Disclaimer: Characters etc belong to Alan Ball and Charlaine Harris
Note: Written for pixiegiggles who asked what Eric was thinking when, in 2x11, he asks Sam to give him Sookie. This is the first of two parts. Beta work down by the one and only nycsnowbird.

Tribute

"He's at the bar," I almost say because Ginger's waiting in the parking lot an hour after sundown. This is not the first time she's let someone in who's insisted on seeing me. Far from it.

In some ways, Ginger is an ideal employee. She's a decent survivalist and can be counted on to bend to the will of the most dangerous person in a room. And if I am present, that is always me. She doesn't have a loyal bone in her body or synapse in her brain. But she is predictable. Which is a far more useful trait.

When she waits for me in the parking lot it's because her instincts have kicked in. The neutralized threat, the man waiting in the bar, is in the past. I am the threatening present and she steps up to ingratiate herself. So when she begins, "Please don't kill me, Eric ..." I almost finish the sentence for her. But then I catch the scents clinging to her—the beginnings of things.

"Children?"

"Yeah," she says, like the word's a gag she's spit out of her mouth. "And a guy who said he needed to see you. He's at the bar."

Another sniff tells me that he is a Shifter but not which one. One of the Shreveport pack maybe. Maybe not. Human life burns at the perfect temperature to sustain itself but Shifters burn too hot, constantly denaturing themselves so that even their scents boil over and burst. They are crude beings who dash madly between the poles of human and animal, creating friction. Heat is the least efficient form of energy. Maybe someone should tell them.

I pass through my office to enter the bar. The Shifter is facing the doors. Waiting.

I know immediately that there is a game afoot, and, following that metaphor, I know that the only way to beat the house is to count cards. No matter, I always keep the count in my head. And yet, here is Sam Merlotte, against the odds.

"There's a maenad in Bon Temps. I need your help to get rid of it."

I occupy the space opposite him, reclining, impressed enough to give pause. Sam Merlotte does not dress up his request in platitudes or try to appeal to my morality. He doesn't say we. He's here to make a deal and to take the responsibility for it.

A maenad? How very gauche. Merlotte describes it and the town that has fallen under its sway. It has not been around long by his account, but he seems to understand, at least in part, what it is—a power so primitive that it lacks the capacity to reign itself in. I could tell him what I know—that a maenad cannot be contained. To impose controls on it would be to create something out of nothing. Creating has never been we vampires' strong suit. Our trump is tearing down.

Sam Merlotte wants to bring death on a creature that is immortal by its own edict, a creature that derives power from destruction. He wants to bring death but, for once, I am the wrong person to ask. "You're asking for a favor but what you need is a shaman."

"A shaman?" Merlotte's voice is flat and I see my error. I weigh the deck and discern the hand he's been dealt. He may be here against my odds but his best odds lie with me. He figured this out for himself. Respectable, Merlotte.

"An oracle might do just as well."

"An ...? If you're going to waste my time, we'll just go." The Shifter's voice borders on a growl and he rises to leave, but he is not a fool, not entirely, and when he meets my eyes he finally understands that I am not toying with him. Nor am I wasting his time. He came to me after all. We're speaking on my dime.

He sits again and waits for me to illuminate the paths, to tell him which ones don't lead to ruin. He wants to walk in my shadow, visible because it's darker even than his present darkness. What he doesn't seem to understand is I have never been anyone's guide but my own. Still ... I can teach him something about the journey. For his logic, I will give him that much. "Why should I help you, shifter?" The shaman is not a philanthropist and the oracle is not a social worker.

Merlotte speaks of alliances, of strength in numbers. Tired adages. I am vampire, not a herd animal. I smile and offer the next lesson: You must buy the shaman's favor and buy it in the coin of his choosing. "Can you give me Sookie Stackhouse?"

Pam sighs for my benefit, so that I might know how little amusement she finds in this interaction, so that I know it is beneath me. But I have never been anyone's guide and my child has yet to learn this lesson. That I want the girl is irrelevant, that the Shifter wants her means everything.

Merlotte denies my request with horror.

"Well, that's a shame. That would be a tribute I would not soon forget." That he does not understand is unsurprising. My own understanding built over a thousand years and coalesced on a rooftop at dawn. "Please, Godric," I'd begged and been sent away because I wanted life more than I wanted him. It wasn't until then that I understood the shaman's price: sacrifice. You can have anything you want as long as you are willing to give up everything else to get it.

Merlotte reminds me that he is not here to offer tribute. He is here to reap the benefits without making the sacrifice. I erase his delusions that this might be an acceptable transaction.

And yet ... even if he was willing to offer the tribute, I am not a shaman. It is not in my power to call down the currents of mortality or persuade Thanatos to stay his hand. I am no one's guide but my own and though I am death, I have always chosen life.

I consider the situation. That I want the girl was irrelevant to the lesson but what I want is never irrelevant to me. The Shifter's request becomes an excuse I don't need, but an excuse nonetheless.

I tell the Shifter I will go see her. That I do not go for him does not occur to him.

I bid Merlotte and the children goodbye with a show of fang. It's an easy display that evokes delight from one child and fear from the other. That is the draw of human children: purity. They are too young to entertain the notion that they might be complex beings and too small to feel more than one thing at a time.

It is a fleeting pleasure, short as their innocence. I've already forgotten it by the time I'm above the skyline.

There are no shamans within convenient distance but an oracle might do just as well. And I at least understand that there will be a price. Now if only I can find someone else to pay it.