Choosing Family
by Hope
AN: I've written in other fandoms, but this is my first True Blood fanfic.
1898, New Orleans French Quarter
He scanned the room as any predator would, noting the weak, the inebriated, the easy kill. This bar in New Orleans was like other bars in Chicago, and New York, and London. Sweaty, drunk humans groping jaded hookers while too-loud music played in the background, offending both his acute hearing and his keen sense of smell.
He was bored out of his mind. Being around for 900 years will do that to you.
Shifting in his seat, he stretched his long legs under the table, tugging his left pant leg down. He was not fond of the current clothing styles. Tailored trousers and stiff-neck collars were not nearly as comfortable as bear pelts and seal skin boots, but it was important to blend in with the surroundings. Part of that blending in was drinking alcohol, and he took another sip of bitter whiskey from the glass in front of him. He could drink all night and never feel a thing. Pity. He missed the old days drinking beer and having his way with his father's servants. Then, waking up with a hangover would have felt like the end of the world, now he would welcome it just for the experience of something different.
Was this the ennui that he'd heard about from some of the other old ones? Was he tired of his existence? No. Not tired exactly, but his interest was definitely waning. Humans were pathetic and a general pain in the ass and worse, tiresome. The men liked to boast about their conquests, as if he cared. He'd done more in his life than they all had combined. The women were simpering doormats, sit, stay, spread. They did what they were told. Not one of them seemed to have an original thought let alone a clever comeback. Men or women, if he didn't need them to survive, he'd happily kill them all. That wasn't a bad idea, actually. Creative homicide would provide some entertainment. After all, it had done wonders for Jack the Ripper.
The music changed to a sultry tune and the local men started banging their glasses on the table and yelling in excitement. Thinking that some kind of entertainment was beginning, he turned toward the stage. There were no players to entertain the crowd, but a tall, blond woman in a beautiful, form-fitting red dress sauntered down the stairs and into the bar. She was stunning. This was no submissive doormat; he could tell immediately that this woman was not the average. The men practically drooled on her velvet hem as she strolled among the tables surveying her prey, just as he had earlier. Could she be another like he? Focusing on her intently, he could hear her heart beating, so she was human. She just didn't act like any of the women he'd seen before. If she was a prostitute, she was an expensive one.
She went to the bar and the bartender smiled at her, though he didn't tip his hat as most men would to a lady. "Evening, Miss Pamela," said the bartender. "The usual, Ma'am?"
"Vodka straight," she said in a throaty Southern drawl.
"Yes'm," the bartender replied as he set her drink on the bar.
A table full of drunkards started waving money in her direction. "Over here, sweetheart!" called one portly fellow.
A brunette prostitute in a light blue gown sidled up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be your sweetheart, honey."
"I want the bitch in red," he slurred back at her.
"Miss Pamela picks her customers, they don't pick her," said the brunette. "But any one of us will be happy to keep you warm tonight."
He watched as the blond beauty finished her drink and cruised around the room. She flirted with some, cleverly insulted others, and still others she ignored out-right, deftly slipping by grabbing hands. Eventually, she made her way over to his table. "Tall, blond and handsome," she said as she looked him over. "I certainly hope you don't think you're hiding in this low-life bar. Because I'd be disappointed to find out there's a dim bulb behind those pretty green eyes."
He smiled at her, and it felt strange. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled without an agenda. "Not hiding," he said as he tapped his glass. "Just stopped for a drink and some company."
"What's your name, sugar?"
"Eric."
"Eric what?"
"Just Eric. And you are Miss Pamela, yes?"
"That's right. I earned that 'Miss', so I like to hear it." He smiled again. Miss Pamela was definitely not cut from the Southern Belle cloth, which raised her in his estimation.
"Well, it's a good thing we met," she said. "I can provide both drink and companyfor a price, of course."
"Of course," he replied. "How much?"
She looked him over slowly again her gaze lingering on his shoulders, his hands and his groin. She was self-possessed, which he liked. In her mind, it wasn't whether she was good enough, but rather if he was. "Big hands means you're probably big everywhere. If you know how to use it, that could make it worth my while. Say $150 for 2 hours. Anything over that will cost another $150."
"All right," he said giving her a once-over as well. He usually liked his women shorter, buxom with more curves, but Pamela was beautiful and sassy. He was confident that her skills would be adequate. If nothing else, she'd piqued his interest for a few minutes and that alone was worth the money. "Now?" he inquired.
"Later," she said. "Let me get the regulars out of the way. They don't last long...drunks typically can't keep it up for more than a few seconds anyway," she added with a shrug. She looked at the clock on the wall. "One o'clock?"
"That's fine. I have some things to do before then," he added thinking that in the two hours interim he could get a bite to eat and bathe.
"Just pass the money to the bartender when you come back and he'll give you the room key," she said as she trailed her fingernails across the back of his hand. "I'll be waiting."
He watched as she walked away.
The body seemed to fall in slow motion but the sound of flesh hitting bricks echoed in the dark alley. He looked down at his unconscious meal, licking the drop of blood from his bottom lip as he nudged the man with his boot. If he'd been home in Sweden, or anywhere else but the Americas he would not have left his meal alive. But the New World frowned on the killing of innocents, and so there were quite a few unconscious bodies in the dark alleyways of the cities. Most humans saw them and labeled them as drunks, which is better than calling them lunch. Not that humans would believe. In this time, vampires were thought to be fictional. When in actuality, Bram Stoker was a biographer, not a story-teller.
He retracted his fangs and looked up to check the position of the crescent moon. It was nearly one o'clock and he had a date. He chuckled to himself in disbelief. A date. Ridiculous that a 900 year old vampire had an appointment to fuck a prostitute, and was so bored and lonely that he was romanticizing it to make himself feel better. What would Godric think of that? He hadn't seen his vicious, strong-willed maker in over a hundred years. Maybe when his business in New Orleans was complete he would take a trip to Europe to see Godric. Tracking his maker through the Old World could prove a good diversion. Godric was crafty and unpredictable, but if he followed the trail of bodies, eventually he would find the only family he had left.
A moan came from the other end of the alley, along with the unmistakable sound of fists hitting flesh. Someone was getting a beating. With nothing better to do, he slowly walked toward the scuffle.
"You don't choose me, bitch! I choose!" Another punch eliciting a moan from the victim.
He held back in the shadows, watching the back of an overweight drunk kicking a woman who was curled up on the ground. The woman wasn't dead, but it wouldn't take much more to finish her.
She coughed and he could hear her blood moving sluggishly - her internal organs were failing. "I wouldn't...fuck you...on your best...day," she rasped.
Though he admired her bravado, he turned to leave - this wasn't his business and he didn't really care anyway - but then the man stepped back to catch his breath. A sliver of moonlight shone on the battered face of Miss Pamela. Before he could think it through, he was holding her assailant up by his neck and throwing him into the brick wall. The man slumped to the ground, his face and skull shattered by the blow. Death was instantaneous which was a shame, really...he would have liked to torture that one.
He knelt by her side and though her face was severely bruised she managed to open her eyes to look at him. She choked a little and blood oozed from the corner of her mouth. "Sorry, I'm closed," she said.
Despite her dire circumstances her quick wit was intact and he chuckled. "Yes, I see that. I didn't tell you earlier, but I enjoyed watching you tonight. You strike me as a woman who knows her own mind and isn't afraid to speak it. A rare thing these days."
"Perceptive," she said weakly. She looked at the brick walls surrounding them. "You know, I was born in a filthy alley and now I'm going to die in one too. I guess that's fitting."
"Yes, you will," he said. "Are you scared?"
"No, I'm pissed." The words struck a chord in him. They were centuries apart in age, and yet alike; not willing to die weak and sniveling but to face it head-on with courage and fury. She would have made a good Viking wife if only she'd been born earlier. Not much moved him at his age, he'd been through and seen it all, but the thought of her dying bothered him. Someone so unique should be spared the indignity of death.
He'd had the thought before to become a maker himself, yet he could never find a human he could stand for more than five minutes, let alone 500 years. But this one...maybe.
"Miss Pamela, what if I told you that I could save you? That I could make you strong enough that no man would be able to do this to you again?"
"I'd say you were selling something," she whispered. "What's the catch?"
"Well, you'll be young and beautiful forever. You will be strong and fast. You'll walk through the dark with me and we'll travel the world together until you are strong enough to go on your own, should you choose. I'll teach you everything I know. I'll be your father, brother, son."
"So, a family?"
"Yes."
"I never had one of those before."
He heard her heart falter. "You don't have much time left. You must choose. Death..or life?"
She was quiet a moment and he thought she might have slipped away, but her eyes opened slowly and she said, "Life." His fangs dropped and he let her see them as he brushed her hair away from her bruised neck. "Will I have those too?"
"Yes, you will."
"Good."
He smiled at her then, pleased at her commitment to cross into the unknown. Vampire bites can be brutal or pleasurable, and he made sure that he gave Miss Pamela the pleasure he would have given her had their appointment been kept. He felt her heart slow then skip a beat and he retracted his fangs gently from her neck. He raised her up, cradling her in his arms. With a slice of his fingernail, he opened a wound on his own neck. "Drink Pam," he whispered, cradling her head in one of his large hands. "Drink and be made new."
He could feel her cracked lips against his skin as her tongue licked up the dripping blood. It wouldn't take much to start the healing and after a few moments she drank in earnest.
He would take her to the Carlson crypt in St. Louis Cemetery. He'd used it before when he was pressed for time and couldn't find a suitable resting place. The dead Carlsons were Scandinavian and old enough that he may actually find a dirt floor to go to ground in. He could dig a hole for them but with the low water table in this part of the country, it would be like sleeping in a cold muddy bath. Waking up to muddy water in all of her orifices would not be a good way for Pam to begin eternity.
She stopped drinking and slipped into unconsciousness. He knew she would sleep the sleep of the new dead for the next day. And when she woke, he would have his hands full teaching her the things she needed to know. He had a feeling that his new progeny would keep things interesting for a long while.