The club, once again, doesn't open tonight, and Eric calls a lawyer. He doesn't tell me he calls a lawyer, of course, but I figure it out.

After we see Edgington on television, I ask Eric if he thinks he's coming for him now, and Eric tells me he doesn't know but not to worry, and I ask why Edgington wouldn't come for him now, and Eric tells me not to worry and to go clean my room. My room is clean, and I say this, and he says to please go clean my room. So I go and clean my clean room, dusting the nearly-dustless surfaces and re-arranging my perfectly arranged bookshelf, my insides twisting all the while. That's interrupted, however, by a cool flutter of energy in my gut, which tells me a human has arrived. I take a break and go down the hallway to stand by the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, where I eavesdrop on the conversation happening in the bar, realize what it's about, and feel that steady, slight flicker of anger that's made itself so cozy in the pit of my stomach flare into something far stronger than a flicker.

Eric must pay the lawyer quite well. It's early, early morning, when a normal human like him should be asleep. Instead he's inside a nearly-empty vampire bar talking business. He sounds pleasant, though. Far too pleasant. Maybe it's his accent, the typical American-southern drawl meant for words like mama and y'all and not the dreadful things the lawyer's saying now.

Things about what happens if Eric dies.

"I give all my residences, subject to any mortgages or encumbrances thereon, to . . . ?"

"My progeny." Eric's low voice comes sliding through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door that separates him from me, as if it just couldn't bear the idea of my missing this. "Pamela Swynford de Beaufort."

I've crossed my arms. No, crossed isn't the right word. It's more like I'm trying to cradle something. But I have nothing to cradle – I'm all alone in the dim hallway, on the edges of yet another conversation I'm to have no part in. Nothing to cradle, nothing to be cradled by. If that were the sort of thing I wanted.

Pam's voice reaches me next. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because, Pam," says Eric, "Russell Edgington was maybe the oldest and strongest vampire on the planet before he eviscerated a newsman live on TV. Now he's also the craziest. And his rage is directed at me. Do the math."

I wrap my fingers around my biceps and clench as hard as I can, breaking skin and promising myself bruises.

"Article Four," the lawyer starts in again, "I give the rest of residuary estate to . . . ?"

"My progeny, Pamela Swynford de Beaufort."

"You're not even gonna put up a fight?" Pam sounds disbelieving and annoyed all at once. Oh, and terrified, too. Maybe you couldn't hear it if you didn't know her, but trust me – she's out-of-her-mind terrified.

"Of course I am. But until I come up with a brilliant plan to beat him, I am covering my bases. And your ass."

"Eric –"

I don't hear all of what Eric says next, because his voice drops to a place quieter, deeper, and angrier then the place it was before. But it starts with unless, includes plan and Russell Edgington, and ends with, ". . . do not distract me!"

Pam is silent. Eric mutters something else. The lawyer speaks again, as pleasant as ever, like he'd missed the conflict entirely. "Your signature requires two witnesses. But the witness cannot be the beneficiary of your estate."

"Yvetta!" Eric calls. I must have missed her arrive, so I don't know when she got here, let alone why. For feeding, probably. Or sex. I understand that can be a great stress reliever. Although if Eric doesn't even have a plan for defeating Edgington, I feel like maybe he should skip taking time to relieve stress. But what do I know? And who's ever going to ask me?

A door opens somewhere out there – the door to the bathrooms, I imagine, unless Yvetta was hiding in the second storage area. Eric asks, "Are you mentally competent and under no duress at this time?"

"Da," I hear Yvetta say.

"Good, watch this."

No one talks for a few seconds. A little black shape scuttles past my feet. Oh, no. What if we have an infestation? Could anything be worse than that?

And now the lawyer is congratulating Pam. "According to the State of Louisiana, should Mr. Northman meet the True Death, you will become a very wealthy vampire . . . I'll show myself out."

A minute later, after the muffled slam of the front door, Yvetta says something in that language she speaks that I don't. She sounds unhappy, I can tell that much. Eric says something back in the same language, and Yvetta speaks again, and then Eric starts talking in that language but finishes what he says in English, and he finishes it fiercely.

". . . you gold-digging whore!"

Yvetta doesn't reply. I hear her heels clacking towards me just in time to step back. The door swings open, spilling a little light, and Yvetta, into the hallway. She stomps past me without acknowledgement, lips tight the way people's lips get tight when they don't want to cry, and I brace myself against the flood of her fury and hurt.

Before the door falls closed, I catch a glimpse of Eric at a table with his back to me. Pam is on her feet beside him, facing this way. Our eyes meet before the door closes her off yet again.

Down the hall, Yvetta throws open the employee exit and disappears. The barest wave of fresh air touches me, almost teasingly. Fresh air. When was the last time I really enjoyed fresh air? I loved going outside as a child. The air of Shreveport is nothing like the air of Öland, but it's better than inside-air. Or at least it's different. Different sounds nice.

I go to the exit and lean my weight against it, pushing out into the night. I'm not supposed to go outside alone. The thing is, I've spent my life trying very hard to do what I'm supposed to, and it's gotten me . . . here. And here, to be frank, sucks. So, yeah. I go outside.

Yvetta is already in her car, headlights glaring as if they're also angry at whatever injustice has been done to her. The car's tires spin a bit before speeding away, bits of gravel flying.

I look up at the stars. There are some, but not as many as there should be. City lights ruin the night sky. The first time Eric took me to Stockholm, we stood on the balcony of our hotel room and I asked if the sky here had always been so empty, or if most of the stars had simply fallen. Eric likes that story. He's never told it to anyone but me, I'm sure. But he likes it.

The air is better out here. Not great, but better.

How could he? a voice whispers from deep down. How could he? It stokes the fire in my gut and the flames grow, touching my heart and throat, licking into my arms and even down to my fingers. How could he?

BANG!

My heart leaps into the air, but my arm is grabbed, not gently, before I can make a move. "Are you kidding me?" Pam hisses, and when I start to answer, she says, "No. Shut up," and drags me back through the door, which hasn't even had time to close.

. . . . .

Pam all but throws me into my room. I whirl around, fists tight, as she closes the door. "You hurt my arm," I snap, even though that's barely true. Mostly I just don't appreciate being moved against my will. Pam doesn't care about that, though, and she would care if she injured me. Even that possibility, however, doesn't currently seem to concern her.

"Are you out of your mind?" she says, managing to speak in nearly a whisper without sacrificing a vicious tone.

"I was just getting some fresh air."

"Don't you get what's going on around here? If Eric caught you out there right now, he'd –"

And that is when a piece of me snaps in two. "Fuck Eric!"

Pam pushes me into the wall, her forearm an iron bar against my chest. I recognize, even in the moment, that she isn't using nearly as much force as she could. But we're talking about a vampire, so my bones are nonetheless vibrating when she bends low and tells me, "Say that again, little girl, and I'll make you miss your black eye."

I fight her arm away, hating that I'm able to only because she allows it, hating that she brought up the black eye, and hating pretty much everything else, too, and it's probably that last detail that really breaks something inside of me, something that shouldn't have been broken, which allows my next words to come spilling out in a breathless mess.

"He chose this, Pam! He chose this! He got revenge on Edgington even though he knew who Edgington was and what he would do! Even though he knew he might – He chose revenge over us! How – how could he?"

"That's what you're concerned with right now? Where you fall on Eric's list of priorities?"

"That's not – It's not just me! It's us! He chose revenge over us!"

"Annika. Keep. Your goddamn voice. Down."

"You know I'm right!"

"What I know is that spoiled little humans shouldn't talk about things they don't understand – "

"I'm not spoiled, you know I'm not, and I might be human, but I understand plenty! Like – like how Edgington is insane, and how he isn't going to stop until he kills Eric or Eric kills him, and how he is way more powerful than Eric, and how Eric knew what might happen, knew what would happen if he killed Talbot, and he killed Talbot anyway, and Pam, that – that was – selfish, it was just selfish!"

The room flips around me, I have no footing, and just like that Pam is hissing over me, fangs out, as she pins me by my throat to the bed. I yank at her arm, I yank and yank, but it doesn't work, and –

"Pam. That's enough."

At the sound of Eric's voice, Pam's fangs slide back into hiding, but she's clearly annoyed. "Could you give us a minute? We're having girl-time."

"Let her go."

With a sigh, Pam releases me. I sit up, even as dread, embarrassment, and deep, deep shame fill my gut like three cannonballs. I hang my legs over the edge of the bed without looking up. I didn't notice Eric open the door. I have no idea how much he heard. Even if he only heard the last part, it was more than bad enough, but if he heard much before . . .

He's at the edge of my vision, standing in the doorway. He steps aside so Pam can pass, but otherwise doesn't move. I feel his eyes on me, feel them as much as I'd feel his hand.

Then, without a word, Eric walks away. Of all the horrible moments I thought could have been about to happen, none of them included him doing that. No. This is a fresh, unexpected sort of horrible.

Just hours ago, the Authority said Eric wasn't guilty. This should have been a happy night.

Everything is falling apart.

Everything.

I slide down the side of my bed and sit on the cold floor with my arms around my knees. I want to sink lower than this. Sink into the concrete and into the earth after that, and keep sinking and sinking until I'm so deep that my own feelings, thoughts, and memories can't find me, so deep I no longer know who I am, so deep I'm not anything at all.

. . . . .

I don't look at the clock while down here fantasizing about sinking, not even once, but if pressed I would say at least an hour goes by before Eric returns. I wasn't sure he would. I thought he might simply not be up to dealing with me right now, but . . . evidently he is.

He closes the door behind him and, with slow steps, comes to stand in front of me. I flash back to the airport terminal in Dallas, when he found me sitting like this after I'd purposely missed my flight and then hung up on him while he was scolding me for it. That was only days after I sneaked into the basement and saw Lafayette. Eric didn't punish me for any of that. Really, I've been getting away with quite a lot lately. I wonder if Eric has realized this, too. I wonder if he thinks he should change that.

When he starts to speak, there's no anger in his voice, not even a little.

"My baby sister was killed by Edgington's wolves. She was only a few months old. A strong little thing . . . You're named after her."

Centimeter by centimeter, I raise my head so I can see Eric's face. He gazes down thoughtfully at me. Thoughtfully and . . . yes, a little sadly. I don't think I'll ever be able to see him look sadly at anything without feeling like the universe is slightly, slightly tilted. "It's a good name," he says. "I thought it deserved a second chance. It's not something I did lightly. But you've always worn it well."

I swallow. Eric sighs. Then he says, "I'm sending you to Sweden."

He lets that sink in. Or, I think that's what he thinks he's doing, but it's a pointless gesture. While I technically understand what the words mean, I can't seem to actually absorb them. They fall onto me and just sort of sit there.

"I've just booked you a flight," Eric continues. "Takeoff is at eleven-thirty in the morning. Ginger will see you to the airport. Hopefully you can sleep on the plane. And when you wake . . . you'll be home."

I use the bed to push myself up. Eric offers his hand. I don't take it, although I'm looking away, so he might think I just don't see it. I do, though. I do. When I'm on my feet, my eyes latch onto one of the photos on my dresser. The photo of the farmhouse. Home. "Why?"

"Because Edgington wants me, not you. He won't follow you to Sweden. But if you're in my vicinity, you could fall in harm's way, or he may even take you for his own. You know he likes psychics. Personally, I would like to avoid both of those things."

I say nothing. I'm too busy thinking.

"I know the circumstances are not ideal, but this is what you wanted. And, once I've successfully defeated Edgington with all the style and grace that befits me, you can return and tell me all about your relaxing, well-deserved vacation." He pauses. Waits. I let him. He grows tired of it. "Annika?"

I take a deep breath. "No."

"Sorry?"

He genuinely believes, I think, that he misheard me. He has every reason to believe that. Only once before have I been so blatantly defiant, and that was, ironically, when I was about to come to Shreveport. The night Eric told me I couldn't bring Beowulf. I said no to him then – cried no to him – but truly, that incident barely counts, because I was heartbroken and Eric knew it and neither of us, in hindsight, really thought I'd get my way, anyway.

This is different. This time, I fully intend to get my way.

Against every screaming instinct, I lift my chin, look Eric in the eye, and say, "I'm not going to Sweden."

Eric, after three (loud) beats of my heart, says, "You are." Not sternly, we're not there yet, but he's firm. Firm in the kind sort of way, though, like he is when I have to get shots.

I square my feet. In a voice that is loud and smooth – and therefore contradicting entirely my trembling hands – I say, "I will have to be dragged onto the plane. Kicking and screaming. After being dragged through security, and into the airport in the first place. That would be enough of a challenge for you – I very much doubt Ginger could handle it. Or any other human, for that matter. I suppose you could get a private plan and force me onto that, but – not this flight tomorrow, not any commercial flight. Because I am not going to Sweden. Not by my own free will. That is simply not going to happen."

Throughout my speech, Eric doesn't interrupt. He doesn't hold up a hand or walk away. He just listens. But by the time I finish, his head is tilted down too far. His eyes are pointed forward, on me, so I can't miss how dark they've gone with storm clouds. He looks, at least according to my memory, very much like he did years ago when he saw the bite I'd gotten from a sheepdog. The sheepdog he later killed.

He strides forward, raising his hand, and without a thought I flinch away.

Nothing happens.

My head is turned, but I can still see Eric's arm fall. "I was going to grab your shirt, Annika," he says in the voice of a man giving up on the day. "Take you by the scruff of the neck, so to speak. Exactly as I have done to get a point across dozens of times in your life . . . As compared to the one time –"

"I didn't mean to flinch, Eric, I'm sorry," I blurt, because his voice is heating up. And because I didn't mean to and I am sorry.

Neither of us says anything for too long. I won't be the first to break the silence, I'm sure of that much.

"Why are you fighting me on this?" Eric asks stiffly.

I almost insist, again, that I didn't mean to flinch, but then I realize he's talking about my going to Sweden. "Because – because I'm not going to run away."

"It isn't running. It isn't your problem, Annika, it has nothing to do with you."

"It's your problem!" My hands come together so they can tangle as they so like to do, but I catch them, stop them, make them stay at my sides. "Everything you do affects me. That's what you said in Mississippi, in the mansion."

"Of course it affects you, but you did not cause it! You did not bring it on yourself . . . I brought it on you." Eric faces the wall opposite me. I struggle to find a way to say I don't blame him without it being a total lie, but he turns back before I can succeed. "You were right before, with Pam. Killing Talbot was selfish."

I almost stopped noticing the cannonballs in my gut, but now I don't know how – the shame one, especially, pulls hard on my heart. It also seems to be sitting directly on the angry little fire burning for Eric, almost putting it out. "Eric, I didn't mean –"

"Yes, you did. It's fine. You were right, I freely admit it. I'm not saying I wouldn't do the same thing over. I would. Edgington robbed me of those I cared about, robbed my family of their lives, and I made an oath to my dying father that I would avenge them. Seizing the opportunity when it came was, for me, a choice only in the most technical sense. But that doesn't mean it wasn't selfish – only that I am selfish, for better or worse. But Annika, I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of what I did." He shakes his head, just with little motions. "I've put you in danger . . . I used to tell you I would never do that, when you were little and frightened by storms, do you remember? I would make you sit outside with me to watch them come. You could get so upset sometimes. It was difficult for both of us . . . And to ease your fears, I'd remind you that I would never put you in any danger."

This time when Eric steps towards me and raises his hand, I stay perfectly still. He cups my chin and brushes his thumb over my cheek with the delicate touch no one has ever been able to mimic. "And I swear to you, I never intended to. I'm sorry this is happening."

By this point, I've pretty much forgiven him for every bad thing he's ever done, but before I can say so, he's holding my shoulders and speaking in that firm-kind way again. "I am trying to make things up to you. Don't make it difficult for me, or for yourself. Just . . . be a good girl and go to Sweden. Peacefully."

I set my eyes on his stomach, hair falling in my face as I do. Be a good girl. He used to say that every time he left the farm. And I would always try to be, try so hard to be. Not because he brought me toys or candy if my nannies gave good reports, not because he disciplined me if they did not, but because nothing in the world was as wonderful and important as Eric's approval.

And nothing is. Nothing is as wonderful and important as Eric's approval.

But no. No, that's just not true. Well – it's only half-true. Yes, in my heart, right or wrong, nothing in the world is as wonderful as Eric's approval. Just like when I was a little girl. But I'm not a little girl anymore, and my heart doesn't get to decide what I do, not on its own. My head has at least as much of a say. It should probably have more of a say than my heart, really – heads are practical, hearts are not, and I'm supposed to be practical. And practical me, the me that lives entirely in my head, understands that there are more important things than Eric's approval. Things like . . . like not running away, and not abandoning people you love, especially when . . . when you might not have that much time left with them.

My heart wants me to be a good girl and go to Sweden, peacefully, but my head – my head knows that that isn't the kind of good girl I want to be. And what's more, my head is pretty sure – I'm pretty sure that, deep down, that's not the kind of good girl Eric wants me to be, either. Even if it would put his mind at ease right now.

Eric tucks hair behind my ear, bringing me back to him, here and now. "You did promise, when we were in Dallas, to get on a plane the next time I told you to get on a plane," he reminds me in a half-joking way.

"Eric," I say, "I do remember you taking me out to watch the storms coming. Or at least I think I do. I remember that the house would shake when it thundered enough, and I remember sitting in your lap and trying to get as small as I could. And I remember you telling me to be brave. Telling me that I wanted to be someone who was brave. And I did. And I do."

Eric says nothing. His hands still rest on my shoulders, and I touch one, just to guarantee one more tender moment between us before I make my final stand.

"I'm not going to Sweden, Eric. Not willingly. I'm sorry if that makes things difficult for you. That's not my intention." I run my tongue along my mouth, trying to find some moisture. "I won't cause any trouble here, and . . . I'll accept whatever punishment you see fit without resistance. For what it's worth." With that, I let my eyes return to his stomach.

Eric takes his hands away. With his head low, he walks to the door, where he stops with his back to me. I study the muscles in his shoulders and arms, muscles which I imagine were quite capable before he was a vampire. He's been a vampire for a thousand years, though. What are those muscles capable of now?

Brushing tears from my face. Carrying me. Rubbing my back. One spanking. One slap across the face. Stroking my hair. Keeping me still. Grabbing my shirt. Holding me. Protecting me.

Eric twists at the waist and locks his eyes with mine. "I am about to reinforce behavior which, under normal circumstances, I do not tolerate. Make no mistake, I don't appreciate defiance from you. If it becomes a habit, with me or with Pam, it will be broken, and it will be broken quickly. Oh, and as for that simply adorable Fuck Eric moment – we are never going to mention that again. Nor will anything like it ever happen again, because I also don't appreciate disrespect from you. Is all of that clear?"

"Yes, Eric."

"Good." He turns to the door again, stops, and adds, "Things could go badly for us, Annika."

"I know."

I think he nods, maybe just to himself. Then he reaches for the doorknob. "I'll cancel your flight."