Summary: Eric Northman is a professional soldier with a shady past, turned government agent. When an assignment comes in that will change the balance of power between vampires and humans forever, he takes it.
Disclaimer: Charlaine Harris owns Eric Northman. I'm just bending the characters into strange shapes for a while.
Need to Know
My name is Eric. Anymore than that you don't need to know, this whole tale is told on a 'need to know basis' unless you buy me another drink, in which case I'll tell you the whole damn story.
I am a professional soldier and have been my whole adult life. I started as a squadie at 16, joined the Parachute Regiment as soon as age and experience permitted and worked my way up through the ranks to lieutenant.
I've done tours of duty in all of the most dangerous places in the world and that's how I came to join the Regiment. The letter arrived a few days after I came back from a tour of the Gulf, inviting me to join. What the hell, I had come home to an empty house and a note on the kitchen table. My wife had left me, taking our child with her. The distance, both physical and emotional, was too much for her I guess.
I packed my bags and left the same day, the nomadic life was no problem for me; I was used to living out of a kit bag. I arrived at the base in Hereford, reported for duty and offloaded my belongings onto my bunk.
It was hell. Fifteen men turned up on day one and only six men were left by the end of the third week. I ran up and down a Welsh mountain with a 25- litre water carrier on my back so many times I was physically sick. I was interrogated, taken hostage, put in stress positions and chained to a radiator with a hood over my head.
My interrogators barked the same question at me constantly, "name, rank, serial number!"
I gave them the same answer, again and again. "I'm sorry sir but I cannot answer that question."
"Name, rank, serial number."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot answer that question!"
I went back to my bunk that night, black and blue from a beating I'll never forget, and slept like the dead.
I was in. My former rank meant nothing; in the Regiment you start as a private. I didn't care about that, I was proud to wear the sand-coloured beret.
I grew a moustache. In the Regiment it's called your third stripe. I took the banter about it with good humour; it didn't really suit me but it was almost a condition of joining to have one.
I got married soon after joining the Regiment and my new wife and I moved into married quarters straight away. We lived close to my base so I could deploy at short notice. A baby arrived a few months later, a boy. I have a picture of us in my wallet. I have one arm round her shoulder and she is holding our baby in her arms, we were squinting into the sun, happy smiles on our faces.
I wasn't there when my son was born and I wasn't there for his first birthday, or his first Christmas. It's difficult to maintain family life when you're in the middle of a war zone.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
Contact with my wife grew less frequent and reading between the lines I felt that she had another man in her life. I was waiting for the inevitable 'dear John' letter or phone call to come.
It didn't matter, I had something much better; I had a team of men around me I'd gladly sacrifice my life for and they for me. We were tight and we got results. And no, I can't talk about it, Official Secrets Act and all.
Twelve months in and I was given my first assignment as unit leader; my unit was to report to the US Airbase then complete four reconnaissance missions and gather as much information about the surrounding area and its inhabitants as possible. The country we were going to was familiar to me already. It was a tinpot dictatorship in the back end of a huge desert. Wrecked by poverty, civil war and corruption, its main attraction was the huge reservoir of oil sitting beneath it; billions and billions of gallons of crude oil. All the industrial countries of the world coveted that oil and were prepared to go to war over it.
We got the next plane out and after a couple of days kicking our heels on a US airbase we were finally given clearance and we were on our way. The Chinook picked us up and off we went into the interior. We had enough kit and supplies to last us for three, maybe four, days.
About ten clicks away from the airbase the chopper was attacked by a group of insurgents with rocket launchers and RPG's. I'll never forget the feeling of it spinning out of the sky, it all seemed to happen in slow motion. We were spun and slammed into the side of its walls as the pilot fought to control her and bring her down safely. We crash-landed on a sand dune, the chopper was done for, as was the pilot; he'd caught some shrapnel in the chest and had died of his injuries.
Our radio equipment was ok but the electronics on the chopper had been blown to bits. The pilot hadn't had time to send a May-Day so it would be a good 36 hours before anyone realised we were missing and came to get us. A major operation had just started to the east.
We were on our own. It was just how we preferred it.
All four of us took a vote and decided to carry on with the mission. In good spirits we packed our kit into our Land Rover, and using old-fashioned maps and a compass we set off for the nearest habitation, twenty clicks away across the desert.
We never found the habitation on the map, it must have been claimed by the sand a long time ago. Instead, we stumbled across what looked like an abandoned border control point on the side of a highway.
It wasn't much to look at; four roofless tin huts and a shack which must have passed as the passport office. An ownerless donkey brayed in the distance. There was a water supply and some supplies we could use, so we decided to camp nearby.
A cheerful man driving a van full of sheep to market in the town a few clicks down the road told us that the border wasn't far away and no, he didn't know what had happened to the people who had manned the border post. He drove off in a whirl of diesel fumes and clove cigarettes.
Our spirits were high and after a good feed (no standard rations for us) my second in command, Stan, took the first watch and the rest of us crawled into our sleeping bags, we were soon fast asleep.
The following day was spent on reconnaissance work and information gathering. There was an insurgents' camp to the north and a large weapons cache to the south. We took pictures and logged the information and when we'd done we sat down to a meal round the campfire.
It was a good day's work.
We didn't need to keep a low profile; at noon every day a truck carrying livestock and supplies would trundle past, creating a sandstorm, and that was it. The area was deserted, completely deserted.
The first night I got the feeling we were being watched, I checked out the area surrounding our camp but found nothing and saw no-one. It was odd; the desert isn't quiet at night, it comes alive, things creep, fly and buzz. People, unseen during the heat of the day, move their animals, eat and chat till the early hours.
There was nothing here but a dead, sullen silence.
On the second night we were woken by the sounds of feet and whispers outside our Land Rover. I was awake instantly and I signalled to one of the other guys to investigate. He slipped out of the truck into the darkness.
We heard shouting and the sound of rapid gunfire; screams, snarling and growling and then silence. We piled out of the Land Rover, prepared to fight.
There was nothing there but a two meter long slick of fresh blood on the sand, and a foot. I signalled to my men to circle the surrounding area and investigate. I crouched down on the sand and examined the remains. The foot had been bitten off at the ankle and the teeth marks looked human. It was already covered in ants and the little annoying flying down the road eters away ve been passport control. looked like a military outpost, a checkpoint. ry in their drovcreatures that gnawed at us 24 hours a day.
I buried it in the sand.
The men returned empty-handed, they'd found nothing; not a damn thing. We decided, uneasily, that it must be a lion or some such creature. We'd set up booby traps and we'd each take two-hourly watches throughout the night.
We were in a sombre mood at the loss of our comrade and none of us slept well from then on.
I made some enquiries the following day. The goat herders were reluctant to talk to me till they were bribed handsomely with cartons of American cigarettes and girlie magazines. It must get boring in the desert once the livestock was safely corralled at night.
I spoke a little of the lingo so I could make sense of what they told me.
I was invited to sit with them, and a goat kid was slaughtered and roasted over the camp fire. The head man, started speaking in the sing-song way of the story teller as we ate.
It was men like me, American, he pronounced it with a sneer, that had brought the sickness to this land and had infected its people with a disease that made them want to drink the blood of the living. He called them 'devils' and spat on the ground in front of his feet.
"Are they still here?"
They left a goat, tethered to a tree, as tribute (and bribe to leave them alone I guessed) when the moon was full and when the sun rose it was gone.
"Where do they come from?"
They had come from the east, he pointed at the horizon, "from where the planes are."
"What do they look like?"
The headman thought about this for a long time. "The white ghosts? They have skin the colour of goat's milk and teeth like the snakes of the desert, their eyes are the colour of the sky."
"Have you seen them up close?"
A nod. "Yes, we watched them one night. They killed the men who worked on the border post and drank their blood."
"Have they ever attacked you?"
"No." He pulled a large knife out of the belt of his galabaya and brandished it at me. "They do not like the kiss of the blade."
"Where do they come from?"
"They sleep in the ground when the sun is in the sky and rise at night." He shrugged.
"Whereabouts do they sleep?"
His eyes slid sideways, "I do not know." he offered me a goatskin "drink American, it will be hot tomorrow and the desert wind will blow."
I took a drink of the warm goat's milk; it tasted sweet.
"Will you help me find them?"
"No. The devils have tasted human blood and will not be content with tribute anymore" he continued, "we will leave as soon as the heat of the day has passed, we will go far away from here and will not return. You should leave too."
"Insha'Allah!"
He wouldn't give me any more information.
"Good bye American, Allaah ma'aak."
I waved back and sat on the sand by the campfire, finishing off my meal. I watched as they started the long walk to wherever it was they were going, the bleating of their goats carrying on the desert air. Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders.
The bloodsuckers attacked us again the following night but this time we were ready. We took out as many of them as we could, a few escaped and we captured two of them. We staked them out on the sand and cut out their eye-lids. We watched them burn, shrieking and screaming as the sun came up.
It was justice; our kind of justice.
My second lieutenant, Stan, slipped into the desert that night, against orders, his guts had been bothering him for days. We found his body the next morning slumped against a tree, drained dry of blood. We buried him and placed a cross on his grave.
When they attacked us the following night, he was with them; he was one of them. There were only two of us left but we fought them off. I killed Stan myself, he begged me to stake him, and I'll never forget the look on his face, never. My other comrade died fighting bravely; they ripped him to bits in front of my eyes, but let me live.
There were three of them, two men and a woman, they tied me to a tree and a fierce argument broke out between them.
"Where is the vehicle?" the oldest of the three hissed in my face. The goat herder had been right they did look like snake's fangs.
"I'm sorry sir, I cannot give you that information."
They fed from me and it hurt like hell but I never showed them my pain or fear and it made them even more angry. They hit me and slapped me about, kicking me in the ribs and the head.
"Where is the vehicle?"
"I'm sorry sir, I cannot give you that information."
"I can make you wish you'd never been born."
I spat in his face, "I'm sorry sir but I cannot give you that information."
They did unspeakable things to me; cruel, vile things but didn't kill me. I didn't break; I wouldn't break. When they got tired of playing with me the older vamp barked an order at the woman and she shot off into the desert returning a little while later.
"The vehicle is over there, half buried in the sand. Search him, he'll have the keys somewhere."
"What are we going to do with him?" the woman whined. "Can't we finish him off?" she looked hungry.
"No, we've got what we want."
I watched as they climbed into the vehicle, laughing and joking without a care in the world. I like to be prepared for all eventualities and little did they know that I'd attached plastic explosive to the fuel tank in the engine compartment with a switch to the ignition. I'd rigged it to blow as soon as the key turned.
The Land Rover exploded in a ball of flame and a boom that made my ears ring.
I spat some blood onto the sand and wiped my mouth clean as burning debris and body parts rained down onto the sand around me. I sank back onto the sand and waited to die.
I survived the night.
I torched the border-control point the following day in case there were any of them left and escaped into the desert with as much as I could carry on my back. I walked at night and slept during the heat of the day.
When I was far enough away to feel safe I struck up camp and tried my radio set. There was enough power left in it to call in an airstrike on the control-point and afterwards I lay frozen with horror on my blanket as bombers flew over head.
For all my years of training and my experience as a soldier I was consumed with guilt, why had I survived? Why had my friends died and not me? Why?
The noise of the planes strafing the area stays with me still; the hornet-like whine of the planes and the dull pounding thud of bombs dropping. I was evacuated by chopper and taken to an Airbase near by.
The base commander re-assured me that such incidents were considered an occupational hazard of the area. In future, personnel would be properly briefed and prepared.
The military machine swung into action and the 'problem' was swept under the carpet. I was de-briefed, hospitalised for a while and released back into my regiment, a changed man.
I couldn't look at myself in the mirror anymore. I'd lost something in the desert, something I'd never get back.
I was declared to have PTSD, given a medal for something I forget what, and pensioned off. They called it an 'honourable discharge' and I was returned, reluctantly, to civilian life, totally unprepared and mentally fragile.
My second wife left me soon after, taking the child with her. Sometimes my drinking got out of hand; nothing serious, I'd break a few sticks of furniture and punch a hole in the wall on a Friday night. She said the nightmares frightened the kid and were affecting him mentally.
I'm not allowed near either of them. She said I was out of control and got a court order, a restraining order. Bitch.
I was court-ordered to attend counselling sessions three times a week, much good it did me. As long as I agreed to everything they said and took the pills every day, I was home free.
I haven't had women since my wife left; the urge isn't there, the anti-psychotics see to that. The Valium helps with the mood swings and the vodka stops the nightmares and helps me sleep.
Just over three years ago an old army mate pulled some strings and got me an interview with company that employed mercenaries. Or at least, I thought it did; the reality proved to be very different.
It was a government agency, an offshoot of MI5 or MI6 or something along those lines. I'd met some of those guys in the field; they were grey men and gave me the creeps. An interview was set up and I promised my friend that I would go; he'd gone out on a limb for me after all.
I presented myself, dressed in a suit and tie and shiny shoes at the address I'd been given, on time and buoyed up by a Valium and a quick snifter of vodka. I was shown to an office, told to sit and left to my own devices for a good hour. Just when I was on the point of leaving, a thin man in a pinstripe suit and wide pink tie wandered in carrying a file.
"Eric."
He looked very pleased to see me, really pleased to see me. He took a seat at a huge empty desk and steepled his fingers. He radiated a smug, well-fed air.
"You are an unusual man." He'd introduced himself as 'Andy' (no surname). He knew all about me already.
I nodded, unsure if this was my cue to say anything. He seemed very pleased with the sound of his own voice, so I stayed quiet.
"The doctors' reports read like a horror story" he grinned for some reason, as if this was a good thing "but your references from your Commanding Officer are outstanding, truly outstanding. You are just the kind of man we are looking for."
My file was on his desk, I'd been reading it as he droned on and on and on. I'd learnt how to read upside down early on, it kept me one step ahead of the legions of counsellors and doctors, I was forced to see on a weekly basis.
'Outstanding soldier, heavily decorated. Has been assessed as likely to develop a severe psychiatric disorder which will require hospitalisation.. blah, blah, blah.'
It was nothing I hadn't seen before.
"Not many men could take on a village full of vampires and live to tell the tale."
His long thin white fingers were making me twitchy, I had a quarter bottle of vodka in my jacket pocket and I badly needed a drink.
"Those things I killed were vampires?"
I'd seen stuff on the news, vampirism was a disease; an allergy to sunlight and silver, the public were assured. Vampires were good, honest citizens and not evil creatures of the night.
"That is correct."
He drummed his fingers on the desk, tap, tap, tap, tap.
I really needed a drink. As soon as I was finished here I was going to find a bar and drink till I passed out. I could feel an 'episode' coming on, as my head shrink described it.
The clock on his desk ticked; tick, click, tick, click.
It was like falling into a deep, deep well with no bottom. My next door neighbour had the emergency services on speed dial. As soon as the screaming started she'd call them in. At the hospital an over-worked doctor would have me sectioned for seven days and when the screaming stopped they'd release me.
"If you accept the offer, you will be joining a team of.." he paused, then continued delicately, "professionals who are willing to accept jobs other governmental departments won't or can't consider."
My head was pounding and I was having trouble concentrating. I necked another tranquiliser, not caring if he saw me or not, my knuckles were white as I gripped the arm of the chair.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
I'm not good in stressful situations.
The tranquiliser started to work and my head cleared a little and the screaming in my head faded away, "let me get this right, you want me to kill people for money?"
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
"Not people, things; the same things that killed your unit and tortured you."
How did he know about that? I went cold; no-one knew about that. Nevertheless my interest was piqued. I had no problem with that, maybe killing a few of those things would get rid of some of my own demons, my shame at being alive and my guilt about killing my friend.
"You will be paid this amount per contract," he wrote a figure on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk to me. It was a staggering amount of money.
"The amount per contract is in direct correlation to the amount of technical difficulty and danger involved."
"Direct what now?"
He carried on as if he hadn't heard me, "if you are discovered or arrested then this agency will disavow any knowledge of your existence."
I accepted his offer without a second thought. "Deal."
The money would pay all my debts with a little left, I had nothing else to do, why not?
My hands trembled when we sealed the deal with a handshake.
"You will be employed on a freelance basis, the contract will be sent to your home. Please read it and sign it as soon as possible. Report to this address tomorrow for your basic training."
We were done. He swept out as quickly as he arrived and I was shown out with a stack of paperwork to fill in.
The eight guys that reported for 'training' were a mixed bunch; army, Special Forces, American Special Forces and a CIA guy I'd encountered in the field.
The training was laughable. I'm a professional soldier after all, with twenty years in, and six tours of duty. Vamps are just dead pieces of meat, they bleed, break and die just like any human does.
We endured two days of lukewarm tea, stale sandwiches and endless slide shows in a stuffy, darkened room.
My new career was a success. Bad news like me gets round fast and I made the supernatural world very nervous. I revelled in it, every vamp I got rid of was a tribute to my fallen friends, every damn one.
My nickname at first was 'the ghost,' my kills mounted, then some wag at HQ described me as 'the slayer' and it kind of stuck. It annoyed me, but it stuck. I even had a poster on my locker; as quickly as I tore it down it would be replaced, and in the end I gave in and left it up.
My official code name was 'broadsword' my handler's name was 'Danny boy,' someone at HQ had a sense of humour and a taste for old films.
I got the call one Monday night. My phone rang in a pre-arranged code, it was my cue to crawl out of bed and hop into my clothes; jeans, a t-shirt and boots. I ignored my bloodshot eyes and foul breath and rinsed my mouth out with a swig of vodka. Once dressed I had a mug of strong black coffee and two valium (for luck) and headed across town in my old jalopy, a beat-up, pick-up-truck.
I drove carefully, keeping an eye out for law enforcement; the last thing I wanted was a DUI, plus the cops round here don't like me too much. I reached HQ just past midnight, slid into the building through a side door and down into the basement.
I was greeted by 'Danny' (her real name was Arlene. I'd done some digging) who lead me to interview room B and handed me a beige-coloured dossier marked Top Secret. It had a large red X on the cover I noticed with a grin.
"Your next job," she said flatly, slapping the dossier on the table in front of me. "The target is called Sookie Stackhouse. She is the public face of the VRA and the vampire Queen of Louisiana. We've been watching her for a while and she's trouble."
I examined the dossier and after digesting its scanty contents, flung it back across the desk in disgust, "there's not enough information and the picture of the target is terrible."
The picture was grainy and out of focus and taken on a camera phone. I couldn't make out the slightest detail of her face.
"We've analysed the photographs as best we can. Our budget has been cut again," she explained unnecessarily, "the government is getting antsy and there's an election due."
Tell me about it. My last pay cheque was a month late. At this rate I'll have to take a job-type job.
"We have had a lot of trouble getting any information at all," she said defensively; she was usually the most unemotional woman I'd ever met, it was unusual to see her flustered.
"Can you do it? Can you do it, Eric?"
In the two years we'd been working together she'd never asked me what my real name was. It was almost as if she was scared of me, or something.
"Of course," it wouldn't be a cake-walk by any stretch, but with careful planning and organisation it was do-able.
"When have I ever said no?"
"Never, you are our best and most reliable operative. Sookie Stackhouse will be in town next weekend on a publicity tour. It's got to happen then; orders from above."
She leaned over the desk and I caught the faint whiff of expensive perfume and body lotion. "The job has to be messy with lots of collateral damage. Take out as many members of the public as you can."
I nodded, "I'll need specialised weaponry and a team behind me; two men and an evac unit if things go pear-shaped."
My juices were flowing, this was a proper mission, my mind clicked into gear as I ticked off the things I would need.
"No team, no evac. You are on your own. The fee is one million dollars paid in whatever currency you like and there will be a 'chopper waiting for you at the airport. It will take you wherever you want to go."
And suddenly it clicked. It was a suicide mission; she knew it, I knew it.
I nodded. I'd go out in a blaze of glory. "Divide the money between my ex-wives and my kids."
Hell, they might even thank me, "and send some to my old unit."
They would send me off, military style.
She picked up a sports bag and handed it to me; in it was my weapon of choice; a Steyr AUG A1, with sound suppressor and telescopic site, it was manufactured from plastic and alloy and undetectable by airport scanners.
"What are these? I picked up the box of bullets.
"These are specially made. They are jacketed in silver, .556mm rounds."
She seemed inordinately pleased with them. "Don't do that!"
She yelped and dived for cover as I tossed a bullet in the air and caught it just before it hit the table.
"Jesus! Those things are sensitive and expensive."
She pulled at the collar of her ill-fitting suit jacket, she looked nervous and uncomfortable at my casual handling of the ammo.
I'd never seen my handler sweat before.
"The target will be at the VRA building at 9.30. The hit must happen as soon as the target steps out of the car. The timing needs to be spot on," she said unnecessarily.
"Sure."
My timing is always right.
"It has to go out on prime-time news for the maximum impact. You have a week to organise it all. Can you do it?"
"Of course."
"Good, your contact will be in touch within 24 hours."
Her impassive face faltered for a second and I caught a look I hadn't seen before; pity, disgust, fear? I didn't know and didn't care.
She held out her hand, "Goodbye, Eric."
I shook it, yeah, right, as if you care.
So, what am I doing in a hotel bar drinking alone? The hit happens soon and I'm making the most of my free time. I'm going on a bender in other words.
Everything is in place.
I'm going to take the shot from the tenth floor of a hotel room across the way from the VRA building. My exit route has been carefully planned and I have plenty of weapons for when the police came calling. I'm expecting a fire-fight so I have flash-bangs and grenades to confuse, stun and kill, and small arms and knives if it comes to hand-to-hand.
My old army mate, Lafayette, a former sniper, has come on board, he'll be positioned across the street from me, as back-up, if my weapon jams or malfunctions he'll take the shot.
One shot to the head and it's game over.
A carefully positioned car, with a package of C4 strapped to the underside and remotely detonated by cell phone will take out the crowd. I hate cell phones, who knows who is listening in or watching you? but they do have their uses.
If they want it messy, messy is what they'll get.
I re-arrange two bar mats and a napkin, figuring out angles and lines of fire.
Lafayette's call sign is 'Red Queen' it makes me smile, a less Queen-like figure you'd never hope to meet, he's tall, skinny and silent with a buzz cut and tattoo of his old regiment on his ankle. He has a wife and kids tucked away somewhere, he never talks about them.
He's my kind of guy.
My thoughts are interrupted by a giggle and a flurry of tulle petticoats and skirts: in my peripheral vision I can see a blonde-haired woman in a sunshine-yellow 50's style outfit, white sunglasses and white high heels. She has plastic daisies in her hair.
She sat down beside me and ordered a gin and tonic, ice and a slice.
I notice these things.
She introduces herself as 'Sarah, from out of town' she has an accent I can't be bothered to identify and an annoyingly perky manner. She chats away beside me, smiling and laughing at my grunts and increasingly overt attempts to tell her to push off.
I've had four double vodkas and I'm nowhere near drunk enough.
"Why don't you have some fruit with that, beautiful?" she coos, "a vodka and orange juice please, bar keep."
Her hand rests on my thigh, strokes it slowly, just stopping short of my groin; if I didn't know better I'd say she was checking me out. She gives my thigh a tight, tight squeeze and a pat and withdraws her hand. She's almost purring with pleasure.
I've never made a woman purr before; I'm awkward and clumsy round them. I cuss a lot and my small talk is non existent.
"Do you work out? You look like you work out."
Only if you call lifting a glass working out. "No, and sure I'll have a drink with you, whatever."
I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I ain't beautiful 'ruggedly handsome' perhaps, but not beautiful.
"Here you go, gorgeous," she handed me a drink with a straw and a pink umbrella.
"Drink up, sweetie."
It tasted odd but I put that down to the fact I stopped taking my meds seven days ago. The shakes have stopped, so my aim has improved but the hallucinations have come back in force, day and night, night and day and the television in my hotel room has started sending me messages. I have to kill them all, well hell, yeah.
She eyed me lasciviously, "why don't we get a bottle and head back to my room."
There's that hand again and to my surprise, I'm stirring down below.
"Such a pretty boy."
I swear she leans in and sniffs at my neck.
"Hardly touched and fresh as a daisy."
She nuzzles at my neck, people are looking for Christ's sake, a blush creeps across my face. I move away from her.
"A shy boy, too." She gives me an intimate squeeze and I nearly hit the ceiling.
"Ok lady, that's enough," I remove her hand and make a move to go, I don't like being groped in public.
"You no likee?"
She fixes me with an intense stare and I'm hypnotised by her gorgeous red lips.
"I guarantee you'll have a very good time." She licks me on the end of my nose.
"Ok. If you say so."
I hope the hallucinations aren't starting again, I could have sworn I saw fangs.
"Oh darling, I do say so."
For the first time in months I'm interested; my mind may be fractured but my body is working just fine. She's pretty and she's made it pretty plain she wants me.
A night of casual sex means I won't have to try and sleep.
I lurch off my barstool and nearly fall but she catches me. For a small woman she's mighty strong and I'm a big guy. She props me up and darn near carries me out of the bar to the car park.
"The rooms are that way!" I point in a random direction and giggle.
"Easy there tiger," she laughs at my attempts to walk in a straight line. It has a tinny quality to it, as if it's far away. I've had more drinks than I thought.
"The party is at my place."
I shrug, she's got booze and she's pretty hot.
"What's your name again sweetheart I've forgotten?" I slur, my vision is going double and I feel a bit queasy.
"Oh Eric, Eric," she says, a real gloating note in her voice, "that was so much easier than I thought it would be."
I don't wonder or care how she knows my name.
She waves someone or somebody away but in my addled state I don't question it.
"I am going to have so much fun tonight. So much fun."
"I aim to please," and I give her a very sloppy salute.
"Oh, you will," she says, pinching my chin and giving me a very brief kiss on the lips. "But first you need a shower and a shave," she examines my hands, turning them one way and then the other.
"And a manicure and pedicure wouldn't go amiss."
I lean in and whisper in her ear, "you ain't buying me lady, you're just renting me for the night."
"Aren't I?"
This time her laugh has unpleasant ring to it and it reminds me of something and I don't know what.
The floor slides sideways and I drop to my knees then pitch forward flat on my face.
I'm vaguely aware that I'm being picked up, stripped of my clothes, wrapped in something soft and slung on the backseat of a car.
"Is this wise your Majesty?"
"Are you questioning my decision?"
"No, of course not, your Majesty."
"Burn his clothes, bathe him and cut and colour his hair. I want him in tip-top condition."
I feel her fingers running across my scalp, "I like blonde streaks." She lifts the blanket I'm wrapped in.
"Impressive, very impressive, make sure he's shaved there too. I am going to have so much fun breaking this one in, I might even make him my favourite pet."
I hear a chuckle, "humans make it too easy sometimes," a pill bottle is tossed into the air and caught again. "Far too easy."
It is the last thing I hear, before I pass out completely.
I woke up three nights later, naked and loosely chained to a bed. The room was impressive, opulently furnished and the bed was huge. My companion was long gone. All that was left of her was the smell of her perfume on the pillows and a note.
'We'll meet again,' it said, 'soon, my lover.'
My memories were hazy, I remembered having sex, lots and lots of sex, good sex, great sex! And then there was a pain the like of which I'd never felt before, someone screamed like a child and then there was blackness.
I felt great. I'd never felt so alive, my mind was as clear as a bell and my hands didn't shake. I could take on the world with one hand tied behind my back and win.
I wasn't breathing and my heart wasn't beating. I was one of them. I was a vampire. A goddamn vampire.
I checked out my body in the full length mirror above the bed: my hair had been cut and streaked blonde, my face and underarms had been shaved and my hands and feet had been given a manicure and pedicure. To my utter horror I'd been shaved down below as well.
My eyes hadn't changed, they were still as dark and as cold as the night sky above me, it gave me vertigo looking in that mirror.
Even so, I looked good; the best I'd looked for years.
Servants brought me food and try as I might I couldn't refuse it even though the feel of blood trickling down my throat revolted me. My meal offered herself to me sexually, and I all but broke her jaw when I punched her lights out. They brought me a man, then a boy to feed from, and, when I refused them, two women, a blonde and a brunette. They seemed to like it when I hurt them real bad.
I was dressed in smart clothes and paraded around like a performing seal. I was treated like a whipped lap-dog. I went along with it, smiled a lot, and planned my escape.
They threw me some kind of fucked-up initiation ceremony, welcoming me to their ranks. I had to sign a load of papers and I was presented with my new vampire ID. I thanked them politely with a big shit-eating grin on my face.
They all clapped and cheered like crazy. The monkey had spoken.
I thought I couldn't hate vampires anymore than I did already.
I scoped out the security when I wasn't being watched and I had an escape route planned and worked out in my head before you could say 'die, vampire.' I tied my bed sheets together, climbed down them, and fled across the grounds of the house naked as the day I was born, off into the night.
I hid out at a safe-house in the city.
I called my handler and she screamed at me for being out of reach for so long. I told her nothing was wrong and that the hit was still on. She asked me if everything was Ok, I sounded different somehow. I told her nothing was wrong with me. I'd been drying out pre-mission that's all, nothing was wrong and she was imaging things. The hit is still on? She sounded concerned, there was a lot riding on everything going well.
I assured her that the hit was definitely still on and hung up, sick of her whining.
No-one noticed my change in status; I'd always preferred to sleep in the day and move around at night. It was a simple adjustment, mentally and physically. Out of principle I only drank bottled blood, purchased from different places so no-one figured out what I was.
I flushed the pills and the booze down the toilet and cut off any contact with anyone I didn't need to know, which was more or less everyone.
My needs were always simple.
I was being stalked by the vampires that took me, they wanted me back. They won't find me, I go to ground at first, re-group and assess the situation. I move constantly, never spending more than a day in one place. I am careful and cautious and avoid any confrontation.
As soon as this job is over, I will go and find my new vampire masters and say hello.
In my own unique way.
The endgame
A few nights pass, the hit is put on hold, it looks like it may not go ahead at all. The vamps delay their Queens visit to the city and re-arrange her schedule a hundred times.
They are nervous and rightly so.
I always stay one step ahead. When I get the green light to proceed I pack my bags and head out of my apartment without a backward glance.
I check into my hotel room just after sunset, it's an anonymous international hotel, a tower block, drab and grey, no-one asks any questions on reception or checks my fake ID.
I shower quickly and dress in comfortable clothes; combat pants and a t-shirt. Para boots and a headset. I have a .357 Magnum tucked away in a shoulder holster and a hunting knife strapped to my thigh.
The headset crackles into life. "Red Queen to Ace of Spades, do you read me?"
"I read you," I say flatly.
"T-10 minutes and counting."
My weapon is clean, loaded and mounted on a telescopic stand by the window.
I'm sat on the bed, examining what I've found out about the target, Sookie Stackhouse, vampire Queen of Louisiana. She has gone a long way to uniting the vampire and the human communities and when she signs this treaty tonight a law will pass giving vamps equal rights in law.
Someone in the government wants her dead.
Someone in the government doesn't want vampires and humans to co-exist peacefully.
I'm all up with that.
It's amazing the change that's occurred in me; some of it is good and some of it bad. The hallucinations have gone, as have the blackouts. My mood is stable, my thoughts no longer whirl round my head and I don't see the look on Stan's face when he asked me to stake him anymore.
"T- 8 minutes. Perfect night for it, no wind and the sky is clear."
Such things are important in our profession. Clouds and rain can obscure vision and cross winds can knock bullets off their trajectory, wounding rather than killing.
Lafayette doesn't normally ask frivolous questions so I'm surprised when the headset crackles into life again.
"Ace, you ok? You're usually more upbeat about these jobs."
I don't enjoy killing; if I did I'd be a psychopath. I enjoyed the adrenaline rush, it reminds me I'm alive (kind of)
"I'm just getting in the zone, there's a lot riding on this," I answer, trying to sound annoyed. It's more for effect, I don't want him getting antsy. He hasn't said anything but I've seen the 20,000 dollar question in his eyes.
"Ok, Ace,"
For now he's all business.
I adjust the telescopic site and the range finder, they are slightly off so I adjust the dial. Perfect.
"X marks the spot."
It's an professional in-joke. It's lame but hey, we kill people for a living we don't make 'em laugh beforehand.
The crowd starts to chatter and get excited. Four limos pull up and disgorge the great and the good of the vampire world, Kings, Queens, Area Sheriffs, VRA and cogs in the publicity machine. A blonde woman gets out first, a big smile plastered on her cold, dead face. I train the gun on her head, checking for accuracy.
A ton of security swarms round the limos. I check my cell phone; as soon as the hit is done I'll trigger the car bomb.
The last and biggest limo pulls up and the crowd goes wild with excitement.
Sookie Stackhouse gets out and time stops still. She looks a bit different from when she picked me up in the bar; her hair is up and the red floor length dress and high heels she's wearing look expensive.
No plastic daisies or cheap sunglasses tonight.
She looks up and smiles as she gets out of the limo, waves at the crowd who clap and cheer like over-enthusiastic monkeys. She walks a little way onto the red carpet and stops, signing autographs and chatting with the crowd.
She is the acceptable, smiling face of vampirism.
"I have the target in shot, dead centre between the cross-hairs."
She turns mid-smile and it fades slightly; she is looking right at me, her blazing blue eyes bore into the back of my skull. Images flood through my head, a jumble of shapes and colours. She owns me, she owns my body and my soul. A tear rolls down my cheek and drops onto my trousers staining them red.
She mouths something and I can't make out from this distance, the power of the words echoes round my mind.
"As your Maker, I command you."
My weapon dips, rises, dips again and I know I can't do it. I pull it off the tripod and throw it to the floor in disgust.
I can't do it.
"Ace?"
"Ace?"
I lower my head into my hands, defeated.
"Ace?"
And then it comes to me, I can be free, I have a chance.
"Take the shot," I murmur under my breath.
"Say again, over."
"Take the shot, my weapon has jammed."
"Let me re-adjust for wind speed and conditions, T-30 seconds."
He is unperturbed by my explanation, we have been working together for years, weapon malfunctions are common. That's why it's better to have a two-man team for jobs like these.
She's still staring at me, her eyes boring into my skull "I shall punish you for this" she says, "not harshly, but you will regret it. You are mine."
Take the shot Lafayette, I scream internally, take the fucking shot!
"When you've done the job, Lafayette," I say breaking protocol and using real names on an un-encrypted network.
"Make the next shot for me."
I stand up and slump next to the window, a bag of bones and skin, bent but not completely broken.
He doesn't question it and will do as I ask. It's the last thing we professionals can for each other.
"You are the coldest, most hard-hearted motherfucker I've ever had the pleasure of working with."
I hear a noise, he has loaded his weapon and is preparing to take the shot.
He takes it and doesn't miss.
I feel a pain so intense it brings me to my knees, and something breaks inside me. I slump forward, screaming in agony.
I can hear the panicking crowd below, the sound of sirens in the distance and the shouts of the vamps' security detail. A thousand cameras clicked and flashed.
I haven't got much time left, I can hear the sound of feet in the corridor outside my room already.
With the last of the strength I possess I type the code into the cell phone and press send, the blast wave from the car bomb making my ears ring.
"Take the shot."
I know that he will kiss the bullet before loading it into the chamber.
"This bullet has your name on it." He says calmly. "Say your goodbyes, bro."
For the first time in my life I'm praying. I'll be with Stan and the rest of my regiment soon and I can't wait.
He takes the shot and doesn't miss.