A couple important things happen in this chapter, and I apologize for it being so long… my editing skills obviously need some work. I also promise the inclusion of more Eric next time, but please understand that for now his absence is necessary. Trust me, I miss him too! Also of note - the original characters in this story are by no means major players. Don't worry about them stealing the spotlight from the characters we all already know and love.

Lastly, thanks to everyone who left a review! I deeply appreciate the comments, and am always looking for ways to improve on my writing. This chapter felt harder to write as it's particularly important in setting a direction for the plot, so I hope it doesn't disappoint.

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Chapter Two: Ginny

I woke up the following morning with bags under my eyes and a warm ball of fur tucked under my chin.

It was dark outside, I noticed immediately, and rain beat on the windows in a steady staccato that was amplified by the silence of the house. The weather made it hard to discern the time, and as my eyes adjusted I found myself walking towards the kitchen in search of the stove clock. Gus, who'd unfurled himself the moment I'd risen, trailed by my feet.

The illuminated numbers read five twenty-seven, much to my chagrin. I wasn't a morning person by any means, but now that I was awake there seemed no point in going back to bed. My dreams were always violent, dark, and otherworldly. In a strange way, it was only by holding back on sleep and falling victim to frequent bouts of insomnia that I was able to keep my mind at ease.

Quietly, I got a kettle of hot water going, mindful that Amelia might still be snoozing peacefully upstairs. My stomach rumbled, chastising me for having missed dinner last night, and I set about making some French toast. Amelia and I were pretty diligent about keeping supplies stocked in the kitchen, so I was able to find eggs, milk, sugar, and even cinnamon sticks with some digging. After some careful measuring I added the ingredients together and combined them with a few furious whisks. I then left the mixture to stand and then started on slicing the bread. All that was left to do was to soak the bread in the mixture before tossing it onto the pan.

The recipe was fairly simple, and one I'd learned from an early age. It was comfort food, the kind that smelled of home and simpler days when the only thing I had to worry about was Jason's womanizing and whether I had spent too much time out in the sun.

Fate was a strange thing. There was a time when I used to wonder whether, if I had simply ignored Bill that night, things would have turned out much differently. But then I found out about Hadley, and the fact that my grandmother had been seduced by a half-fairy, and all of a sudden the threads of Fate proved far too knotted and intertwined to unravel. The pragmatic side of me saw no point in regretting, while weepy Sookie, the part of me that was far too tired of hurting, couldn't help but wonder what might have been.

Soon the air was crackling with cinnamon-infused flavor, and I set the table quickly before taking the toast off the pan. Amelia always appreciated a good breakfast, so I hoped she would be up soon.

As it turned out, I needn't have worried. She had a good nose for a mere human, and she'd smelled the French Toast cooking from all the way upstairs.

"Special occasion?" She inquired with a raised eyebrow as she took her place at the table. She was already dressed, wearing a lovely olive-green cashmere twinset that had to be a gift from Pam.

"Just felt like doing something cheery," I said with a nod towards the window. Outside the rain hadn't let up any. If anything, it was beating down with even more force than before.

We settled into light conversation between bites of food. I found out that Amelia was up early for to prepare for a web conference with some of the New Orleans witches. It seemed the Were's great reveal had had considerable impact on their thoughts about 'coming out' to the world, and there was now an underground survey being conducted as to what the larger Wiccan community thought of the idea. Amelia herself was reserved about it, but not entirely opposed.

"They accepted the bloodsuckers and shifters well enough, why would they have problems with actual people who just happen to practice magic?"

It made sense, on paper. But I was concerned about the fanatics and zealots, those who saw it fit to murder supes and others they accused of preaching the 'Devil's work', and who were using the emergence of the supernatural community as a rallying point to gather greater numbers for their cause. I had my worries, but I kept my thoughts to myself, content to let Amelia talk.

After a while, when our stomachs were fully sated, Amelia thanked me for cooking then bounded back to her room to do more research. I assured her I'd be fine handling clean up, and was washing the dishes when my cell phone began vibrating in my pocket. I forgot that it was still there from last night – it had to be running low on battery by now. I also wondered who was rude enough to be calling at this time of the morning. I struggled for the phone with soapy fingers.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Ms. Stackhouse. Are you free to talk?"

"Um, yes?" I said, not recognizing the voice. Identifying myself to a stranger wasn't the smartest thing in the world, but I decided if someone were really out to get me they'd already be in my kitchen.

Which was precisely what happened with a dramatic poof of yellow smoke. I screamed and dropped the phone.

"Ms. Stackhouse, please do not be alarmed."

I stared. Then I stared some more.

Standing in front of me was a man who looked to be fresh out of a D&G catalogue. He had alabaster skin, a square jaw, high cheekbones and a variety of piercings on his face, but his most astonishing feature was his hair. It had been styled in a Mohawk and was, I swear, fire-engine red. The roots looked far too perfect to have been a dye job, and his hair collected thickly toward the front of his face and had been swept to one side with what looked to be industrial strength gel.

His hair distracted me to such a degree that, after a few moments of staring, I realized I didn't even know what he looked like from the neck down.

He was watching me with a cautious grin on his face. I almost asked him who his dentist was, because he had perfect, gleaming white teeth.

"Sookie!"

I whipped around to see Amelia standing by the doorway, carrying my shotgun and looking just as shocked as I was.

"I came to see if you were… okay." She looked nervously back and forth between me and the mysterious stranger. "But I guess… you are?"

The question was left hanging in the air, and I looked back at the man, feeling confused. I didn't particularly feel threatened by him, but one could never tell. I thought over the notion of conducting a cavity search for any dangerous weapons.

Earth to Sookie. Potential serial killer in kitchen.

"Am I?" I wondered aloud.

He raised his hands in half-surrender. If he was looking to kill me, he was doing a terrible job of it. "No harm will come to you. I am here under Niall's orders."

My perception of him altered in an instant. Niall had many enemies, dangerous enemies, and also from what I understood the portal between his world and ours had already been sealed off. If he was a fairy, as those close to Niall usually were, then he had chosen to stay here by choice. I looked closer. His ears appeared normal, but he had possibly consulted with Claude's plastic surgeon.

"I'm not a fairy," he said, as if reading my mind, and for a second I was afraid he had. "I'm a friend he asked to keep a close eye on you. To make sure that you would be protected in his absence."

Suddenly to became clear to me what he was. I was not prepared for the rush of anger that seized me, or the deep sadness that accompanied it.

"I do not need a replacement for Claudine." My words were cool and final.

"I didn't say that I was," he returned smoothly. He opened his coat, a fitted blue-maroon pin striped piece with emblazoned skulls, so I could watch his hand as he retrieved something from the inside pocket.

"A letter and a calling card," he explained, placing both items on the table. I could see he was trying to be as non-threatening as possible, and the alert level in my head dropped slightly. "From Niall. The card is mine, should you ever need me."

He stepped away from the table as soon I stepped forward, his hands again held up in half-surrender.

Cautiously, I reached for the card first, noting the name written in elegant script.

"Lars Weidman?"

He bent forward, bowing slightly. He repeated the same action to Amelia, who was still eavesdropping by the doorway. I read the rest of the card. He owned an architectural firm in New York City.

"You're an architect?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes." I heard pride in his voice. "Business is great, but that's just my day job." He had a very subtle accent, one I hadn't really noticed, but the inflection became more obvious the longer we talked.

I didn't ask about what he did at night. I was afraid it might involve something I wasn't prepared to hear, like eating babies or punting penguins. Instead I pursed my lips together and considered him.

"Why now?" I demanded, after he didn't offer any more information. It had been five months since I returned from the hospital, five months since any connection I had to family other than Jason had been severed forever.

He grinned again, and I had to admit that if Niall had sent him, he'd made a good choice. Lars was the kind of man who seemed comfortable at a social level, and he seemed friendly, modern, and with the exception of his entrance, almost passable as human. The kind of person I might come to trust.

But of course, if he had been sent to protect me, people skills would have been at the bottom on my Grandfather's list of criteria.

"I've actually been observing you for a while now," he admitted. "From afar, of course."

"That's impossible," I said, believing I was catching him in a lie. "To my knowledge Eric hasn't tried to have anyone killed, and he would've if he'd sensed you were skulking about on my property. Try again."

He gave me a peculiar look.

"Ms. Stackhouse, please try to read my mind."

I concentrated. I concentrated hard. I blinked and tried closing my eyes, but there was nothing. Not a snarl of words and images, like what I got from shifters, and not even the buzz from fairies or the negative space that filled by void left by vampires. It was eerie; it was like he didn't exist.

My expressive gave me away. He leaned against the countertop, apparently comfortable enough with his surroundings to lounge.

"It's part of my talent. I can remain completely invisible to supes." He tapped his nose. "They can't smell me, see me, sense me, hear me, unless I allow it. I can also bypass most magics, which was how I was able to enter your house."

He nodded towards Amelia. "The wards surrounding this house are quite powerful, and satisfactory for the most part. Your witch is good." He sounded respectful.

Amelia turned a deep shade of scarlet and giggled.

"So," I said briskly, ignoring my roommate, "you're some kind of… super spy? Like James Bond?" I didn't realize how stupid that sounded until the words left my mouth, but Lars just laughed.

"That's one way of putting it," he said, his green eyes twinkling with merriment. "But it is useful in checking in on you, given the company you keep."

"Let me guess, you also have a license to kill?"

This time, he shook his head. "I believe in making love, not war." It was a very hippie statement, and not what I had expected. He continued on and said, "but I have certain associates that can take care of the grunt work as and when needed."

Figures the rich and powerful would have minions to do their bidding.

"Well, thank you for the offer, but as you can see I'm doing just fine." I tried not to think of the fact that my make-up was smudged and that I looked like the human equivalent of a blonde panda. "But you didn't answer my question. Why now?"

"The vampire showed up on your doorstep last night for a reason," my heart swelled slightly at the mention of Eric, "and I just wanted to make sure you knew you had other resources to defer to, should you ever require help. Vampires and shifters both have their limits."

I smiled, but the smile didn't quite reach my eyes. "It's all very sweet of you, but I don't plan on having any part of Eric's grand 'ol scheme."

He didn't answer. He just smiled in kind and bowed his head once more.

"Then consider the card an emergency line, for when you no longer have a choice."

Before I could demand to know what he was or what he meant by that cryptic comment, he vanished in another puff of yellow smoke.

Next to my feet, Gus hacked and coughed.

"Wow, Sookie." Amelia said, once the air had cleared. "That's one pretty hot fairy godfather you have there." She paused. "You think he's straight?"

"Amelia," I warned through gritted teeth. A thought suddenly occurred to me. "No mention of Lars to anyone, ok? Especially not to Eric."

"Do you think that's wise? We don't even know if this guy is who he says he is."

"Amelia…"

"Fine, if you're going to be that way. But what are you going to do with that?" She asked, pointing at Niall's unopened letter on the table.

"Not a thing until I get back from work. I don't need any more distractions," I said firmly. "Can you put it on my nightstand for me on your way out, please?"

Amelia swiped the letter and then left without further prodding from me. I sighed, then went back to task of cleaning the dishes. I was partly in denial about what had just happened, and it was comforting to fall back into a pattern of menial chores to keep my mind occupied. After I was done with the kitchen, I moved onto the living room where I dusted, mopped, and vacuumed with the vigor of a woman possessed.

The rest of the morning flew by pretty quickly, and before I knew it, it was almost two o'clock and time for my shift at Merlottes. I'd be pulling double duty today, both afternoon and evening. I took care of Gus's needs then changed into my work clothes which consisted of a white, Merlottes boat neck tee and a black mini skirt as my shorts were still in the wash. It was still raining hard when I left, so I donned a bright yellow rain slicker to top it all off and drove extra slow to account for any extra road hazards brought on by the weather.

By the time I arrived at Merlottes, I noticed the parking lot to be fuller than usual for a Friday afternoon. I recognized some of the cars – my brothers, for one, his truck with loud pink and aqua swirls, and JB's new convertible, a sleek ride with a classic black paint job and white piping around the sides. There was only one slot left empty by forest line close to Sam's trailer, and I took it quick before anyone else decided to show up.

Earlier in the week Sam had installed a fifty-inch high definition flat screen in the bar, and I suspected the larger crowd probably had something to do with that investment. True to form, the place was hopping as I entered. I acknowledged Sam, who was serving drinks behind the bar, and the rest of the wait staff before I went to store my bag in the employee locker room.

Jason and I were on speaking terms, but I didn't look his way as I re-entered the bar and got into the flow of serving and taking orders. Things between us were friendly but strained, and the more entrenched he became in the werepanther community, the larger the distance between us became. And then there was also the matter of Niall, who had favored me heavily over my own brother, something I'd had no control over at the time but which Jason still blamed me for regardless.

I'd lost a lot to the supes -- my blood, sanity, and virginity among them -- but watching my brother disappear before my eyes was probably the hardest cross to bear.

He was in the company of at least six other panthers, some familiar and some not, and they were all whooping and gesticulating wildly to the flat screen. There was a football game underway, and it seemed most of the men -- both humand and not -- of Bon Temps were in attendance. The game was to be a long one, and by the time evening had rolled around the bar had filled to maximum capacity and then some.

Bill glided in at around seven. His usual booth in my section was occupied, so I somehow made room for him at the counter by shoving an extra stool in between patrons.

We exchanged brief greetings as I seated him, but we weren't given a chance at actual conversation until the game went into over time. Everyone, it seemed, was too focused on the game to think about drinking or eating, so I took a little breather and offered Bill another True Blood to replace the one he'd already finished.

"I'm worried about you, Sookie," he said, as I came to stand by him.

I glared at him, touched by the over-protectiveness but simultaneously disgusted by it. Did no one think I was capable of taking care of myself?

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I assure you I'm quite alright."

"Have you thought over my offer of having you and Amelia move into my house? You do not need to worry about Eric objecting, I have spoken to him on such matters and he agreed it would be for the best."

I tried to imagine Bill and Eric sitting down over a cup of tea to discuss my life, like a pair of Victorian gentlemen working out how to best care for their cattle. It struck me not only as bizarre that they'd managed a civil discussion, but that they had come to an agreement which involved me living with an ex-lover. An ex-lover I'd had loud, exuberant sex with, and who I was in debt to for saving my life.

Was Eric high? Was this some new big brother program they had concocted in a moment of mad scientist brilliance? The Sookie version of the Truman Show?

"Sookie?"

I came back down to earth and fixed Bill with the coldest expression I could muster.

"I'm fine where I am, thank you very much," I said stiffly. Bill picked up on my change in mood, and he at least had the decency to look abashed.

"I know how much you value your independence, Sookie, but--"

"And you would do well to remember that," I said, cutting him off. "Now if you will excuse me, I have other customers to tend to."

I grabbed a pitcher of beer and walked away from him in a huff, muttering to myself about stupid vampires.

Just then, the door to the bar burst open, and a dark, wet woman with wild Amazonian hair strode through with a gait that indicated she was spoiling for a fight. I could tell instantly she was a were, from the static in her head, and when I tried to probe further, her eyes -- ochre, cat-like eyes -- locked onto mine.

Oh shit.

"Are you Sookie Stackhouse?" She growled.

I should have probably denied it, but I was tired and too riled up from my conversation with Bill to care, so I cocked my hip to the side and squared myself to face her.

"Maybe. Who's asking?" I snapped back.

In the time I've been involved with the supernatural world, a few things have grown quite clear to me. The first was that I've become quite adept at taking damage. That was me, Sookie Stackhouse, extra-strength shock absorber or synthetic blow-up doll depending on the occasion. The second was that I've developed a rather potent 'spidey-sense' so far as incoming danger from supes and people trying to kill me was concerned.

The only problem was that I had yet to perfect the art of fully avoiding said danger.

So when the were-bitch pulled her arm back in one blindingly fast motion, my spidey sense was able to predict the blow from a mile away. Unfortunately, the utterly normal human reaction time I possessed was a tad bit slow in making me duck, resulting in the sharp crack of my jaw and me landing not-so-gracefully on my ass. The pitcher of beer I'd been holding followed soon after, falling on me and thoroughly wetting my shirt.

The game had been forgotten some time between the were bitch's entrance and my fall, so everyone was now watching us in rapt attention.

A few dozen variations of 'Nice Rack!' and 'I knew they were real!' made it past my mental shields. I winced, and folded my arms across my chest.

Sam was quick to restrain the were bitch from doing any further damage, and bitterly I wondered where those fantastic reflexes had been when she'd decided to channel her inner Mike Tyson.

I didn't see the point in whining about anything, so I just sat there, trying to maintain some sense of dignity despite the fact that I was splayed out on the floor in a see-through shirt while wearing a short, small skirt and even smaller underwear.

And yes, any minute now someone would come over to help me up. I wasn't that badly hurt -- this was just a scratch compared to some of the things I've endured -- but some chivalry would've been nice.

"Sookie, do you require assistance?" Bill asked, finally emerging from the crowd. He seemed to be hesitating, no doubt thinking back to our earlier throw-down. Either that or this would be his passive aggressive way of teaching me a lesson. His next words confirmed it; "would it be an insult to your independence?"

Oh my savior, my fucking tree in shining armor.

"I'm just peachy," I grunted, propping myself up on one elbow and using the chair next to me as leverage to stand up. My whole face ached fiercely, and I must have looked a mess, a look that really wasn't good for me but which I seemed to be sporting quite often these days. Oh yes. Bitter didn't even begin to describe how I felt.

Part of me wanted to stalk out of there and go home, perhaps even making a statement in the process -- that I didn't give a shit about supes anymore, and that I wasn't going to stand for being used time and time again as a punching bag. But even as I thought the plan through, I became deflated at the idea of what my actions might say about… well, me. Much as I tried, all my Southern teachings had a terrible habit of overriding any goal of self-preservation, it seemed. Pam was right; I was too damn nice for my own good.

This was my mess. I had to clean it up.

"Sam?" I tried, aware that he was still struggling to contain the were-bitch but feeling no sympathy whatsoever. He didn't answer, so I found myself a steady chair to collapse in and then asked Jill, one of the other waitresses, if she would mind fetching me a bag of ice. She scurried into the back storeroom like a mad rabbit. I couldn't blame her. The tension in the room was now thick, almost palpable, and everyone had lapsed into anxious silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jill returned with my bag of ice, and whatever rage spell the were-bitch was under had finally subsided. Sam had a few hushed words with her before handing her over to Jason and his ilk. Jason didn't look too happy about it, but he complied. A ways away from them, Bill looked to be in the process of leaving. He'd already left some money on the counter, and was halfway out the door when he caught my eye.

"Sookie, my office," Sam said. It wasn't a request. Forgetting Bill, I turned and followed my boss, chucking the bag of ice in the garbage on my way out.

Once we were alone, he shut the door behind me, his face anything but happy.

"I'm sorry about that, I really have no idea who she is," I blurted out, expecting a full lecture on Sam about how I was bad for business. "I've never seen her before in my life."

"I know," he said, a little too calmly. "Her name is Ginny. She's Quinn's new girlfriend."

Oh. Oh.

"It seems she came over to confront you over how greatly you messed up Quinn -- her words Sook, not mine," he added when I started to protest. "But she wasn't expecting you to be so… so…"

"Spit it out already, Sam."

"… normal. That's why she lost it."

"Because I'm human?" I asked incredulously. Clearly, the whole situation could have been avoided if I had a tail and some horns to match.

Sam shrugged. He seemed at a loss, too.

"I thought discrimination was mostly a vamp thing, not a shifter thing too," I grumbled.

"Don't know what to tell you, but honestly I don't think she's right in the head."

I had to think about this a minute. Sam had hooked up with a Maenad, the very same one that almost left me in pieces by the side of the road; Alcide had dated Debbie, who Eric and I had left in pieces somewhere in the ground after she tried to murder me in my own kitchen; Bill had dated Selah, an arrogant snob of a woman who had been freakishly obsessive over him; Eric had slept with too many women to count, usually sex-crazed nymphs; and now Quinn had shacked up with a were named Ginny who was in desperate need anger therapy?

What did it say about me when all the men in my life seemed to have a penchant for screwing psychos?

"Thanks for dealing with her," I murmured, reaching up to massage my temples. "I'm sorry we interrupted the game."

He waved off the apology. "Thank me by getting back to work. We still got a full house out there, and the game's not over yet. Your face okay?"

"Yeah, just give me a minute to clean up."

To Sams credit, he didn't fuss over me further, and simply gave me a pointed look before I left him in search of the bathroom.

The bruise had already begun to darken, and as I inspected my face I couldn't help but feel contempt for my whole situation. It wasn't really self-pity, more like a rhetorical 'why me?' moment that was completely unhelpful in trying to psych myself up to face the crowd that had sort of seen me half-naked.

Ginny may have thought me a 'normal' woman, but I far too rarely got to enjoy the small pleasures of a normal, non-eventful day.

I quickly switched out my wet top for the spare I kept in my locker, and straightened my skirt. After re-applying some of my make up, I took one last look in the mirror before stepping back out into the hallway to resume my shift.

The sight of a brown messenger bag slung on the door to the storeroom halted my progress back into the bar. I didn't recognize it as belonging to any of Sam's employees, and had a quick glance around to see if there was anyone else present. The hallway was empty, so I walked up to it and pulled it down to examine the contents. There had to be some form of identification I could use to seek out the owner.

As I was rifling through it, a small heavy black object fell to the ground. Without thinking, I bent over to pick it up.

It was cold to the touch, and it wasn't until I had it firmly gripped in my hand that I realized what it was.

That was when I peered into the storeroom and noticed the blood on the floor.

My stomach churned, and I wordlessly followed the dark splashes of red to its source.

The body had been propped up against an old filing cabinet at the back of the room. Unseeing ochre eyes stared back at me, luminous even in death. A perfect circle pierced the middle of the forehead. There was no mistaking her face.

Ginny was dead, and I was almost certain I was holding the gun that had killed her.