Busy night at Fangtasia. New Year's Eve and some jagoff blogger had put it on their top ten list of happening places to ring in the New Year in Louisiana. Tara had put a rush order on extra supplies. Judging by the crowd already milling about at six, they'd have to use the new outdoor stage as well as the traditional dance floor.

She was in her office which she still thought of as Pam's office, Willa on the couch going over the order on her tablet. "How many kegs?" she quizzed.

Willa thought about it, tapping her stylus against her bottom lip. "Well, assuming two hundred extra people at the maximum… be safe and order twenty?"

"Make it eighteen," Tara said. Her feet were up on the desk and she was watching the varnish on her toenails. With her vampire eyes, she could see the polish infinitesimally decay. "If our beloved customers eat through our stock in one night, they won't notice it's watered down at the end."

"Got it, eighteen. What about the Fangtasia-brand condoms?"

Tara groaned. One of her earlier ideas that was too profitable to live down. "As many as we can get. Judging by the crowd we've already got, we'd be doing the world a favor by keeping anyone from breeding."

"Mmmm. Such superiority. Such contempt for the mewling masses. Fangtasia is in awful good hands." The voice drawled right through the door as it craned open, showing off a long leg ending in a Satan-red heel.

Pam always had known how to make an entrance.

Tara sat back in her chair. She'd pictured this moment often enough. Her Maker finally coming back. What she'd say to her. Professions of love. Urgent questions. Or nothing more than a long, soulful kiss.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Pam sauntered a few steps into the office, her head swiveling to take in Willa, who straightened her skirt under the glare. "A drink, for starters. New girl, go fetch. And try to make it ginger, hm?"

Willa obediently disappeared. Even closed the door behind her. Tara was teaching her well.

"You gonna run off again after you've wet your whistle, or are you staying for a chaser?"

Pam waved her off to unspool onto a divan—one of many pieces of furniture Tara thought she primarily kept around to have sex on. "Thought I'd drop by and see what you'd done with the place. What's with the patio?"

"We serve barbecue during the day. At night, we have a vampire band play there. Brings in some extra bucks."

"Barbecue." Pam nestled her head disgruntledly against her hand. "Do you give out little plastic toys with family meals too?"

"This isn't like the early days. People won't pay twenty bucks a drink to catch a glimpse of a vampire anymore, not now that they can see that bitch from the new Star Wars movies flashing her fangs and her puss on TMZ. There's no mystery now that most people are cohabitating with vamps. We have to actually give them their money's worth now."

"You lowered the drink price," Pam said with disgust.

"And we play decent music now."

"Is that what that noise is downstairs? Thought the sound system was broken."

"You didn't want Tupac to keep making music, you people shouldn't have made him a vampire. And why the fuck are you asking me about Fangtasia anyway? Not like you ever gave a shit about this place." Or anyone in it.

Pam smirked in response. "Why haven't you asked about Eric?"

"He's not my Maker. You are. Or did you forget?"

Pam rolled over, staring at the ceiling with the top of her head aimed at Tara. "Willa isn't your sister, but you two still seem awfully close."

"I ain't fucking her, asshole."

"Too bad, it'd be hot."

Tara clapped her hands on the desk. Arguing with Pam was like picking a scab, but not tonight. She'd turned a vampire petting zoo/fangbanger key party into a fucking franchise; she didn't need ex-girlfriends—or almost-girlfriends—crowding her fucking doorstep. "How the fuck is Eric?"

Pam peeked at her upside-down. "I found him. He was holed up in a cave in the Swiss Alps, burnt near to a crisp and comatose from a lack of blood. But I fixed him up."

"I'm so goddamn happy for you. Too bad they don't have a postcard for that, since that's the only fucking way you could've clued me in."

"I thought you'd appreciate a personal visit."

"It's been nearly a year."

"You're immortal," Pam retorted.

"That doesn't mean—"

Willa opened the door, a bloodbag plated in her hands. "I brought—"

"Fuck off."

The door squawked shut.

Tara got up from her desk, Pam's desk, her desk and rounded it to face Pam, who actually got up to face her in surprise. "You fucking left and yeah, I fucking missed you. I'm done with that now. Go back to playing house with Eric."

"I missed you too."

"Fuck you, Pam."

Pam kissed her.

Tara shoved her away, hard enough to hit the wall and put a crack in it. It took a moment of hard breathing—something she hadn't done in weeks—for her to realize there'd been about a minute between Pam kissing her and Pam not kissing her.

Pam smiled and traced the crack behind her with her fingers. "I'm all for a little ultraviolence if it'll make you feel better. In fact, I have some outfits we could squeeze into to go with the theme."

"Found 'em. Gave 'em to Goodwill. Bums like to get kinky too."

Pam threw her head back and laughed. "Wanna fist me? You'll feel better."

"Fuck's sake." In a blur, Tara had her purse and was throwing her things in it. "You wanna run Fangtasia, make it your usual clusterfuck. I'm going home."

Pam arched a spectacular eyebrow. "You don't live here?"

"I live with Lettie Mae. We're a blood pairing now. And I was plannin' on watching the ball drop with her tonight anyhow."

Tara stayed just long enough to see the look on Pam's face before she whooshed away. Maybe she really was that fast or maybe she just wasn't much for noticing things at the moment, but in a blink she was at her parking space, unlocking her own car. She shoved the key in the lock so hard that if she'd missed, she would've nailed it through the metal of the door.

Her car was a 1975 Chevrolet Camaro—would've been a classic if it weren't beat to shit. But the engine and all four wheels were working, so she got it for a steal from the used-car lot. Didn't even have to glamour anyone. The pertinent memory, though, was why Tara had been shopping for a car in the first place when she could run fifty miles faster than NASCAR.

She'd known it would piss Pam off.

Throwing herself behind the wheel, she choked the ignition into turning over and stepped on the gas. She wasn't the kind of person who just had one reason for anything. Everything had pros and cons. Con: she could get pulled over in a car. Pro: it made her feel normal, the wheel under her fingers, the radio playing, the world rolling by steadily instead of blurring at the edges.

She floored it. Fuck the police. Let 'em pull her over. She'd pay the fucking ticket, because this actually felt familiar enough to be reassuring. Driving fast enough to feel the engine rattling out the steering and up her arms, harsh words still sticking out of her ears… yeah, the only difference was that she was driving away from an asshole ex-girlfriend instead of an asshole ex-boyfriend.

Tara turned the headlights on not because she needed them, but because other people needed to see her. She actually saw Pam a hundred yards before the Camaro's dirty headlights reached her. The bitch was standing in the middle of the road, hands behind her back, looking all first date.

Tara gunned the engine. Her '75 didn't look like much, but it packed it where it counted. She watched the needle on the speedometer jump to eighty like a scared cat. Pam just stood there as the headlights came onto her, as if she wouldn't get out of the way. Tara knew she'd get out of the way. She was going to get out of the way. Who the hell wouldn't get out of the way?

Tara thought about turning.

Then her car hit Pam.

"Why the fuck didn't you get out of the way?"

"Why the fuck did you hit me with your car?"

Pam was fine. Her dress was not. Neither was Tara's car, which had crumpled around Pam, flipped into the air, and ended up in a tree. Also, Tara's Cat Stevens CD was halfway through the rearview mirror.

As for Pam and Tara, they sat by the side of the road. A combination of windshield glass and airbags had given Tara's clothes much the same makeover as Pam's. Together, they looked like they'd done something far more fun in the backseat of Tara's car than being thrown through it due to a head-on collision.

Tara raised her phone to her ear again, the muzak from the earpiece having cut out. "Hello? Yes, is this Triple-A?"

"You're never going to get a tow truck out here on New Year's Eve."

Tara covered the phone's mouthpiece with her hand. "Maybe there's a Jewish tow truck driver."

"It's Christmas they don't celebrate, not New Year's."

"They have a different calendar, with a Jewish new year."

"Pretty sure they celebrate the regular new year too."

Tara lifted the phone to her ear, quickly gave the road's name and the name of the two exits they were in-between, then was given the number of a taxi company and a suggestion to report the collision to the police so the area could be cordoned off.

"Hey, settle a bet for me," Tara said. "Are you Jewish?" She looked at Pam. "He hung up."

Pam snapped her fingers. "Non-practicing Jew. Probably feels guilty. Say, why the fuck do you want to spend New Year's with your horrible bitch mother?"

Tara gave her eyes that could curdle milk. "They don't have tact in Sweden?"

"They don't have shit in Sweden. Why do you think I'm in Louisiana? Don't avoid the question worryin' I won't win Miss Congeniality."

"You won't win Miss Congeniality," Tara deadpanned. "And not that you'd understand, since the only relationship you've had in the past century is being Viking boy's stalker, but Lettie Mae is family. You give family second chances."

"Way I hear it, she's on her thirty-seventh chance."

"Amazing you hear shit when you never listen to me."

Lights came around the distant curve in the road, washing out Tara's nightvision. She quickly recognized a pick-up truck, dusty but well-maintained enough to be a good ol' boy's. Pam animatedly jumped to her feet and angled herself on the side of the road, leg jutted out like Angelina Jolie's.

"What're you doing?" Tara asked as the truck slowed.

"Getting us a ride."

"We're not hitching!"

"Then what are we doing out here? We could've been to New York and back in the time you've wasted bitching."

"We're in mourning for my car. And what the fuck's this about New York?"

The pick-up pulled up alongside them, the redneck inside leaning over to push open the passenger door. He was wearing Duck Dynasty merchandise. Sometimes, when God played jokes on Tara, he went for the cheap punchline.

"You ladies need a lift?"

"We're vampires," Tara said. "She's bisexual, I'm gay, and black, case you hadn't noticed."

"It is dark out," Pam added.

"So… you don't need a ride?"

"No."

"But it would've been fun," Pam added once more.

"Alright then. Y'all have a happy new year, righty."

The truck's taillights painted them red as it hauled off, a little fast for Tara's tastes. He could give them time to reconsider. Maybe she was just in a bad mood, as unusual as that seemed.

"You want to be pissed off for a while?" Pam asked, reading Tara's mind like she seemed to be able to do whenever she wasn't being the insensitive asshole to end all insensitive assholes. "Okay. Let's be pissed off a while. I've got time."

"I've got time too," Tara said, leaning against the trees, arms crossed. Because she was pissed off. "Got no car, but I've got time."

With a little head-bobble that made her look like she'd just remembered she'd left the iron on or some shit, Pam whirled to look at Tara. "Sorry 'bout your car, though."

"That's what you're gonna apologize for? The fuckin' car?"

Pam shrugged like what do you want from me? "It looked nice."

"It looked like a piece of shit."

"Good news! Now it looks like modern art!" Pam stared up at the car like it had Banksy's signature on it. "I think it makes a compelling statement about the stresses of life in the modern age."

Tara closed her eyes and banged her head against the tree trunk behind her. "This you trying to cheer me up?"

"Yup. If this were me succeeding in cheering you up, I'd be naked, between your legs, and doing better things with my mouth than flashing my glamorous smile." Pam did so. "But you'd probably still be banging your head against the tree."

"If I'm not riding in a pick-up truck with you, I'm definitely not letting you get to third base." Tara popped an eye open. "Still here. Now why did I think you'd leave once pussy was off the table?"

It was probably Tara's imagination, but there seemed to be something slightly guilty in how Pam tried to make a small repair to her tattered dress. "Low self-esteem?"

"Or we got high on vampire Jesus juice, fucked, and you went and forgot about it so fast I might as well have roofied ya."

Pam tilted her head enough to make her smile lopsided. "It wasn't that bad."

"By the way, didn't appreciate your amnesia act after the beach either."

Pam finally spread her arms and let her inner bitch out. "Fine, what do you want, rose petals on your bed the morning after? I was a hooker, darlin'. I'm not exactly the best at romantic gestures. But if I was, wouldn't showing up out of the blue to spend New Year's with your black ass count as one?"

"That's what this is? You want to spend time with me? No shit about getting to Sookie through me, or pulling one over on Bill, or… God help me, if this is some fucking fairy bullshit…"

"It's not."

"I can just about handle werepanthers or werecougars or whatever the fuck they are, but fucking fairies—fuck that!" It occurred to Tara that this might not be about the fairies, as much as it pissed her off on general principle. If it was, she probably wouldn't have a single Bella Swan tear coming out of her eye. Wiping it away, she smeared it on her cheek like warpaint.

Pam approached, her hands contritely joined in front of her. "I came back for you. Eric needed me, now he doesn't, and I want to spend this bullshit holiday with you, even if Dick Clark is dead so what's the fucking point?"

Tara smiled even as she shook her head. Typical Pam. Nice to know she hadn't gotten a total personality transplant—over in fucking Sweden. "So that's why you don't like the thought of me spending New Year's with Lettie Mae."

"That, and she's a hateful bitch who's gonna make you feel like shit later on."

"And you aren't?"

Pam's eyes rolled back in her head as she groaned. "No promises. But I'll try."

She put her hands on Tara's shoulders, the gesture seeming more intimate for how nonsexual it was. Tara was used to Pam being handsy. It was one of her predator's tricks, emphasizing for others the coolness of her vampire touch. But when she wasn't fiddling with someone's personal space—when she was just touching without an ulterior motive—it was like talking to a different person.

"Lettie Mae isn't your family. Whatever loyalty you owed her died when you did. Leave it in the ground; maybe if she'd been a better mother, you wouldn't have ended up there. I'm your family now. Me and Willa and yeah, fucking Viking boy. Some days, I don't like it any better than you do. But I'll always be there, even if it's just in spirit. I'm in your fucking blood, girl."

Tara found herself blinking like her eyelashes were long again, like her heart was beating again and Jason was smiling at her again. "You almost make it sound like a threat."

"It can be. Anyone else treated you like that bitch you call mom does, I'd drink them dry like they said Godric was a pussy. But since you've got a soft spot for her, I'll let her eat our dust while we go party it up in Times Square."

Tara's eyebrow lifted like the Space Shuttle had ignition. "So that's the plan. New York. Watch the ball drop."

Pam eased Tara into her arms, shimmying her from side to side. "That's the plan. Just you, me, and those two other stupid fucking vampires we're stuck with."

"You make Times Square at midnight sound very private."

Pam pulled them together. "No more foreplay, I'm too wet for banter. Let Maker lick your pussy clean. Bet it's gotten all kinds of dirty while I've been away."

Tara undressed herself before Pam had to, stripping her clothes off where Pam's hands weren't, trying not to damage them more than they already were. Leave it up to Pam and she'd rip them off. "Just so you know, you're not even the worst hook-up I've made on New Year's."

"First one to fuck you in the woods, though."

"Nope."

"First one to make you come like a bitch?"

"One, that remains to be seen, two, nope."

"Well then." Pam hoisted Tara up, the newborn obligingly wrapping her legs around Pam as desired. Pam supported Tara's back with her hands, as well as her ass, and with a constipated look of concentration, had her feet leave the ground. "First one to fuck you in mid-air."

"Motherfucker," Tara exclaimed. "How the fuck did you learn to do this, anyway? You eat a Rare Candy?"

"Well, you just find a happy thought—"

"Bitch, I'll give you twenty happy thoughts."