopped out. She had auburn hair cut in a neat bob, and she was talking twenty to the dozen into a phone clutched to her ear. Absently, she grabbed the door and held it open. A second woman appeared, her head ducked, so all Eric saw at first was a mop of honey-blonde hair. Then she straightened up, and his breath caught as he drank in her face. Delicate nose, full lips, sparkling blue eyes. (He was sure they were blue and sparkling, even though he wasn't nearly close enough to tell.) She smiled at him. Were those dimples? He was a sucker for dimples, and as for the rest of her…

She can shift my stick any time.

He banished the thought immediately. She was probably just another Sophie-Ann: beautiful, but empty-headed and venomous. It was too much to hope for a personality as attractive as her appearance, let alone a sense of humour to match his.

He strode forward, hand held out. "Miss Stackhouse, I presume. Eric, Eric Northman."

"Pleasure to meet you, Eric," she said, taking his hand. "Please, call me Sookie."

Firm grip, those eyes were blue, and her voice was rich and warm. He liked her accent. It suited her. "You're shorter than I expected," he said, with a smile. "Did you bring something to stand on?"

"Stand on?" She frowned and he held his breath. Was she going to take offence? Then the corner of her mouth lifted and one of those lovely dimples appeared. "Oh, honey," she drawled, "whatever makes you think we'll be standin'."

Did she just...? Oh, she did! His grin broadened and his voice deepened. "I meant for when we're on camera."

"So did I," she said, not missing a beat.

Those eyes were definitely sparkling now. Oh, this weekend was going to be all kinds of fun. Flirtatious sense of humour: check. Now to test the mettle underneath that lovely exterior, see if her courage rose to the occasion. Worse case scenario, she'd turn out to be a screamer. (Ginger, the last extra Pam hired for a shoot, had a scream loud enough to drop an elephant. Ginger had lasted precisely three hours.) Eric glanced at the taxi. The driver, a burly guy with dark hair, was hauling luggage out of the back while the brunette with the bob directed him in a loud voice. Good, it was just the two of them.

"Would you like to see inside the house?" he asked. She was already staring at it.

"Would I ever. We don't have anything this old back home."

"Ladies first," he said like the gentleman he definitely wasn't. He gestured towards the impressive stone porch. The benches built into it could comfortably seat six and the arched double-doors it protected were tall and dark with age, their thick oak planks dotted with iron studs.

"Why thank you," she said, and her smile almost made him abort the plan. Almost.

Then she was passing him, her trainers crunching the gravel, and he forgot to do anything but stare. Those jeans clung to her like a second skin, and the sway of her hips—

Focus, Northman. You don't want this goingwrong.

A few brisk strides had him just about caught up to her, but a raucous cawing made him look up instinctively. Two crows erupted from the roof in a burst of flapping. Sookie gasped, stopping so abruptly he almost smacked into her. Was she frightened of birds? Before he could even think of teasing her, a harsh scraping came from overhead — the sound of stone dragging on stone — and something fell from the roof edge.

It tumbled towards them, square and black against the sky.

Eric leapt forwards, clamped an arm around Sookie's waist, lifted her off her feet and bundled her bodily into the shelter of the porch. The falling object clattered against the porch roof above, a series of thuds and scrapes echoing off the bare stone walls, ending with a sharp crack. A shower of fragments rained down outside, pattering harmlessly onto the gravel.

The object had shattered completely.

Sookie wriggled out of his hold at once, which was a crying shame. No scream though, which was a blessing. And promising, distinctly promising.

"Sookie!" That was the brunette, still beside the taxi. Her yell was impressively loud. "You okay, honey?"

"Just peachy," Sookie yelled back. Pushing past Eric, she stomped out of the porch, waved off the concerned taxi-driver who looked like he was about to come over, and began examining the debris.

Eric thrust his hands into his pockets and joined her just as she squinted up at the roof, a hand raised to shield her eyes.

"What in the hell...?" She shook her head and snorted. "Oh, I get it. Putting the new gal through her paces, huh?"

"Whatever do you mean?" he said, trying not to laugh at the scowl she was directing his way.

"One," she said, pointing at the roof, "there ain't a single tile missing up there, Mister Eric Northman. And two" — bending down, she snatched a fragment off the ground and waved it under his nose — "this here is red clay, but that there on the roof is... is... Shoot. What in tarnation is that again?"

"Slate," he said, amused by the way her accent had thickened.

"Slate. Thank you. Decidedly grey slate." She tossed the fragment away and dusted off her hands. "You must think I came down in the last shower. Unless... Was I meant to swoon into your arms? Does crap like that actually work on English chicks?"

He did laugh then, in surprise. "I wouldn't know. I only play pranks on friends and colleagues these days, not random girls I meet down the pub."

"Girls you meet down the pub," she repeated slowly, giving him a thoughtful look. "You don't date colleagues."

"Not as a rule. But rules have exceptions." He stared boldly into her eyes, daring her to look away.

She didn't, not even when footsteps crunched towards them and a throat cleared loudly. Eric couldn't tell who broke eye-contact first, but they both turned towards the sound. It was the taxi-driver. Close up he was tanned and surly, with a belligerent set to his jaw.

"This fool bothering you, darlin'?" he asked Sookie, with a distinctly Southern twang.

Ah. Not a taxi-driver, one of her team. Older than her though, a touch of grey in his hair.

"Nope," she said, popping the p. "He's still standing, ain't he? Tray, this is Eric Northman, our gracious host. Eric, this rude asshole is Tray Dawson, my friend and sometime cameraman."

"And sometime bodyguard," Tray added, folding his arms. "Who doesn't appreciate things falling on his friend from a great height."

"She was perfectly safe," said an irritated voice.

They all turned to look at the man stepping out of the porch. He was short and skinny, and he wore thick-rimmed glasses, a faded Spiderman t-shirt, worn jeans and scuffed workman's boots. "That tile was rigged to break long before it hit the ground," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "I tested it at least half a dozen times. No-one was in any danger."

"Sookie, Tray," Eric said, "meet Stan Davidowitz, my right-hand man."

"Don't forget cameraman extraordinaire," Stan said, tucking the rag into his pocket and treating Sookie to a dazzling smile. "Also lighting technician, sound engineer, all-round tech support and Eric's partner-in-crime. At your service."

"Pleasure to meet you," Sookie said, shaking his hand, grease and all.

Eric supressed an eye-roll as Stan pulled her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. Four was definitely a crowd.

"Pleasure's all mine," Stan said smoothly, winking at her as he let go. He turned to Tray, who looked sceptically at the hand he was offered.

"You gonna slobber all over me too?"

"Only if you buy me at least ten pints," Stan said seriously. Then his face broke into a cheeky grin. "I'd need some serious beer goggles to mistake you for a woman, you great big bear of a man."

The ice broken, Tray laughed and shook his hand. The brunette with the bob had been talking animatedly to Pam over by the taxi, but they came over and there was another round of introductions. Eric was pleased when the brunette — one Miss Amelia Broadway — slipped an arm around Tray's waist. They were a couple. He was less pleased with the glare Pam was directing his way, but he ignored that with an ease born of long friendship.

"The boys like to play a few tricks now and then," Pam said to Sookie. "I do hope they didn't upset you."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Sookie said graciously. "It takes more than loose roof-tile to rattle me. I have an older brother. I know how to take a prank."

Her eyes were twinkling. Eric didn't know what that twinkle meant, but he definitely liked the look of it.

"Well, they won't do it again," Pam said firmly, shooting Eric and Stan a baleful look. That was Pam-speak for she'd have their balls if they even thought about it. As soon as she turned back to the others, Eric and Stan grinned at each other behind her back. When had her disapproval ever stopped them?

"Right," Pam continued briskly, "what are we all standing out here in the cold for? Boys, fetch the luggage. Ladies, let me show you what we're working with here. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

Sookie and Amelia followed her inside and Tray trotted obediently towards the pile of luggage. Eric, however, hung back to speak to Stan, both of them glancing towards the open front doors. The Americans were making tantalising exclamations as they got their first look at the interior.

"Worked like a charm," Eric said quietly to his best friend. "The crows were a nice touch. A little Hitchcock always ups the scream factor. Almost got a reaction out of her. "

"Crows?" Stan shrugged. "That wasn't me, big man. I don't know what set them off."

...