He paced the long hallway, again and again, his cracked lips opening and closing rapidly as his eyes darted back and forth. His unwashed hair clung to his sweaty forehead, beads running down his face as he mumbled incoherently. With dirty fingers, he reached into his coat pocket and rummaged for something, bringing his pacing to an end. Suddenly, his glassy eyes widened and he swiveled, patting his chest frantically. The note…the note was gone! He hunched over as he wrestled with his coat, trying to throw the damn thing off for more in-depth searching. After almost falling forward, he finally managed to get it off and threw it on the ground where he hit his knees and inspected the pockets with his own eyes.

"No, no, no," he said, his voice rough as it came from a dry throat, "no, no, not tonight! Not tonight!" The stained carpet of the motel rubbed his knees raw as he left his coat and crawled towards his room, the door wide open and waiting for him. Shivering and whimpering pathetically, he reached for his room. As he was about to dive into the room, the door creaked and slammed shut, just inches from his fingers. He choked on one last whimper as he was cast into a shadow, a silhouette of someone standing over him. He cried out with fear and spun around, now on his butt with his back pressed against the cool, no longer welcoming, wood. He could not see the person through his dying vision, made blurry by tears.

"I-I-I'm sorry, boss!" he pleaded, "Don't kill me! Please!" The person did not speak or move, simply stood over him and watched him; a silent entity that made the man shit his pants. "I-I can get the information again! I promise! I just…I just don't know where the note went this time! I-I-I must have dropped it outside or something! I could go get it!" Again, the man spoke to a wall, further wrecking his nerves. He gulped and put his hands in front of himself, bracing for his untimely demise, but the shadow made no movement. "I-I might actually r-remember! M-my memory isn't that great, but I-I think I know where it was! Shr-shreve…Shreve something! That's it! Lou…Louisiana! Haha! I remember!" He let out more anxious chuckles and slowly put his hands down, grinning up at his "boss" as though he might get a pat on the head.

Instead, he felt a sharp pain across his neck and then…nothing. His eyes rolled back as his mouth lolled open, head slowly tilting to the side. With a gentle wet sound followed by a thud, his noggin rolled off his shoulder and bounced across the floor, rolling to a bloody stop.

"Shreveport, Louisiana," it finally said. Their voice was deep and gravely, holding a sick joy in its tone. "Finally." He smiled—a look that did not suit him—and his lip slipped over his sharp fangs, baring them for no one to see. A moment later, he was gone.

Bump in the Night

Bon Temps was the perfect place to hide despite the southern heat and strange happenings with monsters and such. The people probably were not the type to keep up with media to the point the Petty siblings would have to worry. The summer home was away from town and surrounded by trees to provide privacy. It was big, but small enough as to not stand out. Maintenance was an issue as it had been vacant for years, last visited by their parents about six years previous. Now, two strangers were moving in for the season.

The small car pulled into the gravel driveway and stopped, followed closely by the moving van. Once the dust cleared, two men exited the front seats of the car and opened the back for the new tenants as the moving crew opened up the house to start unpacking. A man exited first. He was charming, with black hair styled into a curly faux hawk. His wide, brown eyes smiled as he looked around, looking over the windows overhead. He whipped his head around and grinned across the hood of the car as his sister got out, dragging a raggedy messenger bag with her. She lacked any enthusiasm as she looked over at him, her red lips stuck in a frown. Her hair was cut into a bob, the back shaven and the bangs straight across.

"Now remember, Isa," he said, giving the roof a tap before slamming the door shut, "Things only get better from here. Once everything cools off, we're outta here and off to somewhere better." Isadora—Isa—Petty snorted and shook her head.

"We'll never get outta here if we go with your plan." Peter's smile turned into a small smirk.

The two bodyguards, both clad in neat suits and dark sunglasses, opened the trunk to retrieve the suitcases, lips shut in tight lines as though they were robots. Isa practically leapt forward, leaving her door open, and snatched a box from one of them, much to his annoyance. It only frustrated him more when the box shivered with silverware, but she insisted on carrying it herself. Peter snorted out a laugh, but then quickly covered his mouth before offering to help them. Box under her arm and her bag dragging on the ground, Isadora wandered off the gravel and into the tall grass, the blades brushing her bare legs. The sky overhead was clear blue and bright behind the bushy branches of untended trees, making it the perfect day to sit against a trunk and write. She sunk down and set the box beside her before digging through her bag for a ratty notebook. A loose page slipped out, but she ignored it. Knees curled and the book on her thighs, she pulled a pen from her bag's side pocket and opened up to a fresh page. The freed paper fluttered in the grass for a moment before a breeze sent it flying into the bushes.

Peter, his offer of help turned down outright, gave up and slumped against the side of the car, arms crossed as he muttered to himself and waited for them to finish. He could not even carry his own suitcase in, apparently because they needed to make sure the house was "safe." From possums or something, he figured. Sun bearing down on him, he felt sweat gathering on his brow, so he wiped his face with the front of his t-shirt. When he lowered the cloth again, glancing over the yard, he shot straight up and squinted.

Someone looking to be younger than them barreled out of the bushes lining the property, limbs flailing as they tripped on stuff in the grass. The kid let out a yelp as he finally flew headfirst towards a tree. Peter winced, able to hear the harsh smack from where he stood. Isadora, off to the side but not too far from the incident, slowly removed her attention from her notebook and looked over, expression flat and unenthused. The kid fell backwards and slapped both hands over his forehead, letting out a pained sound like a kicked dog. Quickly, Peter jogged over.

"Dude! Are you okay? Isa, help him up would ya!" She pursed her lips but did not budge otherwise, her eyes glued to the young man. Peter crouched down beside him and grabbed at their wrist to try to inspect the damage. "Here, let me see."

They hissed and removed their hands slowly as blood trickled down between his eyes and around his nose. Peter flinched again but realized the wound was barely anything and did not mean they needed to call 911. "S-sorry about…hitting your tree?" Peter laughed and patted him on the back.

"Sorry my tree hit your face. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think I am…" He, with some help from Peter, got to his feet. Brushing his hands off on his pants, some blood smearing into the fabric, he looked over at Isadora, eyes locking with hers. The pen she had been using rested against her lips. Peter noticed and intercepted as soon as he noticed the stupid look in the stranger's eyes.

"My name's Peter and that's my sister Isadora," he explained, "we're living here for the summer." The boy tore his attention from Isa and turned to Peter again, still smiling. His tanned face contained soft features and his hair was light brown, cut short and boyish. He couldn't have been much older than 16.

"I'm Jeffery, a local. Did you buy this old place, or…?" Peter crossed his arms, pausing to think of a non-suspicious explanation.

"We're renting from the owners. They haven't been here in a long time, so they happily offered. In fact, we did not even have to pay much. Pretty lucky, huh?" Jeffery was awestruck.

"Wow, really? It's a pretty nice house." He peeked around Peter at the two official-looking men carrying boxes with a puzzled expression. "So…did they offer to move your stuff too?" Peter faltered and briefly glanced at his sister.

"They said it was just nice to have the house be used." Jeffery seemed to buy it. Now that their conversation was over, Jeffrey's attention returned to Isadora and the pen that rested seductively against her lips. He grinned stupidly, an affect that she seemed to have on many, and walked over to her despite the displeased look on Peter's face.

"Hey, Isadora, right?" She nodded once, watching him silently with her dark eyes. Behind the flat yet attractive look of her eyes, color seemed to swirl in her iris, giving them a subtle yet striking spiral look. It made her seem supernatural and out of reach, not that it stopped Jeffrey from attempting to advance on her. Unfortunately, he used a frontal approach, leaving him open to any blows she was fully prepared to deal. He knelt down next to her, still smiling, and held out his hand, which she stared at with newfound interest.

"I'm Jeffrey. If you ever need someone to show you around or a good time, you can call me, okay?" The corners of her lips curled up, terribly resembling the Grinch, and she looked him in the eye again, his hand no longer interesting. It must have surprised him, seeing her face so close, because he looked taken aback as he second-guessed his idea to flirt with her. She moved the pen so the lid was in her teeth and popped it open. Grabbing his wrist in her other warm hand, she pulled his arm to her and wrote a phone number. Jeffrey shivered a little, the pen feeling cool while she felt hot; he smiled again. Finished, she loosened her grip on his wrist. He pulled his arm back slowly, shivering again as her soft fingers brushed over his skin and as his eyes stared at her lips. She put the pen back into the lid and took it from her mouth, smirking at him coolly.

"If you ever need someone to show you a good time, you can call me, okay?" she practically purred. Peter shifted uncomfortably as the young one melted in his sister's attention; he cleared his throat to get Jeffrey to look at him instead.

"We're pretty beat from the trip, so you should head home," he said, attempting to mask the irritation he felt. The boy blushed and nodded.

"Sorry! You're right; moving is a lot of work after all. I should get back to my friends anyway. I was running from one of them but I guess she didn't follow as closely as I thought…" Scratching the back of his head, Jeffery said his goodbyes and left the property, both siblings watching him. Isadora sighed and shoved her stuff back into her bag as Peter rounded on her and made a gasping grumble of frustration, throwing his arms up as he could not articulate much better.

"Use your words," she said with a soft chuckle.

"Remember what I said about "laying low?" Hitting on some kid from town isn't what I had in mind."

"Oh come on, he was cute."

"And probably not legal."

"Please, it's the So—"

"Don't you even start!" He rubbed his hands down his face and shook his head. Isa used the tree trunk to get to her feet and slipped the bag's strap over her shoulder. After bending over and picking up the box of silverware, she looked up at her brother and cocked her head to the side. He puffed his cheeks and made a choking motion with his hands, showing her just how mad he was. When she thought he'd turn blue, she held the box out to him and gave him a crooked smile.

"Mom's crappy silverware," she said simply. He exhaled noisily and dropped his hands, giving the box a confused look.

"If they're mom's, why do you have them?" Isa shoved the box into his chest, forcing him to take them, and turned on her heel to head towards the house. "Hey! What's the deal?"

"I just thought they might come in handy," she said, waving her hand as if she couldn't be bothered to give a better answer. His brow furrowed as he glowered at the back of her head, but in the end, he gave in and shuffled back to the house as well.

Their first night in their summer home was the complete opposite of what Isadora was used to. In the city, her nights, and often her days, were full of cold air, soaked ground, and sweaty bodies meshed together in close quarters, moving to whatever repetitive noise that played at the time; the good old days of drug addicts, ravers, and prostitutes. Not that she hadn't gotten to adjust to silent nights already. Nonetheless, since she was freed, the calm made her toss in bed to the point she gave up and got up. Behind her, as she sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the hardwood floor, Peter snored softly, his arms wrapped around his pillow and a drool puddle under his cheek.

Their bedroom was the attic, basically, complete with a slanted ceiling. Their bed was two mattresses stacked on the floor and shoved into a corner, covered in black sheets and a comforter with silk lining on the bottom. There was a window right above their heads, then one on the adjacent wall, closer to the old wardrobe that once belonged to a great, great grandmother or something. The floor was old but clean, with a fluffy, circle rug in the center. Other than a lamp beside their bed, the rest of the room was bare: no mirrors, no photos, nothing but their suitcases of clothes and the sparse furniture. She hated that room.

The rest of the house seemed more welcoming. The hallway split around the thin staircase, closed in with walls. The second floor had two guest rooms, the master bedroom, and the master bathroom. The entire floor was the same as the "attic", but the bathroom was newly tiled and shined up. The shower was small, but there was a large bath to make up for it. There was a closet between the tub and toilet, full of towels and other toiletries. The guestrooms were wide open and vacant, as well as the master bedroom. One might wonder why the doors were even open because the dark made it uncomfortable to walk on that floor.

At the bottom of the tight stairway was the entranceway. A coat closet separated the stairs from the door's view. Without a wall to block it off, the living room was large and connected to the entranceway, furnished with a new, plush couch, a love seat, a recliner, and the expensive looking TV, plus assorted technology they plugged into it. The coffee table was old, smooth wood with a glass center and covered with magazines and mugs they had left from drinking coffee as Thing 1 and Thing 2 moved their stuff in.

Around the corner was the kitchen, as new as the bathroom upstairs. Everything but the counters was replaced and shiny. The refrigerator was restocked with soda, juice, some lunchmeat, extra bread, milk, eggs, and a few other things like coffee creamers. They still needed snack foods, dinners, and ice cream; how could they forget ice cream? The floor was newly tiled and mopped with a small carpet in front of the sink. In drawers near the stove was silverware, the same that Isadora had insisted on carrying. They were pure silver, antiques not meant for use yet hidden away from view. The real eating utensils were in a bucket, needing a wash to be usable while neither sibling wanted to touch them. They would no doubt sit there for a few days while they got by on frozen finger foods.

She hated the rest of the house too.

Isadora finally stood up, not able to stand the snoring behind her, and left the bedroom. Dressed in a large t-shirt and short shorts, no socks or shoes, she wandered down the creaky stairs, making sure to be careful as to not wake Peter. He would flip out on her if he knew she was up and about on her own in the middle of the night. To make things worse, she went to the front door and opened it. She gently pressed her warm hand to the cool metal of the screen door and slipped outside into the warm night. The heat had settled after the sun went down, making it more comfortable for anyone not used to it. Now it was less "fire" and more "warm blanket".

She shut the door and left the porch, humming some 80s tune she couldn't remember the words to. The woods around their temporary home were void of life, not even a cricket playing a tune in the brush. There might have been a raccoon, but they made no sounds to alert her. When on the road, again there was not a soul in sight. Isadora could walk with her eyes closed without getting weird; she could dance her way into town without a care.

She stopped humming when her foot touched cement. Opening her eyes, she looked around the barren town of Bon Temps, lights flickering here and there, glowing so she could see. All the stores were closed and homes were dark while people slept. There were no tomcats stalking their territory, no dogs barking in backyards at the slightest sound or movement. And there were still no people to watch her. It was the opposite of what she was used to, but it soothed her like a lullaby. The moon overhead disappeared for a moment as a cloud passed over, and Isadora looked up at it, almost startled as the light played hide-and-seek. When the cloud moved on, she relaxed again, forgetting to resume the humming she had accidentally stopped.

A man appeared when she looked forward again, but when she blinked, he was gone. It happened so suddenly, she could not get a clear picture of him and did not have enough time to be surprised. She stared blankly ahead, head cocked slightly.

"Must have been a ghost," she said coolly, not bothered by her own observation. There were two things she got from the brief mirage; he was tall and he was pale. The dead had always been pale, but he was not gruesome, so he must have been fresh. One foot in front of the other, she continued on, gliding along the dirty sidewalk while a new tune came to mind. A few moments later, she shook her head and stopped walking. A ghost…It could not have been a ghost. Even the new ones were ugly, scarred by whatever took their lives to begin with. They did not change in appearance as time sped by, only stayed the same while their personalities twisted and their anger took hold. After all, who wanted to be dead?

The air was still hot, dancing against her skin to soothe her nerves. While silence fell over everything, she stood completely still, ears and flesh prickled while the once warm air went cold. For a moment, she believed that it really had been a ghost and that it was curious about her presence at such an hour.

"When the dead enter a room, the temperature drops," she muttered to herself, "But this is different isn't it?"

For a moment, the sound was quiet; just a low rumble in the back of her head like a band of horses in the distance. Steadily growing louder, the horses came nearer, hooves crashing in her brain and making her temples pound painfully. Soon they were roaring, moving around her frantically. It was not hooves however, but screams of men and woman. Isadora tensed and put her hands on her cheeks, fingers tugging her earlobes down. Instead of covering her ears— it was futile to block the cries—she listened for physical sounds, such as footsteps. There were none.

"It's rather late for you to be outside," said a cool voice. She spun around for a broad chest to greet her and then looked almost straight up at a face looking down at her. Staring blankly, perhaps not that shocked about their presence, she took note of his appearance. The man was pale, tall, and blond, just as the disappearing figure from moments before.

"Hypocrite," she said flatly, almost a reflexive response. He continued to watch her, so she did the same back, but he was trying to read her rather than whatever her intention was—which she had none. After another second or two, he chuckled. The sound was not humorous or lighthearted, rather as cold as the temperature he radiated. His blue-green eyes opened again and met her swirling browns, brow raised slightly as he kept a crooked smile.

"It's not hypocritical for me," he said, "Isn't it obvious?"

Anguished wails from a writhing crowd of men and woman whose lives had been ripped from them, equivalent to the leftover odor of blood but instead recordings stuck to the flesh, were a signature she knew of only two groups. Murderers were one of them and she scoffed at the evils of people, finding their existence uninteresting. But it was the other half that made her feel small in front of this stranger. His cold skin she could feel even without touching him; the darkness around his eyes and pale skin; there was only one option.

"Of course it's obvious," she said vaguely. He thought her an idiot only briefly, reading easily the expression in her eyes. She knew what he was and refused to say it.

"You really should go home. You never know what's walking around at night."

"Only creepers and murderers," she said right away, crossing her arms and cocking her head slightly.

"And which do you think I am?" He smiled again.

Her reply was instant, "Both."

Once again, he thought she might be slow, the snarky comments only to cover how much of a tool she really was. Of course, he would be wrong to think that. Isadora was neither slow nor a moron. In fact, she was quite the opposite. Her only fault was the enjoyment of frustrating and confusing others, something that had become a pastime since she started school. This was not a person she should poke and prod, but everything was reflexive and permanently etched into her being.

"If I'm both a creeper and a murderer, what does that make you for not running away?" He thought he was so clever…

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Of course it's obvious." His response made her smile, which rarely happened from other people flapping their jaws. If it were not for the horrible headache he created for her, perhaps they could be friends. It would be strange to befriend something like him just after coming for the summer, like fate almost. But it was not love at first sight; it was a new game she had three months to finish.

"It's time to go home, human," he said, "Or I might get hungry." His smile became even more crooked and a fang peeked out from his lips, catching a small glint of moonlight. First, he was clever, and then he was scary. Isadora scoffed, although not directly at him.

"You can't scare a lunatic at night," she said flatly, "You might as well just go on your way and leave me alone. Besides, I taste like junk food."

He looked amused, mostly at the fact she called herself a lunatic. After all, the crazy do not know they are crazy and this was the second time she alluded to her instability. Something was very wrong about her, like everything was off kilter in her head, but that oddness was curious. He moved closer to her slowly, almost as if approaching a deer so it would not run away. She continued to stare at him without a readable expression, even when he stood inches from her and loomed over her. She was short enough, but felt dwarfed compared to the giant before her.

"What's your name?" he asked. Isa started directly into his eyes and crossed her arms.

"Sheila, Queen of Mars."

"I have never seen you before, Your Majesty." If he was in a worse mood, he might have snapped her neck for such an answer. But for the time being, she was far too fascinating to kill.

"I just flew in on my magic carpet," she said, her expression changing as she spoke. She sounded convincing, aside from the absurdity, and acted like it was no big deal. "But I'm only here for three months because I can't leave Mars unattended to for too long."

"You are ridiculous," he chimed, his smile still crooked. As he read her face, he began to realize how much weirder her appearance was than her words. There was something enchanting about her eyes. They were flat but big as if innocence was turned to cynicism over time, and the irises appeared to swirl around her pupils, moving like a fog. They were brown, but his inhuman eyes could see the dark grays mixed in. "What is your real name?" He removed his focus from her eyes and found he had touched her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth, and hot against his icy fingers. With her blank expression and her unnatural eyes, he had no way of telling whether his trick had worked.

To Glamour someone was a form of hypnotism, a talent that all of his kind possessed. With it, they could change, wipe, and rearrange memories, make humans do their bidding, and everything else under the moon. All it took was a concentrated stare into their eyes, reaching inside, and taking their consciousness under control. For this strange girl, it was his only chance to get any truth out of her.

"What is your real name?" he asked again, speaking slower as he stared into her eyes again. She took a second to respond, but it was not the answer he expected.

"Could you go away? You're starting to annoy me." He blinked, confused. There was only one other person he could not Glamour…He removed his hand from her cheek and moved away a little, feeling startled but not showing it. "Do all of your kind impose on people's personal space, or do you just get a kick out of it?"

"What are you?" he asked. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her headache was starting to pound harder and she felt like her head was going to explode. With him having gotten so close, going as far as to touch her face, her stomach joined in and decided to twist up. The place where he had touched her was so cold it burned, not to mention it smelled like old blood. The roaring infernal of cries refused to lighten up, meaning it was time for her to get away from him; the game could continue another time.

"I'm crazy, remember?" With the first round over, she turned her back on him and began to walk away. Unfortunately, he was not done and decided to grab her arms. With his inhuman strength, he turned her around and picked her up like a child. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" For a second, he saw her canines look as sharp as her glare.

"All I want is your name," he said coolly, but she could tell he would do something rash if she did not comply. With her head pounding, her patience tested, and her stomach on the verge of expelling lunch, she figured a name would not hurt.

"Isadora," she said simply, brow still furrowed with annoyance, like a hissy cat less than amused about being manhandled. To avoid her claws, he set her down again while repeating her name.

"Isadora…" he mumbled.

"Yes, that's my name. Can I leave now?" She had no interest in knowing his name, but he gave it regardless.

"My name is Eric," he said simply, "I'll be seeing you again."

"Is that a promise or a threat?" Leaving her with just his damn crooked smile, he disappeared thanks to super speed. The soft breeze of his movement made her hair tickle her forehead, so she mussed her hair with both hands to scratch her head. From head to toe, she must have looked like an insane homeless person. Inside, she just felt insane.

"I hate Vampires," she said aloud, speaking to the night air, "I really hate Vampires."

It seemed even a night as bad as his could turn around; depending on one's definition of it. Eric Northman had started his "day" by learning a serial Vampire killer had come to his town and killed a woman. The scene was gruesome, with blood and guts smeared all over the walls, her corpse torn from limb to limb. While he was not concerned about a single death, the killer being around was troublesome. As sheriff of Shreveport, he was inclined to investigate.

Due to his duty, he was forced into visiting his favorite waitress. The blonde was not all thrilled to have him in her home, just like always, but she was even less thrilled about being enlisted to help in their Vampire affairs…again. Not that he blamed her. Bad things always happened when they were involved. In fact, he had to face a tragedy himself the last time.

It was when he explained what she had to do that she agreed to help. She was just to read the mind of a witness so they did not have to spill human blood to get the truth. The killer had left the woman's boyfriend, or snack. Eric, of course, was not against torture, but the higher ups had different principles than him, meaning he had to swallow his pride again.

Look at that! I'm redoing Barbed Wire! :D And this time, I really do intend on finishing it. Hopefully, you haven't seen the old one so your opinion on it won't be tainted! I'd also like to note, characters may say or do things that don't represent my own feelings so... Basically, Isa has growing up to do and I hope you'll stick around for the character development! Thanks for reading! Leave a review or PM me if you'd like; I always appreciate feedback.

- Sabu (May 17, 2013)