She was searching for him. She needed to find him.

It had been hours and still no luck. She had gone through every one of his possessions, painstakingly going through them, one at a time, piece by piece. It had all been left to her, but she did not have the heart to look at any of it, even touch a single part of it. It felt wrong somehow. These were his things. She shook her head, a single tear falling onto a piece of torn yellowed paper. He was gone. He was never coming back. But he had given her a job, a task ... a last request.

Casting her eyes back to what lay in front of her, she settled her mind into a state of total concentration, scanning everything in her perfect sight for anything that could help her find who she was looking for. Her eyes were on the look out for words that would bring her one step closer to fulfilling his assignment. She had been there for hours, locked in the small study and undisturbed, left to her own devices and thoughts. The last thing she really needed was to be alone, but it was the only way she would get her job done.

Picking up a cut-out of an old newspaper article, she found herself drawn to the photograph amidst the jumble of words. It had been taken in the nineteen-twenties and this photograph seemed to contain every stereotype of that particular era – a flapper, a forbidden alcoholic drink, a speak easy ... and two men that she was immediately drawn to. One was tall and blond with handsome features and cold eyes that seemed to penetrate her, even from the faded photograph. The other was much younger, almost a boy with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Both of them were looking away from the photographer, intent on whatever it was that had captured their attention. She stroked the face of the younger one, caressing it softly with her fingertip. She remembered what it had been really like, to caress his face, to feel the cold skin soften as he smiled at her lovingly.

'I love you.'

Tears filled her eyes again as she remembered the last thing he had said to her before ...

She could not think of that now. Her heart was repairing, but slowly. Any pain would be catastrophic. And for a heart that could no longer beat ...

Suddenly, there was a flash of something familiar. She picked up a colourful magazine from a few years ago. The front cover was of a small establishment with its name written in blinding neon.

'Fangtasia,' she said, running it over her tongue.

Of course it was a cliché, but this was a time when everything was stereotyped. Why not make a business out of it?

However, it was not the name that had her so rapt and attentive. It was the man standing outside it, looking out of the photograph with cold eyes. With her free hand, she picked up the nineteen-twenties article and chuckled softly to herself. He had not changed at all, obviously; although, instead of a tuxedo, he was wearing a simple black leather jacket and trousers, his hair ruffled and messy. His eyes were piercing and his jaw was tight as though he was waiting for a moment in which his fangs would retract.

She had no need to read the article, something about vampire businesses and their fall in customers due to the actions of a madman last year. Shaking her head as she remembered said madman, she glanced at the words for a name, a sign to point her in the right direction. Within seconds, her powerful keen eyes found what she was looking for.

'Eric Northman,' she read in her eloquent and lilting voice. 'One thousand years old ... Louisiana.'

Smiling to herself, she abandoned both pieces of paper and left the house in seconds. Then, she set off in search of the elusive Mr Northman.

She was searching for him. She needed to find him.