July

Jason Stackhouse looks like he would rather be anywhere else. Odd, maybe, since we're in his childhood home, him swinging his arms in the kitchen's archway, me at the same old wooden table I sat at the first night I saw a werewolf. Well, saw a werewolf and knew it was a werewolf, anyway. That was before Sookie went missing. Before Russell Edgington set the vampire mainstreaming movement back to maybe its beginning. Before I learned things Eric never wanted me to know.

"Be dark soon." Jason keeps slapping his fist into his hand. He tosses his arms back, brings them forward, and slaps his fist into his hand. It's a strange motion.

I blink back at him, not saying thank you, not saying I know, not pointing out that I can see a total of three windows from where I'm currently sitting and therefore am quite aware of the impending sunset. No, none of that. Better to just blink. Less dangerous. Takes less energy, too.

Jason, at my silence, licks his lips and raises up on his calves, drops down again. Swings his arms back, swings them forward. Slaps his fist into his hand. He hasn't stopped moving since he brought me here from the cemetery, after the other cop loaded Dylan, CJ, Layla, and Cassie – who was crying like a child – into his car to deliver them to their parents. That other cop first gave us all a lecture, of course, to ensure we understood we could be arrested for underage drinking, and would be, if it happened again. The whole thing was almost laughable. Him thinking that would scare me, I mean. Given what I was going to have to face on my own. What I am going to have to face on my own.

Jason glances out the closest window, the one over the sink, like maybe he hopes Eric has decided not to worry about sunlight this evening and will arrive earlier than expected. Although we don't know exactly what time he'll show up. Jason had to leave a voicemail, since he called while it was still light out. I gave him the club's number, because Eric's careful about who can call his personal phone.

And because Pam might hear the message before Eric does, in which case she'll tell him what's happened, and maybe she'll do so in a way that won't infuriate him quite so much as if he heard it via Jason on the answering machine.

It'll still infuriate him enough.

He's going to kill me.

The beer buzz has long worn off. I miss it. And I want a cigarette.

"Hey – you want somethin' to drink?" Jason asks, lighting up. You'd think his suggestion was a novel idea, one with the potential to save mankind. But there – the light's dimming. "Oh. Guess you should be askin' me that, huh?"

I tilt my head.

"I mean, uh, you shouldn't be askin' me anything. Or, you don't have to. I just meant, you know, 'cause it's polite, to ask people if . . . Not that – not that you're bein' impolite –"

"Would you like something to drink, Officer Stackhouse?" I ask, as if I've spent a single night in this house, which Jason's family owned for generations. As if he and I aren't surrounded by furniture and appliances and stuff purchased or otherwise obtained by his sister or grandmother or maybe relatives even older.

Jason lets out a long sigh. A lock of blonde hair falls over his forehead. "No. Thank you." He studies me for a second before looking out the window again, arms swinging. I can feel his emotions, but truly, I think anyone could see Jason right now and know how he's feeling. I think he's an open book for anyone, not just someone like me.

And maybe I'm still buzzing from the beer after all. Or maybe most things don't seem to matter in this moment. Maybe something else. Whatever the reason, I say, "You can relax. Really. Eric isn't going to be angry with you. Just me."

Jason starts to speak, but he takes his time, like he can't get the word to form quite right. "Well," he finally says, and that's it.

I study him, the brother of the missing part-fairy telepath – and he's part-fairy himself, I suppose – fidgeting in his sister's kitchen (and it is her kitchen, I don't care what papers Eric has signed). I knew he'd become a cop, because I stay at Jessica and Hoyt's sometimes and Hoyt is Jason's best friend, but this is the first time I'm seeing Jason in uniform. It suits him better than I would have guessed, from our brief interactions and the things I've heard about him. "Would you like to sit down?" I nod to the chair across the table.

"Oh. No, thanks, I'm good."

"Please sit down, Officer," I say. Possibly just to see if I can get him to. Manipulating people can be a good pastime, as well as a useful skill. These are the sorts of things I've learned in my childhood. "You're moving so much, it's making me nervous."

So Jason, after a second's hesitation, pulls out the chair across from me and lowers slowly into it, as if trying not to spook a wild animal. I look at him. He looks down at the table, up at me, at the table, at me.

"Seriously," I say. "You have nothing to worry about. Even if Eric did blame you, he'd never hurt Sookie's brother."

Jason's eyes fall to the table again, and I feel his anxiety make way for something heavier, something that almost makes me cringe. Grief.

"I'm sorry," I say without thinking. "I didn't mean to . . . I shouldn't have brought her up."

"Nah, it's okay." Jason picks at a scrape on the table. "I was already kinda thinkin' about her. It's hard to be here without . . ." His voice fades, and he sighs again.

For the first time, I think about how Jason must have felt, selling Sookie's house. And there's really not much to think about that, is there? How many ways can you feel about selling the home of your loved and missing sister, the home which happens to have been in your family for decades, maybe more than a century?

"You know what Eric's got planned for this place?" Jason asks. He's suddenly not so twitchy, which is a relief, I guess, even if that's just because his sadness has weighed down his nerves. "I never actually met with him, when I sold it. Just talked to some people on the phone."

I brush my fingers across the beaten table's surface, over scratches and dents and other marks that are really memories. "Eric doesn't tell me things."

"Oh," Jason says. "And you can't . . . You know . . ." He points the two middle fingers of one hand at his temple and moves his hand towards me and back.

I'd forgotten he knows about my abilities. Which is a stupid, dangerous thing for me to do. Though not as stupid and dangerous as letting him know about it in the first place – which, actually, if I remember correctly, was Sookie's doing. So I can't really be all that mad about it, can I? "I don't read Eric."

"'Cause he's a vampire?"

"Because he's Eric."

"What's that mean?"

"He values his privacy." Also, he's ridiculously old and powerful and therefore impossible to read ninety percent of the time. No need to mention that.

"Yeah, well . . ." Jason shrugs, half-grins. "Most people do, right?"

"Most people won't tear out your heart over it."

The half-grin slides from Jason's face. We sit quietly. Through the windows I see that the world is almost all black. I close my eyes. If Eric drives here, I have around an hour. If he flies here, I have minutes.

"What's he, uh . . ."

I open my eyes to see Jason's folded his hands on the table. He's twiddling his thumbs, literally. I don't think I've ever seen someone actually do that. "What's he gonna do to you?" He asks. I think he tries to make it sound casual, but his eyebrows twitched down in a way that sort of ruined that for him.

Also, I can sense his concern.

It gets tiring, sensing things.

"I don't know," I say. Truthfully.

"I mean, he can't get that mad at you, right? Just for drinkin' with some other kids? Hell, every kid does that, sooner or later. Uh – Heck. Sorry."

"I'm not every kid." I'm the kid in the illegal custody of Eric Northman. The kid he paid a lot for, the kid he expects certain things from. Certain behavior. "And it's not just about drinking with some other kids. It's about . . ." Going somewhere without his permission. Going somewhere without his permission in the daytime. Doing so on multiple occasions. Lying about it in each case. Getting caught by humans, human cops. Stealing liquor from his bar. "Yes, he can get that mad at me."

More sitting quietly, and then: "You know, if . . . if he's hurtin' you, there're things we can do about it. I mean, I'm the Law. I can talk to Sheriff Bellefleur –"

"No, you – Listen to me, Jason." I lean over the table, vaguely aware that I didn't use his title and caring even less than I might have normally, because my being formal with Jason is part of a game, and this is not. He just made it not. "Do not talk to anyone about this. About me and Eric. You can't fuck with him like that, he won't stand for it."

"Hey, now, no need for that kinda language –"

"Jason, he will hurt you. He will fucking hurt you."

Jason has straightened, hands in his lap now. He pulled them back when I was talking, the way you'd stop petting a dog if it growled. "I thought you said he wouldn't hurt me. 'Cause of Sookie."

I swallow. Rest again against the back of my chair. "If you make enough trouble for him, he will." I let my hands come together to wring. "Believe me, he will."

I shouldn't say that. It sounds suspicious. But I say it anyway, because . . . just because.

"Eric doesn't hurt me," I say, not lying, really, because Eric doesn't hurt me. Not the way Jason means. "I don't know how he'll punish me for this, but he'll be . . . humane about it."

Yes. Because if there is one thing Eric Northman is known for, it's being humane.

"Humane?" Jason repeats. "That's the sorta word you use when you're talkin' 'bout animals. Not . . . kids."

I'm opening my mouth to correct him when a crack opens up inside of me, and all the things around it shake. My hands turn to fists, but only one stays on the table, because I instinctively pop the other one up to block my face from Jason. Sometimes I can feel something from someone without physically reacting at all. But sometimes, with big things, my body can't help but respond. My face can't help but smile or frown or, as is the case now, flinch.

"Annie? Hey – what's wrong?"

I smooth my expression, though it takes some effort. I lower my hand, toss back my hair. "Nothing. I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

But I barely hear what he says back, because my insides are still shaking. All of me is still shaking.

Eric knows.

. . . . .

"Hey," Jessica's voice crackles into my ear. I step along the edge of the old floral rug that covers most of Sookie's living room floor, pretending I'm walking a balance beam. Not really, of course. It's been a long time since I've pretended anything for real. The voicemail continues, "Um . . . I get you not wantin' to talk to me, but Annie, I . . . I feel really bad about what I said to you before."

She means when she called me an hour or so ago, right after sundown. Jason had called Hoyt to explain the situation, because he knows I stay at his house when I'm in Bon Temps. And Hoyt told Jessica everything when she woke up. So I gathered, anyway. Jessica was a bit too busy to give me details concerning how she found out what had happened. Busy, that is, with yelling at me, mainly finding new ways to ask if I'd considered what Eric might do to her and Hoyt if something happened to me under their watch. Throughout the whole (mainly one-sided) conversation, Jason pretended not to eavesdrop. I glance through the foyer now, into the kitchen, where he's sitting at the table, rearranging his pieces on a Sorry! gameboard. Pretending not to eavesdrop.

"I was just . . . freaked out by the whole thing," Jessica says. There's some background noise, someone shouting, some laughter. She must be working tonight, at Merlotte's. I can't remember if she told me she was, though. "And I'm sorry, I know I must've sounded like I was just all worried about myself, and I'm – I'm not, I know you . . . I know you're probably gonna have a lot to deal with from this. I'm sure Eric's . . . Just, I'm thinkin' about you, is all. So, call me? When you can? I'm not mad anymore, I swear. That was stupid, just . . . Let me know you're okay . . . Bye."

Click, and then nothing but silence from my phone.

It was stupid of her to be mad, to be worried about herself – not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. It's just that she clearly hasn't grasped how different her life is now that her maker is king. Eric won't touch her. He probably wouldn't have anyway, considering I sneaked out of her and Hoyt's place during the day – when she was sleeping and he was at work – and therefore there wasn't much of anything Jessica, or any vampire, could have done to stop me. Especially since – as far as I know – she never suspected I might do something like that. Any of the four times I did.

Honestly . . . I never would have behaved like this if I thought Eric might take it out on Jessica, or Hoyt, for that matter. I like them both. I've been spending a couple of nights with them a couple of times a month for a few months now, and I like that, too. It's a nice break from Shreveport.

Well, it was. I very much doubt it will be happening anymore.

Jessica really is worried about me. I could hear it in her voice, just now. She's still a young vampire. She still cares a lot.

That'll pass.

I return to the kitchen and slip my phone into the pocket of my coat, draped over the back of a chair. Jason's eyes follow my hand there and back, then meet mine. "That Jessica again?"

He knows it was, but I nod anyway.

"What she say?"

"Nothing. Well wishes."

"Ah, I knew she'd feel bad once she calmed down a bit. Jessica, she's one of the good ones." He looks down at the board, but even without eye contact, I feel a burst of warm affection rush from him and through me. Affection for Jessica. Jason is extremely, extremely easy to read, and I've picked up something like that, that burst, almost every time I've been around him at Jessica and Hoyt's. Jason Stackhouse has feelings for his best friend's live-in girlfriend. Who's going to be around, beautiful and vibrant, centuries after both men are dust. It's all very dramatic.

And sad, somehow. Which may be why I've never said anything to Jessica about Jason's feelings.

Jason nods at the board. "Play again?"

"No, thank you. It's a bit too simplistic for my taste."

"Aw, you're just sayin' that 'cause you lost."

"It's meaningless that I lost, there's no skill involved, and –"

Something flashes in the corner of my eye. There's light playing across the window over the sink. And now that Jason and I are both quiet, I can hear the faint, rainlike sound of gravel crunching beneath tires. I reach out and take hold of my coat, clenching the fabric in my fist. It's about an hour's drive between here and Shreveport. When Eric didn't show up right after sunset, I knew he must have opted not to fly. I very much doubt he did so because he knows his car is more comfortable for me. No, he only would have driven because he wanted time to think.

And, maybe, to cool down.

But when I step onto the porch, pulling my coat on, I realize things are worse than that. Because it's not Eric waiting for me out here, but Pam, slamming the door of her sleek little car and striding to the porch in heels far too high for a place like Bon Temps, and certainly for a gravel driveway, though she doesn't seem to even notice the terrain.

"Shit," I breathe as Jason closes the door behind us. I think I feel him look at me, but I keep my eyes on Pam as she reaches the wooden steps. She stops, her face lit up in the dim yellow porch lights and giving me nothing. But . . . it's bad that Eric sent Pam instead of coming himself. I don't know exactly why that is, but I'm certain of it.

Pam locks eyes with me, jerks her head. I push my hands into my coat pockets and take the steps down to her.

"Hi," Jason says behind me. "I'm, uh, Officer Stackhouse. I thought Eric –"

"Sends his regrets. He's a very busy man." Pam studies Jason like an art critic disappointed by a piece. "I'm sure you can understand what that's like. Or . . . imagine it, anyway."

Jason squints down at her. "Hey, have we met?"

I'm pretty sure Jason's been to the club before, so the answer's probably yes. He would have seen Pam in a work outfit, though, something black and trailing and very different from the pastel blouse she's wearing now. But Pam purses her lips. "We have, but I'm not in the reminiscing mood. I need to know if this little incident is going to be documented in any way."

"Uh, documented?"

"Yes, documented. Virtually, on paper, with clay tablets, however you're still doing things here, Officer."

"Oh, uh, no ma'am." I think Jason's finally registered that Pam's a vampire. His nerves are buzzing at me. "Like I said in the message I left – I mean, I guess maybe you didn't hear it – but, uh, no, they just – She just got a warnin'. And a call to her – to Eric. Uh, Mr. Northman. That's all."

"Lovely. Thanks so much." Pam's hand snaps onto my shoulder and she turns me, not gently, towards the car. She lets go as we start walking, thankfully, otherwise I'm sure I'd have a bruise.

I glance back at the house as I'm opening the passenger door. Jason's still standing at the top of the steps. Pounding his fist into his palm. It's a bit hard to tell with the porch lights behind him, but I think he's frowning, I think his brow is furrowed, and I think – I think I like Jason Stackhouse.

I slide into the car and buckle my seatbelt. Pam twists the key and guides us down Sookie's long driveway. Eric's long driveway. Whatever.

We don't go fast. When we reach the real road, the asphalt road, Pam pulls onto it without sending gravel flying behind her, which Eric always does. I check the dial by her steering wheel, the one that tells the car's speed. The red hand hovers around forty-five, and I think that's the speed limit, and Pam, she very rarely drives the speed limit. I don't think many vampires do.

"You're a fucking idiot," she says after a minute.

"Thanks, Pam."

"Oh, you should be thanking me, Princess." Her head turns my way, but I'm staring ahead, arms crossed, so I don't see exactly what sort of look I'm getting. I can imagine it well enough. "If I hadn't come to pick you up, Eric would have, and you don't wanna fucking know what he might've done if he'd seen you in the goddamn state he was in. I don't even wanna fucking know."

A strange feeling sprouts in the back of my neck and starts creeping out to the rest of my body. A numbness, entirely mine, like nothing I've ever felt before. But no, it's not a numbness, exactly, it's not totally blank, it's . . . There's a trembling to it. Like something hit me. And I'm in shock from it. "It's that bad?" My voice sounds strangely close, but also not all that much like my voice.

Pam exhales. She must send all of the air out of her little-used lungs in the process. And she shakes her head too, I think. "Goddamn it, Annika."

There's a trembling to her, too.