Disclaimer: I own none of the True Blood characters, and cannot be held responsible for their behavior.
Synopsis: Enraged and grieving her maker's death, Godric's firstborn seeks answers from a vampiric sibling in Louisiana, trying to draw him into her centuries-old obsession and back into their chaotic and sexually-charged relationship. Things have never been exactly what you'd call quiet at Fangtasia, but all hell is about to break loose with the appearance of this unbalanced little minx. Set just after the end of season 3, in an alternate reality in which Sookie did not dip out to Fairyland.
Note: This first section only features a glimpse of Sookie and Pam, but they and other TB characters will be prominent in upcoming chapters. Also this story will upgrade to an M rating as it progresses, I suspect.
Greetings.
If you're reading this, I must be dead. I refer to the True Death, of course; I have been dead, according to humans, for a long, long time. Long enough to regard an era before smog and filthy, polluted human blood as recent memory; long enough feel nostalgic about a time when a vampire was law unto herself, and the world her garden; long enough to loathe the oppression of the Authority, and yearn to see every last vampire who supports it turned into a bubbling puddle. Mainstreaming? For the longest time I thought it must be some sort of bad joke. I kept waiting for the night when the proponents would gather, collectively laugh at what seemed to me the absurd ruse of seeking equal rights, and begin a war. I thought-however foolishly-that when I saw Russell Edgington kill a human on live broadcast, that the moment had come. The joke was on me however, for I finally accepted the truth only afterward: that our race had truly had devolved and sunk to the shame of desiring human rights.
If I weren't already cold as a corpse, it would give me chills.
Perhaps you find me somewhat uncivilized. It's so, I will happily admit: by your modern standards, I am barbaric. Perhaps it is my Roman blood which prevents me from finding subservience palatable. Perhaps it's simply the nature of a ferocious heart, which made me attractive to my maker to begin with, that night so long ago on the Via Appia when I promised him that if I must die I would take him with me.
I felt him burning. I was on the waterfront in Mumbai-the tourist district, looking for a meal-and the sun had only just set. I must have cried out when I felt his light dim and then disappear from my mind. My knees must have given way, as the next thing I knew I was kneeling there on the sidewalk gripping the sea wall and a frail Indian man had leapt from the driver's seat of a garish horse-drawn tourist carriage to put his arm around me. Did I snap his neck? Drain him? I cannot recall. The rest of the evening seemed only a blur as I wandered first through the crowds of tourists and then empty, muggy streets and tried to conceive of what could have had the power to destroy him. Later I heard from others that Godric had met the sun of his own accord, that he had been free of the fanatics who had held him. The latter I believed, for no power on Earth I knew of could have held my maker against his will. The former I could not accept. Whatever caused him to destroy himself, the Authority was to blame. I just didn't know how. I came to Louisiana seeking answers, and vengeance.
My true name I have not spoken for a millennia now. I introduce myself simply as Stella. My human memories have for the most part faded, but I still remember my father pointing out the constellations to me when I was a girl, and telling me the story of Callisto, and of Orion's death by scorpion bite, and so it seems as fitting a name as any. I am small, as humans go: just over five foot two and slim of frame. It has been an endless asset (and no small source of amusement) over the centuries that I am so consistently underestimated. My hair is long and brown, my features defined but fragile. I was a young woman when I was turned—newly married-and I tend to appear a human girl in need of saving. As I cannot bring myself to swallow the abomination of the Great Revelation, I have not yet quit the habit of makeup and mannerism to emphasize that illusion. But of course, others of my kind recognize me immediately. The intelligent ones then get out of my way. Those less endowed tend to band together in attempts to destroy me, if I stay anywhere too long or make too much a fuss: as you might imagine, someone of my age and strength is often considered a serious threat.
I frequently corroborate those considerations with satisfaction.
As I said, I came to Louisiana seeking answers, from Godric's only other progeny I knew still to exist, who I understood had assumed a position of some prominence. "Prominence" here having the meaning of "slave to the Authority".
These days, it is expected that vampires check in and declare their purpose with the monarch upon arrival in a new territory. Now, you know I'd stake myself before I'd step on toes or appear discourteous, but I prefer privacy. I'm sure you understand, in light of the aforementioned threats to my health. Besides, it's a protocol instituted by the Authority, and as you may not have yet gathered, I'd sooner see the Authority take a sunbath than submit to it.
So I was greeted with the surprise to which I have grown accustomed when I entered his bar (really? Fangtasia, Eric?) on a warm night in October. I found him absent- the oldest thing in sight was a three-hundred-ish Frenchman in black skulking in a corner with a young human in a dog collar; a glance told me that the human thought it was his lucky night. Who knows, perhaps he was right. I doubt it.
Before I had made it to the bar, I had gotten several looks and cursed myself for forgetting my perfume. Power does not exactly radiate from us, it is more of a smell - the stronger the smell, the older and stronger the vampire. I must have forgotten to apply my Samsara that evening, because I had attracted the attention of every undead on site, and it wasn't due to the slinky red dress or platform heels, which only brought me up to about eye level with girls in flats. I was swiftly aware of how vulnerable I was, with only one exit and my back exposed. Do not mistake me: I am as arrogant as the next immortal, but I know well that twelve mangy dogs can take down a lioness.
"Welcome to Fangtasia," the vampire behind the bar said with total insincerity. He was dressed punk, his hair spiked and eyes rimmed in black. He sounded like he was from northeast America somewhere. Philadelphia? D.C.?
"I'd like something tall, blonde, and Scandinavian. Please." I smiled. Charm is greatly underrated in the 21st century.
"True Blood only here." His lips curled into a snarl.
I blinked and crossed my arms on the bar. "Well that's a rather limited selection… I'm surprised you stay in business with such a small menu. Don't care for the stuff, myself. I find that it… sucks all the fun from the evening, don't you think?" I tilted my head and smiled. For a moment he stood mute, and I winked. Finally he must have decided I was not preparing to sever his head, and he grinned back at me, fangs out.
"As a matter of fact, yeah. Dunno how anyone gets that shit down. Tastes like a lab," he said in a voice low enough to exclude human ears. "We end up dumping almost all of it, of course, and just order more. Fuckin' waste, if you ask me. But…" He shrugged. "Orders from the Authority. Has to look like someone's drinking it, you know."
His smile melted and he drew back as I turned glacial.
"Yes, I know." What must I look like when my thoughts turn black? It must be frightening, because this was hardly the first time I had observed that reaction.
The door of the bar opened and lights from the parking lot framed the two figures entering. I closed my eyes and turned to catch a scent I had not smelled in a hundred years.
"Brother," I breathed. It was almost a whisper, but I knew he heard me. "How I have missed you." I opened my eyes and locked his gaze. The last time I had seen him, he had been wearing the woolen overcoat so popular in Victorian London with a collar almost high enough to reach his ears. He looked very different, in the simple modern fashions, but I noticed that he had not been cured of his obsession for black. Still playing the villain, I thought. Did he know himself so poorly, even now?
"You've come about Godric." It was not a question.
"I have."
"Eric, who are you talking to?" For the first time I noticed the pretty little blonde thing in a sundress by his side. So that's what the other smell was.
He addressed an exotic female at the door without taking his eyes from mine. "Felicia, tell Pam to take Miss Stackhouse home."
"Yes, sir." She picked up the house phone.
"Hey! Eric I thought you were going to help me—"
"Not tonight. Pam will take you home." He didn't move. Was he afraid of me, or afraid for the girl? Interesting.
"I heard that, thanks. Will you tell me what the hell is going on?"
"C'mon, sunshine," another female, this one a tall blonde in black sequins and presumably Pam, had appeared, and took the girl by the arm. The blood on her chin and hiked skirt testified to the cause for her absence.
"Clean yourself up," Eric said, still staring at me. "Those idiots with the cameras are still out there."
"You are a piece of work, Eric Northman, you know that?" The girl squealed, her bicep still in the grip of "Pam," who was now wiping her mouth with her free hand.
"Shall we?" He waved toward the door she had come through. I followed him into a cramped office, which also apparently served as the bar's liquor closet. A brunette in latex was sitting on the desk and wiping blood off her bustier.
"Get out." He circled around to the back of the desk as the girl hopped down, and ignored the look she shot him as she left. But instead of sitting himself, he leaned against the wall, within easy reach of the Viking sword hung there, I noted. How flattering.
"Stella." He smiled, but his voice betrayed tension. "I haven't seen you since the invention of the light bulb."
I smiled back, my back stiff. "It seems you've come up in the world, little brother." I gestured to the tiny office. "Not exactly Kalmar castle."
"Not all of us are blessed with your visionary ambition."
"Don't be absurd. Who gives a damn how you spend eternity-luxury only makes for laziness anyway." I looked away. "I meant your… distinguished position here. I know we've had our differences, Eric, but I never imagined that I would see you working for the Authority."
His voice was hard. "I am a Sheriff under a King, and no servant to the Authority."
"Really? Does your King not bow to them?" My voice was low but edged in steel. "What does that make you, I wonder? And did I not hear that you were groveling in front of that Flannigan bitch, requesting aid from the Authority? To kill someone who by all rights should have been a great ally to us? Someone who could have been the weapon we searched for, for so long?" I had not planned to lash out at him like this, but I couldn't stop. I knew he had been there, when Godric had died, and had not stopped him. I couldn't understand how he could have allowed it, or how I could ever forgive him for it. And I was angry about Edgington – a lunatic, granted. But he had been so old, so strong. He could have been exactly what I'd been after for so long. But then, I had always been the one nursing the vicious grievance; Eric had been far less passionate on the subject.
Somewhere I had inadvertently struck a nerve- he seemed abruptly ready to explode. "You want Edginton?" He bellowed. "Fine! Go dig him up! I will tell you exactly where he is, and you can both go on your idiotic suicide mission!"
"Perhaps I will just kill you instead." I smiled. I was furious and grieving, and it was making me reckless. I could not remember the last time I had lost my temper like this, but it felt good. I suddenly felt more alive than I had in decades. "It would be just, as you stood by and allowed our maker to die."
Eric began to growl.
"Relax, little brother. I know you didn't kill him." I grinned. "And if I wanted you dead, you would be." His eyes narrowed.
"I have picked up a few tricks since I saw you last."
"Really?" I stepped forward and leaned over the desk, spreading my palms flat on the wood. "Show me." My nose crinkled and my chin came up as I smiled a challenge. I was no longer accustomed to emotion, and I realized that I was out of control, drunk on it. How delightful.
In an instant he was behind me and had swept the desk clear, smashing several bottles in the process, his body forcing mine low over the surface. One hand gripped the far side of the desk, the other applied enough pressure to my throat to choke me, had I had need for air. He pressed harder, and I could feel the rock of him against me. "The last time I saw you," he whispered, "I was watching you walk away as I lay in the street with a silver chain around my throat ten minutes before sunrise. Give me a reason to trust you, Stella."
A fraction of a second later he lay on his back on the desk, and I sat astride him. I had never surrendered to the modern trend of pantyhose, and my skirt rode up to expose the tops of my thigh-highs and black garters. "You're not still harboring old grudges, are you?" I rocked forward an inch, indicating my double meaning. His eyes closed for a brief moment and a soft sound escaped him as he gripped my thighs. I was perhaps the one pleasure Eric had ever been denied, and once upon a time his fury had thrilled me. When one's objects of desire are as easily acquired as vampires' are, utter unattainability can drive one to distraction. And having nearly nine hundred years on him, I would always be faster. But as I stared into his blue eyes and saw myself as I had been when he was young, the ice around my heart seemed to melt a fraction.
He must have seen it, too. In another moment he was sitting up, his arms wrapped around me in an unnervingly tender embrace as he pressed his cheek to mine, his hand cradling the back of my head. "Stella," he whispered. "I wanted you there-I couldn't stop him. Maybe he would have listened to you." The tenor of pain in his voice about cleft my heart, and the sensation of his arms around me brought an unwelcome flood of emotion and memories: the sweet abating of loneliness I had felt the first time I stood in the presence of both my maker and new brother; the joy of laughing and hunting in their company; the gratitude I had felt when Eric had saved my life and the swelling pride the night I returned the favor; worst of all, the secret and terrible fear that had kept me from ever bedding him, the insecurity I had never once let him see. I felt dizzy.
A second later I was on my feet again, facing the door. "I came about Godric," I said, struggling to regain control.
"So you said." When I turned he was sitting on the desk, almost exactly as the girl had been when we had come in. A lock of blonde hair had fallen forward into his face. It was shorter than I had ever seen it, and I noticed that it suited him. I had felt more in the last ten minutes than I had in the last ten years, and I needed to take a mental breath. I cast about for an inoffensive subject.
"Who was the delicious little donor, by the way?" I tried to sound lighthearted. I think I was unsuccessful.
His face clouded. "I don't keep track of Pam's toys."
"Not that one. The one who looked like she got lost on her way from the church picnic."
He folded his arms. "I thought you said you here because of Godric."
"I did. But that girl smelled of fairy, and I can't help but wonder if she tastes like one, too." I smiled sweetly.
"Later." Definitely defensive, I thought, and a flicker of jealousy surprised me. I straightened one of the overturned chairs and sat in it.
"As you like. Now please, tell me what happened to Godric."