House of Cards
Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball, as I have used elements from both the books and the shows.
A/N: Thanks for all the great reviews and supportive comments! Your feedback means so much to me.
Chapter 4: Red Omen
The paparazzi make camp outside my building and pester everyone who comes out through the front door, even the deliverymen. So far, it's all going according to plan. I research all the brands to find out which one vampires like the most. After all, if there are going to be vampires in my life, then I want to be able to offer them something if they come by. Granted, I did offer Eric a drink of Sookie last night, but I don't count that as being genuine southern hospitality.
There's something called 'Royalty Blended' but that has to be specially pre-ordered and you need to wait for a month. It also costs something like thirty thousand dollars per bottle because it's a blend of blood donated by real life royalty and the highest quality synthetic blood. I don't see why it's going to be better than normal blended blood. I mean, I refuse to believe that the biological make up of royalty is better than the biological make up of any other person, provided that they are healthy. Sookie Stackhouse is a great believer of meritocracy.
Finally, I send Norma Jean, my housekeeper, out to pick up half a dozen bottles of a blend that uses paid donors who have to observe a strict diet. It has received pretty good reviews from tech savvy vampires who have bothered to leave comments. One does have to be careful when purchasing foodstuffs. Some of the cheaper brands of blended blood use infected blood donors and stingy vampires have contracted something called 'Hep D' from drinking those brands. I find out that there's a huge lawsuit going on between the infected vampires and the company.
Once Norma Jean's gone, I finally get dressed. There's no way I'm going to let people see the huge bandage on my arm, although granted, now that I'm a celebrity simply because I'm 'dating' the Eric Northman, if I go out with a huge bandage on my arm, that might become the newest hot accessory. It will cast serious doubt on my fashion credentials, so I don't try it.
I opt for a nude long-sleeved button up silk shirt by Chloé and black leather panty-skimming shorts. I paint my nails a deep red —blood red— and put on lipstick to match. I can be vampy without being tacky. I add a gold Cartier necklace with diamonds and pearls to draw attention to my neck, and put gold and pearl studs in my ears. For shoes, I choose a pair of metallic python sandals in pewter from Gucci with a five inch heel. The straps overlap one another down the middle like plate armour. I grab my white quilted Chanel bag with a gold chain shoulder strap and put on a pair of Prada sunnies. Nothing screams 'Celebrity! Look at me!' like a pair of oversized sunglasses.
As I select a perfume from my collection, I notice a note propped up against my bottle of Gucci Envy. "Dinner tonight," it says. "I'll be here at 6:30." It's signed with a large 'E'. There's no mistaking who left it there for me. His handwriting is strong and graceful and beautiful, just like his person. I tuck the note into my purse, and try not to swoon. He's just my partner in this venture, and maybe my friend; nothing more and nothing less.
Louis waits for me in front of the building instead of in the underground parking lot the way he usually does. He's confused as hell, but the good thing about Louis is that he doesn't ask questions that he knows I don't want to answer. I push my way through the throngs of paparazzi with their cameras and microphones. Many prominent people have already made statements about my 'relationship', either defending my right to date whomever I please or condemning me for betraying the human race through such unnatural, depraved and sordid acts.
I can sense that my two werewolf guards are trailing me, and I feel better for it. Nothing is likely to happen in the streets during broad daylight, but you never know.
My first stop is Merlotte's. Since Dawn was the second victim, there is a chance that someone found out about her one night stand with Eric here. If that person is here right now, then I'll probably trigger some thoughts with the bite mark on my neck.
"Sookie, what the hell?" Sam says as I enter. "Are you crazy?"
"It's none of your business, Sam," I say. Now he's judging me too? I've had enough judging this morning from Arlene and Jason and Mrs. Fortenberry. Jason actually called me by that bad word they use for 'donors'. Arlene told me I'm going to go to hell. Tara was just worried that I've sustained some brain damage somehow.
"How is it not my business? I'm your friend, for God's sake, and you're throwing yourself headfirst into a snake pit! Have you forgotten what he is or who he is? He isn't just any vampire. He's Eric Northman."
"I'm quite aware of who he is, Sam Merlotte," I say. "I'm the one who's dating him."
"What's going on with you, Cher?" he asks me, his eyes boring into mine as if he's willing himself to be able to read my thoughts. "This isn't like you."
"Perhaps this is the new me," I say. It's hard to be convincing, especially since I'm scanning minds at the same time. "Maybe I'm just bored and he's the change I need to bring me out of this mundaneness." I can sense a lot of anger coming from Sam, and a lot of hurt too. It's gotta be hard for him, seeing the girl he fancies dating someone else, especially if he doesn't like that someone else.
He suddenly reaches out and grabs me by both shoulders so hard that I'm afraid that he's bruising me. "You're making a huge mistake, Sookie Stackhouse." He's almost growling. Everyone is watching us, and I can see their minds making the connections.
"Then it's my mistake to make," I say as I shake him off. No, I haven't found anything, even though Sam's rage is alarming. However, I refuse to believe that he is capable of killing innocent people just because he doesn't like who they're sleeping with.
I leave without any results, and I'm afraid I might have damaged a friendship. The rest of my day, I spend at Saks Fifth Avenue. Poor werewolves. I don't think they signed up for three hours of shoe shopping, and it's only the first days. I cast out my thoughts. Apart from the women analyzing shoes, and my guards' absolute boredom as they wait outside for me to come out —Alcide's betting that I'll be in here for two hours tops, and Trey's betting that I'll be over two and a half hours; I think Trey's gonna win— I don't sense anything. I spot a pair of gorgeous towering Yves Saint Laurent platform pumps in magenta suede and I just have to have them. I wasn't really planning on buying anything, but what the heck. I need some cheering up and my friend's aren't here for me right now.
The sun is setting as I come out of Saks, swinging my bag of purchases and feeling much better. Louis has finished his book —he's learned to take reading material with him at all times— and Alcide and Trey are relieved. I spot them about fifty feet away. Alcide is handing over his money to Trey, although both of them are just relieved that if I'm gonna do anymore shopping, it's Eric who'll have to accompany me. Granted, if I'm going on an after dark shopping spree, I think he'll just send Pam with me. The haters don't care which vampire I'm with as long as I'm with a vampire. It'll create even more waves, I wager. A vampire human liaison is one thing. A lesbian vampire human liaison is on a whole new level of anathema.
I check my phone. It's five thirty. An hour doesn't leave me much time to get ready and plan my outfit. I need something that can hide my bandage. Luckily, I've installed one of those apps on my phone which allows me to organize my wardrobe. Every item in my wardrobe is recorded on my phone. I rummage through it. Most of my fancy dresses don't have sleeves. If you're going to go to a party, you wanna show some skin, right? And even if they do have sleeves, they're usually tight, which won't do for tonight either because I don't want everyone to see the lumpy outline of the bandage under my sleeve.
Finally, I do find something. It's a silver Marchesa dress covered in sequins and beads with tassel trimmed sleeves. The hemline hits mid thigh, making up for the covered arms and high neckline. The waist is cinched by a belt that looks a little like a curtain rope, but it works, or so I think.
I arrive back at home with thirty minutes to spare. Just as I'm about to get in the shower, my phone rings, and the caller ID says that it's Bill. Oh, boy.
"I'm sorry, Bill," I say when I answer the phone. "I'm kind of in a hurry right now—"
"Sookie, what do you think you're doing?" he demands. Well, that's just rude. He didn't even say 'hello' or 'good evening'. In fact, it's worse than Eric's 'What?'.
"Not that it's any of your business, Mr. Compton," I say coolly, "but I find that I rather enjoy Mr. Northman's company."
"You know, I thought you were different from all the other girls, Sookie," he says. I'm so glad he's on the phone and not in the same room with me. If tones of voice can kill, then I'd have been dead a couple of seconds ago. "I thought you were pure, gracious, sensible. It turns out you're worse. You're with one man one night and the next night you're fucking another."
"Mr. Compton, I'll have you remember that I am a lady and I will not stand for that kind of language," I say sharply. "I demand an apology."
"Me? Apologize? You were with me, and then you just spread your legs for him?"
"Well, if I'm so bad, then shouldn't you be happy that I'm not with you? And, for your information, William Compton, I was never with you." I thought that Bill and I could be friends, but now I've changed my mind. I hang up on Bill before he can say anything else nasty to me.
I've just gotten out of the shower and wrapped my robe around myself when the doorman announces that Mr. Northman has arrived. I tell Ivan the Doorman to let Eric up.
"You are not wearing that," Eric says when he sees the dress I've chosen laid out on my bed.
"Why not?" I snap. Who is he to tell me what to wear and what not to wear? It's not as if Mr. Sweatpants-and-Flip-Flops is a fashion guru. All right, if given the choice, I wouldn't have worn this dress either, but I don't really have a choice. His business partner ripped a chunk out of my arm last night. All right, I didn't mean to snap at him, but Bill's call, plus the other calls I got in the morning, have put me in a kind of mood that even a hot pair of new designer heels can't really fix.
"Sookie, is something wrong?" he asks.
At his concerned tone, the fire leaves me, and I flop onto the bed, feeling drained of energy. "Nothing really," I say as I rub my temples. "It's just that people are so judgemental. I expected some backlash, but not from my closest friends. I mean, Jason probably sleeps with a different girl every night, and he called me a...a fangbanging whore, and then there's Arlene. Who's been the one comforting her every time a relationship or marriage fails? And then she turns around and tells me I'm going to hell just because I've found someone who doesn't fit her image of what a partner should be? Who's she to judge anyway? It's not as if the men she's chosen have been any good."
To his credit, Eric lets me go on until I run out of words and breath. Maybe he zoned out for most of my rant, but I don't really care. At least he let me rant. It's therapeutic. "Sookie," he says when I'm done. "You're under a lot of pressure, but you're not going to feel any better if you dress like a forty year old matron. Pam tells me that looking good is the key to feeling good."
"In case you can't remember, I have an ugly bandage on my arm."
"Let me see it."
I roll up the sleeve of my robe to show him my arm. He slowly unwinds the bandage. The wound is still red and ugly, but it's healing a lot quicker than I thought it would. I have no idea what he's going to do about it, and I definitely didn't expect him to bite his wrist and then drip the blood onto my arm before rubbing it into the wound. The flesh knits together before my eyes. His blood is some sort of miracle healing elixir. I gape, unable to comment.
"It would have been better if you had drunken my blood, but from what I understand, you wouldn't like it if I could feel your every emotion," he says. The wounds on his wrist have already closed. "Granted, that could be useful, since we are going after a serial killer. I would know when you are in danger."
"Yeah, you're right," I say. "I wouldn't like it if you could sense my emotions, and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't enjoy sensing them when I'm PMSing."
"Probably not," he agrees. "I've heard that PMS is now a defence for murder."
"I think you'd like the other side effect even less," he continues. He's grinning so widely that I know he's up to something. "A human who drinks the blood of a vampire will feel sexual attraction towards that vampire, and since you have said so many times that you are not going to have sex with me —your loss— I think that will make you very grumpy."
"Oh, most definitely," I agree. "Well, thanks for telling me, and for helping me."
"You're welcome," he says as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It's a strangely intimate act and I'm not really sure how I feel about it. No one outside of my family has ever done it to me before. "Now go find something else to wear, little telepath."
"All right, big vampire," I say as I turn on my heel and return to my bedroom. I zip myself into a champagne coloured cocktail dress with a black lace overlay. It has a relatively high neckline, as far as cocktail dresses go, but the full skirt is rather short and shows off a lot of leg. It's either legs or cleavage. Not both. That's just trashy.
I don't have to accessorize a lot with such an eye-catching dress, so I put on a pair of diamond studs and add a classic gold Cartier watch. I like gold a lot. It looks great against my skin tone and I have a lot of gold accessories. I slip my feet into a pair of patent black Louboutin pumps and select yet another black satin Alexander McQueen clutch from my rather large collection of Alexander McQueen clutches—who doesn't like the genius of McQueen? This one has rings for my fingers to go through, and the rings are embellished with gold flowers. I twist my hair into a loose chignon with a few escaping wisps, and then I'm ready.
Eric grins when he sees me. "That's more like it," he says, offering me his arm. "Shall we, ma'am?"
There is a technique to getting in a car with a low seat without flashing, and I, as the granddaughter of Adele Stackhouse, have mastered it, although it is not an easy manoeuvre. You just have to sit down sideways first, with your legs hanging out of the car, and once you're seated, you swing your legs inside the car with your knees together. Eric's impressed that I manage it, although he seems a little disappointed that he doesn't get to see my underwear.
"Sorry," I say with a shrug, not feeling sorry at all.
"I will get to see them one day," he says as he gets in the other side and starts up the engine.
"Keep dreaming," I say.
He takes me to a lovely, large and very famous restaurant. I've been here, of course. I've been to just about any eatery worth eating at in New York City. The last time I ate here was on my eighteenth birthday. That was a while ago. The paparazzi, of course, have followed us here. It's not so hard to identify Eric's red Corvette, which is exactly why he's driving me around in it. Anonymity is not our goal. The security guards at the restaurant fend the photographers off as they swarm up the steps after us. They're used to it, the security guards. Lots of famous people like to dine here.
"I didn't know they served vampires here," I whisper to Eric as we sit down inside one of the private rooms in the back. The photographers have seen us go inside, so they can assume...whatever.
"It's just good business," he says as he hands me the menu. "Rich vampires sometimes like entertaining their pets at fancy restaurants, just like rich human men." Pets do not refer to gerbils or cats in this context. I know he's talking about humans.
"Do you speak from experience?" I ask as I peruse the menu. I already know what I want. The roasted duck breast with honey orange glaze is to die for. I select a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand to go with my meal. That small country in the Pacific does, arguably, produce some of the finest sauvignon blanc in the world. I am no expert on wine, but I do like its tartness. Gran says I can be just as tart sometimes, if I want to. I think it's a compliment about my temperament. Who wants to be a saccharine pushover?
"Yes," he says as he leans back and puts his hands behind his head. "I enjoy the finer things in life when I can get them, although I can also enjoy the small things."
"You enjoy life in general."
"If I didn't, I'd have met the sun. There is no point in living for eternity if you don't want to live."
My salad arrives; tomato with Mozzarella Di Buffala —that's mozzarella cheese made with buffalo milk— and black truffle pesto. It's delicious, of course. I mean, truffle pesto and cheese; you can't go wrong with that. Eric's ordered a large bottle of blended blood —sourced from donors who eat only organic food— and he seems to be enjoying it, although he informs me that it can't compare to my blood. "You know, when our masquerade ends, I think I'm going to miss that," he says.
I don't really know what to say in response. 'Thank you for complimenting my blood, and enjoy it while you can,'? Just doesn't seem appropriate. He seems to know that too, and he asks me about my food.
"It doesn't bother you, watching me eat?" I ask.
"Why should it? You need to eat, just as I need to drink blood," he replies.
"Bill doesn't seem to like it," I say.
"I am not Bill Compton."
"No, you're not," I agree. Bill Compton is a false gentleman and a total douche. Thinking about Bill makes me remember how Gran put him next to me at the function, which brings me to the conversation Gran and I had this morning about Eric. "Eric, my Gran saw our picture in the paper this morning." He pauses in the middle of picking up his champagne flute full of blood. "She wants to meet you."
"She does not have a problem with you seeing the notorious Eric Northman?" He takes a sip of his blood; the perfect picture of calmness. Most boyfriends would not be so calm at the prospect of meeting his girlfriend's family. Then again, he's not actually my boyfriend.
"Well, she wasn't pleased, but she trusts me."
The waiter takes away my empty salad plate and sets my duck in front of me. I cut into the succulent meat, cooked to perfection. I'll take duck over prime steak any day. The meat just about melts in my mouth and I moan in pleasure. Eric drop his fangs.
"Is there something wrong?" I ask immediately.
"What? No."
"Your fangs are out." He retracts them immediately.
"Our fangs come out whenever we're feeling strong emotions, or arousal," says Eric. "It doesn't only mean anger. So...when does your grandmother want to meet me?"
"Whenever you are both free, I suppose," I reply. "She didn't exactly give me any detailed instructions." I think about it. Gran and I always spend our weekends at our house in the Hamptons. That's about the only time that she isn't in a meeting or something. Being in charge of a large corporation like Hale Industries doesn't exactly give her a lot of free time. Jason used to come with us, but after he turned seventeen, he started spending all his time either with his friends at the bars and nightclubs or in other girls' apartments.
Eric and I agree on Saturday evening. He's going to drive me up to the Hamptons. Gran can take my car. Usually I drive her —weekends are chauffeur-free— but I don't think she'll mind driving herself. Like me, she enjoys the independence.
"What about Fangtasia?" I ask.
"Pam can take care of the club," he says. "If there's anything she can't deal with, she can call me. Business has become much easier ever since cell phones have become commonplace." I can't disagree with that, although I do put forward an argument in favour of the traditional pen and paper.
It's hard to believe how easy it is to talk to Eric. I forget that he's a cutthroat businessman. I forget that he's a thousand year old vampire. I forget that he's a former Viking who's raided monasteries. He's just a funny, smart guy who's seen a lot and done a lot, and he has a lot of charisma. He explains the concept of 'glamour' to me when I ask him. "It's how we've survived undetected for so long," he says. "Otherwise, we'd have been persecuted to the ends of the world long ago."
"What's it like, being glamoured? Does it hurt? When I read Ginger's mind, it looked as if someone had taken a drill to her head."
"If a human has been glamoured too much, they become completely dysfunctional. Ginger is close to reaching that stage."
"Can glamour me?" I need to understand how this works. Maybe there is a way to protect oneself from being glamoured. It would be a handy trick to know when dealing with vampires.
"You actually trust that I won't make you do something inappropriate?" he asks mischievously.
"If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be here," I say. "So bring it on."
He stares into my eyes. I feel a sort of prickling sensation inside my head, as if there's cold water running under my scalp. Pressure is building up behind my eyes. I'm getting a headache. "Raise your arms, Sookie," Eric commands.
"Why?" I ask. "Is that going to help?"
The pressure stops. "No," he says. "That's what I'm trying to glamour you into doing. You didn't feel anything? You didn't feel compelled to obey me?"
"You were giving me a headache, that's all," I say.
"This is most curious," he muses. "Don't tell anyone that you can't be glamoured. I might not feel threatened, but others might."
"What about Pam?" I ask.
"You can trust Pam with anything you trust me with," he says. "She won't betray me."
"Are you related or something?"
"Something like that. I made her vampire."
"You killed her?" And she likes him? That's gotta be one strange relationship. Granted, my 'relationship' with Eric is pretty strange too. He's just a guy I randomly partnered up with. I still don't know why I asked him to help and not someone else. What is it about him that makes me trust him?
"I prefer to say that I gave her a new life," he says. "If you are so curious, you should ask her. This is not my story to tell."
I'm definitely going to ask Pam about this. For one, how is a vampire created? Where did the first vampire come from? There are so many questions, but this isn't the right time to ask them. I have to concentrate on catching that murderer before he strikes again. Why hasn't he attacked me? Maudette and Dawn died within three days of one another. Has he not noticed me yet? Is he too afraid to attack me because my family is so prominent?
I can't remember a time when I haven't been behind the wheel on the drive to the Hamptons ever since I got my licence. Sometimes, Gran and I argue over who gets to drive. I always win. The wind scrapes my hair away from my face as it blows in through the open window, and I'm clutching onto my seatbelt for dear life. This is the first time I've experienced Eric's driving outside of the congested streets of New York, and he has a complete disregard for speed limits.
I screech as he rounds a corner so quickly that the car must be sailing through it on two wheels. He just laughs at me. He's been laughing at me ever since we got onto the highway and he started pressing his foot to the floor. "You're mean, you know," I mumble as he pulls up outside our weekend house. It's a very traditional looking American home, with a wooden porch out front. It's painted in white and a pale grey, and there are lots of large trees surrounding it. A swing hangs from one of the trees; remnants of my childhood. I remember trying to swing as high as I can possibly go and then being scared when I fly so high that I fall out of the seat for just a split second as the swing reaches the highest point of its trajectory.
Before my parents died, we spent our weekends here together as well. Gran just carried on the tradition after they died. My father once told me that he'd catch me if I ever fell out of the swing. I feel a pang of sadness as that memory flashes across my mind; he's not here to catch me now.
Light pours out of the kitchen window and spills onto the lawn. Immediately, I'm on my guard. I can't sense Gran, and she would never leave lights on in an empty house. I grip Eric's arm. "Something's wrong," I whisper. He pushes me behind him as he sniffs the air, although he doesn't let go of me. His nostrils flare. With me still holding onto his hand from behind, he makes his way up the porch. The door is unlocked, but he can't enter without an invitation.
"Come in," I whisper. I might not have been inside the house, but it doesn't matter to whatever it is that keeps uninvited vampires from entering human dwellings. The invisible force field that's keeping him out disappears. He pushes the door open with his foot. The hinges are well oiled, and the door doesn't make a sound. The house is silent, save for the noises that wooden houses make at night as the wood contracts in the cooler temperatures. I see the silhouettes of furniture. A lamp has been knocked over. Dread grows inside me and forms a knot in my stomach.
"Sookie," Eric says in a low voice. He's stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and his broad back is blocking my view. All I can see is my Gran's hand lying still on the tile floor, her soft papery skin smeared with red. My heart rate becomes so fast that it sounds just like a roar to me. My vision blurs and is obscured by static as blood rushes into my head. I hear a scream. It sounds so far away that it takes a few seconds for me to realize that I'm the one screaming.
