Author's Note: Hi guys! I haven't read the most recent release, so assume this all happens right after Dead in the Family. My protagonist is an Original Character, but don't worry your little strip-ed heads, I'll end up trotting out all of your favorites by the time I get through it. Also, shout out to Empyreal Phoenix for beta reading this monster for me! And no, the title is not a SVM reference, it's a mythological one that will come into play muuuuch later. Anyway, hope you enjoy - review and let me know what I did wrong!

The water was the sort of cold that made my skin shriek out an instantaneous protest, no matter how many minutes I had stood willing myself into preparation on the dock. The shock of my body striking the glassy surface propagated ripples that rolled lazily across the disturbed surface – while the shock of the temperature propagated out through my body. My head broke the surface, and I raised my hand to slick away an errant lock of hair from my eyes. When I looked back at the dock, I could see Jessica crouched on the end of the dock, struggling with her socks – sporting little felt rabbits, today. I treaded water, feeling the hairs on my arms slowly rise as the icy water provoked me into gooseflesh.

Jessica said something to me, but I couldn't hear exactly – her lips were moving as she sat down awkwardly on the leaning wooden planks of the pier, in the final stages of removing her last sock. The wind pushed a few strands of her wheat-coloured hair across her wide, cornflower-blue eyes before it swept down across the lake to whisper through the pines on the far bank. Despite not being able to hear her voice, the wind was strangely audible to me, and I spun on the spot slowly to examine the far shore – losing sight of Jessica in the process.

Then it happened.

I felt the long, tapered fingers – colder still than the water – close in around my ankle and suddenly a ferocious strength tightened around my calf and I was ripped under the surface. The murky water closed over my head, tinting the world a sudden, sinister greenish-brown. Water flooded in through my nose and mouth and I gagged, tasting the metallic coppery flavor of brackish pond. A plume of bubbles erupted from my mouth, and I saw them flash up towards the surface above me, causing the dim blades of sunlight that penetrated the surface to ripple.

Reflexively, I kicked my free foot (more an instinctive bid to return to the surface than a defensive measure) and felt it connect with something rough – fleshy and at the same time sharp. I felt pain explode across the front of my foot, but the grip about my ankle slackened and I propelled myself back to the surface. I spat a plume of water from my mouth as I thrust my head over the water, and inhaled a great, panicked breath. Jessica was standing on the edge of the dock now, screaming and jumping up and down – her tiny fists clenched on her cheeks – her eyes already welling with fright. Beyond her, I could see my parents still settling the blanket down on the bank, pausing to regard the tumult with perplexed glances – alarm had yet to set in.

I tried to orient myself, but there was water in my eyes. I swept it aside and began swimming for shore, my arms furiously and haphazardly churning the water. I kept my eyes on Jessica and the end of the dock – the goal of my frantic strokes. She had stopped screaming when I reappeared, though her cheek were still flushed, and her eyes softened with childish relief as I paddled to the edge of the dock. As I reached for the soaked, soft edge of the dock, however, the edges of her eyes tightened again and her mouth opened in a shriek I never heard. Two arms wrapped full around my torso and I felt myself crushed against a barreled chest. My chest was squeezed brutally and the air exploded from my lungs in a torrent as I was ripped under the surface again. I could see Jessica hopping up and down on the dock again through the grimy surface, but almost immediately, everything faded to black.

I opened my eyes again. The fan over the bed was groaning rhythmically – the blades were out of alignment and the engine was complaining in response. I blinked slowly, clearing the fog of sleep from my eyes, before reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose with a sigh.

What time is it?

I rolled over and examined the clock. Five in the morning. I hadn't set the alarm to go off until twelve, but I swung my legs over the side of the grimy blankets the motel had provided (I hadn't been brave enough to sleep under them) and slipped my feet back into my shoes. The small room I had purchased was cramped enough that my knees touched the wall as I sat on the side of the bed. I got up, shuffled to the bathroom, and groggily pushed open the door. I got up and shuffled to the bathroom, and groggily pushed open the door. I felt for the switch and engaged the lights, before turning the tap so that I could splash some cool water onto my face. Judging from the look of the shower, it hadn't been cleaned since it was installed, so I wasn't eager to freshen up.

I could have used it, I decided, after I looked in the mirror. I was sporting a three day scruff and had dark bags under my eyes. I hadn't had a decent shower, shave, or sleep since I had passed through Knoxville two days before – elven hours on the road before I pulled in to stop at this dive west of Jackson, too tired to keep driving. I hadn't even taken the time to eat before I fell into bed and passed out.

And, as usual, I drowned again before I woke up.

I turned out the light and returned to the bed. Only ten minutes had passed, but it was the height of summer, and I could already see a pale, pre-dawn glow bleeding through the hem of the gossamer curtains the motel employed. A quick once over of the bed rekindled my latent distaste for the fixture, and inspired me to forgo returning to sleep. I picked up my duffle bag from the foot of the bed and hoisted it to my shoulder before pushing open the door. The gravel lot of the squat building merged flush with the sideroad I had turned down the night previously to find the motel. At this hour, not a single car rolled by as I walked back to the office.

The bell rang as I entered, but no one came to the desk – too early – so I simply left the traditional toothed key on the counter for them to sort out on their own before I turned and stepped back outside. It was still early, but the air was muggy and thick – sporting to rain later in the day – and I felt a bead of sweat roll down the base of my neck as I made my way back to my car. It was a junker – an old model Mustang coup I had been running hard and maintaining myself for years. She was well on her last legs, and though I wasn't overly fond of her, I didn't know where I'd get the money to replace her. I hadn't had a steady job in two years.

I opened the door and tossed my bag in the back seat as I crouched to slip inside, before I heard the sharp snap of breaking wood and glanced across the roadway. It wasn't nearly light enough to shed any sort of visibility into the thick deciduous growth that grew right up to the far side of the asphalt, so the run of trees that sulked there was dark and grim. I watched for a few seconds, and was almost sure once or twice I could make out a sinister, slender shape lingering amongst the interwoven branches, but I wasn't keen to investigate.

Just more of the same.

I followed my bag into the car, settling into the driver' seat before I closed the door with a heavy thunk. I glanced into the rearview – the sweep of trees was still sitting quiet placid and undisturbed – before I leant over the partition between the front seats. I unlatched the glove compartment, and was consoled by the glint that shone off the six inch barrel of my Colt Python – still exactly where and how I left it. I buckled myself in and inserted the key in the ignition before turning it hard. The engine fired immediately – a rarity recently – and I threw the car into reverse, backing out of the lot and onto the road before throwing it into drive. As I accelerated, I glanced over the copse of trees again, but all was silent as the grave.

I made my way back down towards the adjoining road, and then from there, merged onto I-20, westbound. The engine droned unremarkably – a good sign – and with the prospect of another long day driving ahead of me, I let my mind wander. I didn't really know where I was going beyond the direction, but my vague plan was to drive to I-10, and then take it all the way to Los Angeles. I didn't know why – maybe it was the stereotypical locale for lost souls to gravitate to, but more likely, it was because it was the farthest place from New York. This wasn't about where I was going, after all. It was about not being where I had been.

I flicked on the radio. I was deep in the bible belt by now, and every other station was religious talk – Baptist ministers preaching damnation and salvation. The other stations were all twangy country, but I eventually found a gem in the rough – a classic rock station playing Bob Seger's Turn the Page. Excellent mood music. I drummed the tips of my fingers on the wheel and zoned out for a while. I thought about Jessica, fresh from my dream, and wondered where she was, and if she was alright. I thought about my folks, and wondered if they were as disappointed in me as I was in myself. I thought about the lake, and if I'd ever get decent sleep again.

Before I knew it, I had been driving nearly two hours – almost seven now. I only snapped out of my reverie because I noticed I was sweating – my air was gone. Oh, fuck me. I checked the temperature gauge and it was into the red, the little warning light flickering at me in alarm. I reached over and turned the air all the way to hot, and the needle dipped about a centimeter before it began to climb right away again. Shit. I was passing an exit and pulled off of the freeway – only glancing at the sign as I did. Bon Temps. Some hole that I'd never heard of before. Any port in a storm.

I got to the end of the exit ramp and turned onto the surface street – a rural affair with no building along it – before I started worrying about melting the aluminum heads off my engine, so I rolled over to the edge of the road, and killed the already ailing engine. I opened the door and stepped out – immediately being greeting by the stench of leaked coolant. Great. A glance under the car revealed the tell-tale drip of fluid from the works, and when I opened the hood, a billowing cloud of steam hissed past me. I couldn't tell what was wrong immediately – if it was a cracked hose (something I could fix myself with parts), or something serious, like the thermostat and housing. Regardless, I was going to need a tow – and I had precious little money, and no roadside assistance.

I checked my phone. Nothing there either – not particularly surprising out here in the boondocks – so it looked like I was on my own. Familiar territory, at least. Luckily, the road I had turned off of ended at the freeway, so there was only one way to walk, presumable towards civilization – or whatever passed as such around here. I made a note to reach into my stranded Mustang and recover the Python and the holster, which I strapped openly onto my thigh. By now the sun was fully risen, and though I hugged the thin tree-cover on the side of the road as I started walking, I was soon drenched in sweat. God Bless the South. It was long enough past dawn that there wasn't too much trouble from the mosquitos, and with the exception of the unrelenting heat, I wasn't too bothered by the trek.

I walked for an hour or so until I started to wonder if Bon Temps wasn't several - perhaps dozens – of miles from the freeway exit that bore its name. My shirt was saturated in sweat and I was starting to feel dehydrated. What's worse, the bushes and low underbrush had started to rustle with a frequency that was more than a little alarming. There was definitely something there. If I don't get where I'm going soon…

I let my hand touch the stylized grip of the revolver against my side, hoping I wouldn't have to use it. I wasn't even in condition to aim properly. I realized I had little say in the matter as my nose caught a familiar cloying scent that made me immediately nauseous. I stopped walking and turned to the bushes. The chirrup of the songbirds – which had been constant on my long walk – faded and died almost immediately, leaving nothing but the intermittent wind to speak in the humid, still air. The undergrowth continued to shudder with increasing persistence, and the coppery stench in the air grew to where I was struggling to keep my stomach from spasms.

And then I heard an engine working its way down the road. The bushes stilled immediately and I heard a form crashing away deeper into the brush. The air freshened and stilled immediately and I released my grip on the butt of my pistol as I turned back to the road. There was a bend about a hundred feet down, and a few moments later, a pickup appeared. I immediately wrinkled by nose – it was garishly painted, pink with turquoise flamed running down the body. Beggars can't be choosers, I reminded myself, before I lifted a hand and flagged the driver down.

He was going the other way, but he crossed over the lanes and stopped on my shoulder anyway. His window was already down, his elbow jutting from the cabin as he leaned his head out. He was a guy about my age, with carefully tousled hair and wide, surprised looking eyes.

" You alright, buddy?" I was clearly looking as bad as I felt if that was the first thing out of his mouth. He clearly hadn't noticed the gun – or maybe toting guns was pretty common this far out into the country.

"Fine. Car problems." I jerked my thumb indicatively over my shoulder back up the road. "How far is it into town?"

"Few miles still." I wouldn't be able to walk that far. I glanced back to the still bushes, and then back to the guy in the truck, who seemed to read enough of my expression to pick up on my distaste for the distance. "That's to the middle of town – you've got a watering hole around the bend there. Merlotte's. They open for breakfast."

"I'm guessing they have a phone to call a mechanic?"

"Sure do."

I thanked him and waved him on his way, turning to watch him go for a moment or two. Once I was sure his attention was on the road, I turned and started running.

The coppery stench didn't return, at least not immediately, but I didn't slacken my pace – if anything, the total inert nature of the swaths of woodland to my flanks propelled me down the road faster. I was running dehydrated, on an empty stomach, and on very little sleep, and soon I was gasping, but I wasn't going to slow my pace an inch until I was in the presence of other humans – or at least their presence implied by established buildings.

The driver of the garish truck hadn't done me wrong – coming around the bend, the trees on either side of the road bowed out in man-made clearings. A long building built low to the ground flanked one side, with an illuminated neon sign marking it as Merlotte's, with another poorly compacted gravel parking lot sprawling up to the edge of the paved road. Opposing it across the road was a gas-station/convenience store combo. The gas station was closer (its parking lot was shallower), but I had more confidence that there'd be a phone in the diner.

By the time I had plodded, half-stumbling, across the loose stonework of the diner's lot, my shirt was sporting a large dark crescent of sweat that stuck to my chest and to the blades of my shoulders. I noticed a sign posted on the doorframe as I reached up in order to shove it open before me:

This Establishment is Owned by a Proud Shifter.

That surprised me. The shifters – humans capable of metamorphosing into various animals – had only come out publicly a year or so earlier. The world, having been deadened somewhat to shock by the vampire 'revolution' several years before that, wasn't monumentally horrified, but I knew there was a serious movement against all 'supes' gathering steam, and if the owner of Merlotte's felt the need to declare himself with such a defensive sign, I doubted Bon Temps was any exception. Quite frankly, I didn't know any shifters or vamps on a personal level – but the same was true of normal people. I was happy enough to let them deal with their issues somewhere far away from me – I had my own to handle.

The bell affixed to the door tinkled, warning the bar of my arrival. The place was more or less barren, though – too early in the morning for any other patrons. Despite this, there was a waitress on call, and a tender behind the bar. The former was a dark-haired young woman, sitting with her legs crossed at her barstool, her attention on the pages of a magazine she had spread on the bar before her. The latter was a wiry, short-statured man with a mane of russet-blond hair, busy cleaning a pint-glass with a dishrag. The waitress was engrossed enough in her beauty tips not to notice my arrival, but the bartender glanced up my way.

I guess he was paying more attention than the guy in the truck, because he noticed the Colt on my hip almost immediately, his hand stilling in its task against the glass he held. It took me a minute to realize what had prompted his reaction, and I lifted both of my hands towards him, palms flat as I recovered enough breath to speak.

"I've a permit to carry – it's registered."

He was suspicious, but as usual, my accent disarmed him. In fact, despite that I was armed, when the girl looked up, she was smiling quite warmly in response. Despite nearly twelve years in the States, my Irish accent was still as strong as ever. Oi've a parmit teh carreh – it's registar'd. I reached across my hip with my left hand and pulled the Colt from its place in the holster, setting it aside on the empty hostess' podium that stood near the door.

"Here." The bartender spoke as he tipped the pint glass under the tap and pressed the button that provoked a stream of cool water to spurt from the hose and fill the clear container. I guess I look as bad as I feel. He set it down onto the bar as I approached, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of a hand. "What's the problem?" The man behind the bar was pretty direct, but I took a moment to lift the glass to my lips to take a swig, curing my parched throat before I made to explain myself.

"I had to ditch my car up near the freeway – cooling system's gone. I needed a phone to call a mechanic…" By the time I had finished speaking, the bartender had reached behind him to the post that bordered the liquor shelf, and had unhooked the corded phone. He punched in a few numbers on the pad attached to the base as he handed the receiver over to me. He nodded in understanding as I accepted the phone and held it to my ear.

"What's goin' on, Sam?"

The voice in my ear was gritty, but in an endearing sort of way, rather than sinister. I'm guessing he had caller ID – Sam was the name of the bartender.

"Er…", I began, before leaning an elbow against the bar comfortably. "My name's Jonathan Loftus. Sam's leant me the phone – my car broke down on the edge of town and I need a tow…" The waitress sitting beside me at the bar was kicking her heel by now, humming pleasantly to herself as she listen to me roll my vowels.

"Oh, sorry, man. I'll get up and on my way right away!" There was a click and the phone went dead. When I held it back out to Sam, he gave a light laugh and took it from me to return it to its position on the hook.

"Terry's a bit abrupt, but he's a good guy – good with his hands."

I reached back and scratched at the hair at the back of my head awkwardly. I didn't know how to respond. "You serve any breakfast?"

"Sure. Eggs. Bacon. There's a cook on call." He reached back and knocked on the plate glass of the partition to the kitchen, and the cook slid it open. He was an older, thin black man, with grey streaks in his short hair. He was wielding a spatula as he leaned an elbow on the shelf and raised a brow at Sam. I used the moment the eyes were off me to check my wallet. Ten dollars. But I was hungry and needed to bullshit. Sam looked back at me and tilted his head indicatively to the cook.

"Two eggs over-easy, two strips of bacon and a slice of toast, yah?"

"Coming up." The cook disappeared and a moment later I heard the hiss of a grill being called into service. Sam slid the partition closed and turned his attention back to me. "Where are you heading?" he asked. Small talk – passing time until I was gone.

"Los Angeles. Or nowhere, depending on how much the fix runs me."

"Terry won't charge you much more than what it costs to fix."

"But if the whole housing's gone, that'll cost…" I let my voice drift – I was talking more to myself than to the man across from me now, and there was silence for a while as I contemplated not being able to afford a fix for my car.

"If you have to get stranded, Bon Temps isn't the worst place in the world to do it. People always need something doing – you might be able to patch together enough coin to see you on your way." Sam finished speaking right as the cook knocked on the glass partition again and slid it open, placing a plate on the shelf. Sam transferred it onto the bar in front of me, and placed a set of silverware down beside it.

I wordlessly placed my lone bill on the bar and picked up the fork and knife while change was made. Six dollars came back to me as I scooped the eggs onto my toast and let the sticky yolk bleed into the absorbent bread. My surprise clearly showed.

"Bon Temps is also a pretty cheap place to get stranded. Dollar draft tonight, too. Every Friday." Sam turned back to washing the glasses in preparation of the evening at the bar. The young waitress had long since gone back to her magazine. Cosmo or something. I finished my meal just as the doors to the lot opened and a man stepped in. He was tall, lean, and rickety – about half way through his sixties, but still strong. He walked with a bit of a limp, his right leg swinging out slightly as he stepped across the hardwood floor towards the bar. A hand extended towards me.

When I took it, it had the texture of sandpaper, but his grip was steel.

"You ready to get moving?" He gave me a slightly nervous smile, like he was afraid I might shout something into his face suddenly. I simply nodded and stood. Sam and the girl at the bar didn't look up as I accompanied the new man to the door – though I stopped to pick up my revolver on the way. Terry glanced aside, but Sam – who had apparently turned to watch – called out an okay that seemed to set the older man at ease. I slid the barrel into the oiled sheath of the holster and stepped out into the sun. It was gone ten now, and the sun was beating down pretty heavy.

Terry's car was a heavy duty pick up – full sized. He had a hitch on the back with a hydraulic piston to winch it down and lift up the back wheels of a stranded vehicle – like my Mustang. I hauled myself up into the passenger seat in the cabin while Terry cranked it into gear and backed out onto the road. We sat in total silence – Terry drumming his fingers absently on the steering wheel and me staring out into space, watching the dense brush I had passed on my way in flash by in a blur, dark and still, per usual.

Though it had taken me almost an hour and a half to walk from my Mustang to Merlotte's, at fifty miles per hour, Terry had me back at my car in less than ten minutes. He pulled his truck up in front of my car and we both stepped out, Terry stretching his neck and me glancing back into the undergrowth. I opened the driver side door in order to collect my dufflebag from the back seat while Terry did a tour of the exterior of the car.

"Hey, Jonathan, before we get started, I need you to verify all the external damage on the car so's that we're square on what was around before we towed 'er."

"Of course."

Fairly standard procedure for towing, and Terry paused as he went around the passenger side, which faced the wooded shoulder. He waved a finger at it. "Like you can verify all this is already here?"

I walked around the side of the car, and had to work my tongue around my mouth for a moment before I spoke, casually. "Yeah", I said, rolling my shoulders.

Along the length of the car's body were three sharp scars that had dug out neat slashes from the paint. They had not been there when I left.