Chapter 17:
Everything and Nothing
x
Stockholm, 1980
Eric sunk his teeth into the girl's femoral artery, her back arching involuntarily in response to the pain.
He was gluttonous, long pull after long pull, letting the blood swish around in his mouth before swallowing, the warm liquid coating every tooth. He stopped only when the girl was on the brink of death, when she had the least amount of blood possible inside her that still allowed her to recover, until her pulse was a weak thump, the heart a stuttering protest. The sweetest point was right at the end, when the blood came from deep inside the human, heated fully, pure, untainted. His fangs retracted, hovering over the skin of her inner thigh, one long lick to seal the wound and two fingers on her wrist to gauge her blood pressure, to test for survivability. A process, effortless as breathing, memorized and perfected. Just as Godric taught him.
Her once-flushed cheeks–excitement, lust, thrill–were pale, her hands shaking slightly. She hadn't expected it to be so rough, hadn't expected to succumb so fully. Vampires were a myth, after all. Eric ran his index finger and thumb along his lips, cleaning up any excess blood. She tasted good, young, free of drugs and only slightly inebriated. It wasn't the high quality that he was used to, but it was his new normal. Pure human blood, its variants and intricacies dulled over his many years, was only a fraction of the satisfaction he got from Sookie. He winced, his nails digging into his palm. That was not an acceptable line of thinking. Not anymore.
Hurt and angry after his conversation with Pam, he'd left Portland without looking back. All he had with him were the clothes on his back and Sookie's wedding ring, bent and misshapen, crushed inside his clenched fist. His gut response was to chase her. To follow. Even though it was against her wishes, even though it negated all she'd said the night before, even though she'd shut her bond to him. And, at first, he did. He trailed her as she fled, traveling by night, flying above nameless towns and bustling cities, glamouring his way onto red-eye planes and disembarking, always an hour or two behind. He could still feel her, her presence, the cadence of her travels, the bond weakening the further she got from him, strengthening up when he neared.
It was against all of his impulses to run the other way, against a thousand years of patterned pursuit. But he did. He ran. He ran because anything short of a sprint in the opposite direction would've had him turning right back around.
He watched from the airport terminal as her plane took off just after sunset, the great wings tilting into the air, the roar of the engine, the sudden updraft. He stared until the plane disappeared into a thick layer of clouds, wondering what it was like on the other side, above them, if the stars were bright or dim. Then, he turned and flew back to Portland. Their apartment was just as he'd left it, the bed disheveled from their night of lovemaking, the coffin slightly ajar. He opened the drawers of the dresser, finding her jewelry, her clothes, her sweaters and cotton shorts. He lifted a handful to his face, inhaling gratuitously. The scent wasn't as potent as its source but it gave him the hit he needed. Beneath his favorite T-shirt was a stack of forgotten polaroids from a few summers prior. He shuffled through them quickly, a slideshow of happiness. It hurt.
Stuffing them in his pocket, he turned to the kitchen, grabbing the knife Sookie used to cook with or to open boxes. He thudded to the bathroom, flicking on the light. In the mirror, a lifeless face stared back at him. A foreign, entranced corpse brought to life, a cruel and uncompromising beauty that made him sick yet satisfied. He brought the knife to his shoulder-length hair and dragged.
She liked his hair long, so he would cut it.
She wanted their bond broken, so he would repair it.
She ordered him to stay away, so he would be near.
It was his turn to call the shots, his needs that deserved to be met. He luxuriated in his selfish nature, the vampiric tendency he'd always tried to deny, to temper. He let himself go, let his instincts rise to the surface. Want. Take. It was as simple as that. His fangs dropped, his expression transforming from apathetic to fearsome, alive again with decision. After shearing his hair nearly to the roots, he stepped into the shower, the blonde uneven and spiky beneath his fingers. It didn't matter. He dressed in all black, jeans and shirt and boots and jacket.
The night was cold and rainy, the discrete wooden sign for Ravenscroft creaking slightly in the breeze. The were at the door stepped aside as Eric landed, his head bowed. Eric nodded, going in. Loud music, barely-clothed dancers, a sea of the hungry and the horny. It overcrowded him, enveloping his already fraying control in chaos. His fingers curled, wanting to grab the nearest girl and sink his fangs into her neck. He was used to fighting the impulse, to controlling the urge. But the time for holding back was over; he would be his true self now. His hand reached out, clutching the arm of the closest girl, a waitress, pulling her against him. She gasped, the drink she was about to serve dropping from her hands, the glass shattering on the floor. His boots crunched atop the rubble as his fangs pierced her neck, sloppy and loose. So consumed was he by his own abrupt lack of decorum, the freedom that came with finally giving into his true nature, that he almost missed the blink of his bond with Sookie closing.
Almost missed it. Unceremoniously, he dropped the girl. She fell to the floor, his fangs dripping blood on her shocked face below him. It was there, then gone. Just like that. She'd left the human realm; he knew the feeling, he understood it, but it was always a shock.
It was never less.
He looked up to see Pam, staring at him from across the club. The entire place had gone near-silent, the dancers no longer dancing, the music a low, disconcerting pulse. All eyes were on him and the girl, the broken glass and the blood. Pam was next to him in a flash, her hand on his lower back. He tensed but allowed it. The last time he'd been here, she was giving him a death sentence. He couldn't help but associate her with that betrayal.
"Nothing to see here, people," Pam called, waving her free hand in the air. "Show's over." She jutted her chin and the music's volume shot up, the dancers resumed their performances. Pam pushed him out of the club and back onto the street.
"I need to go to Stockholm," Eric said, averting his eyes from his Child. "I came to tell you, that's all."
"Where have you been?" Pam raged, "And what's in Stockholm? And what was that back there? I run an above-board establishment and you know it. No biting on premises."
Eric turned away from her, overwhelmed by her assault, walking at human pace down the rainy sidewalk. She caught up with him easily, using force to push him into the nearest brick wall. His fangs dropped, but it was a lackluster response to her aggression. He was drifting back into apathy, the emptiness inside him flowing from his core outwards. The numbness was a relief.
"Don't walk away from me," Pam hissed, her forearms locked against his chest, leaving him pressed to the damp bricks. They crumbled slightly behind him, little flecks falling on his hair, shoulders, and the ground between them. He could overpower Pam easily, throw her into the street and fly away. But why? She was all he had left. The thought caused him to seize up momentarily, a revolting pang of unwanted grief.
"One question at a time," he murmured, focusing on deadening his muscles, on going limp both physically and emotionally.
"Where have you been?"
"I followed Sookie to New York. But then I turned around," he answered, monotone.
"Why?"
"Because…" he couldn't speak the exact words out loud, how she'd wanted to break the bond, how she'd never wanted it in the first place. What she'd said that last night was a curse, dangerous to repeat. "Because it's what she wanted."
"And Stockholm?"
"It's what I want."
"Why?" Pam asked.
Eric didn't answer.
"Because it's close to the portal?"
"No." Yes.
"You bit that girl in the club in front of everyone," she accused.
"Yes. I'm doing what I want now," Eric declared, shoving Pam away from him, breaking her tight grip. He dusted off his shoulders, the crumbled up concrete falling away. "Or do you not allow it?"
"What does that mean?" she asked, ignoring his jab, her red lipstick smudged, her normally stone-cold attitude tainted with worry. "What are you planning? If you do something reckless, Eric… if you meet the sun... I'll never forgive you. You'll never forgive yourself."
Eric smiled, but it was cruel and empty.
"I learned a long time ago that I don't deserve the sun," he whispered, reaching his palm up to rest on Pam's neck, a comforting gesture. She leaned into his touch. "I am damned to eternal night. But I've been told that I should no longer wait, that I should live. And that is what I intend to do."
He tilted his face down and kissed her forehead, allowing himself a long moment with his Child. A moment of peace, of weakness, of comfort, of humanity. He would bask in it just the once before turning himself over to his true nature, before finally giving in to himself as vampire for the first time in over a thousand years.
He left Pam in Portland, needing to be alone. He did not want a witness to his actions, uncontrolled and feral. He did not want a conscience. She'd left him be, though their bond pulsed from time to time. A question, a suggestion, a confirmation that he was still there. He rarely responded, ruled as he was by his own bloodlust. Stockholm became the playground for his endless thirst. He preferred blonde females and he was in luck. They were positively abundant, lithe bodies high on ecstasy and cocaine, vibrating to mindless music beneath neon lights and strobes, each one a meal waiting to happen. He wandered the clubs and bars like a true predator, seducing first with his beauty then his glamour, drinking so much he nearly felt sick, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.
"Are you okay, sötnos?" the young girl asked, her yellow hair straight and nearly waist-length. He glanced up at her from his place at her bare thigh, the mini-skirt she wore nudging his cheek, her tall leather boots framing his body. The new Swedish terms of endearment bored him and he was no 'sweetheart' as the word translated. In fact, he'd nearly killed her. Just one more pull and it would've been over. He lifted her legs and stood, brushing off his knees from crouching on the bathroom floor.
"You came here in search of your lipstick. You never found it. Go, join your friends," he glamoured, hardly giving it the necessary concentration. Even so, the girl nodded, her eyes empty and wide as she passed him. The thudding of her heart betrayed how hard her body worked to replenish what he had just taken, the tremble in her fingertips doing the same. He stepped out of the stall after her, the women at the sinks glancing at him in surprise as the tall, imposing Viking walked out of the ladies room, blood still on his mouth.
Sated and approaching the early hours of morning, Eric wandered the streets alone. He did so aimlessly, the tall buildings crowding out the stars, the streetlights keeping everything consistent as if it were still day, as if the night were nothing but an inconvenience designed to be overrun. He remembered the time when it was so dark even he struggled to see, a pitch black emptiness, no moon, wandering beneath a canopy of trees. He remembered dirt roads, the clop of horses on cobblestone, candles giving off only a faint glow on a windowsill. He remembered warm hands clutching his, trusting him to guide the way through the darkness, knowing he would keep them both safe. No. No, that would not do.
It had been three years since he'd last seen her. Hardly anything in the grand scheme of things. But there was a marked difference between an interlude and an ending. In the former, the passing of time was a good thing, it meant he was one step closer to what he desired: her return. In the latter, each day was further away from the last time, was an ever-widening chasm of separation, never to be closed again.
Frustrated, he shook his head, turning a corner so abruptly he nearly crashed into the vampire waiting for him in the alley. Eric took a quick step backward, a jolt of surprise running through him as he carefully controlled his features.
"The Northman," Russell grinned, his English accent blending into something more reminiscent of the American South, a curious mixture of dignity and drawl. He wore a simple, but finely-tailored jacket and jeans, his brown hair combed back behind his ears. There was a glint in his eye, one of triumph. A predator finally spotting his prey.
"Russell," Eric greeted. "Funny, I thought you were dead."
Russell let out a boisterous laugh, staring up at the taller vampire with glee.
"I thought the very same of you! But then I heard rumors of an ancient Viking vampire making an awful lot of ruckus in Stockholm and figured, why not double check just to be sure? It's been so long, old boy. Let's catch up."
"I'm not interested," Eric side-stepped him, moving to go around, but Russell's arm shot out to hold him in place.
"I'm afraid it wasn't a suggestion," Russell smiled, nearly apologetic. "You understand."
Eric shrugged.
"I figured as much."
"Please, join me for the day. I have an extra coffin or two, they may be a bit cramped for you but I hope you can make do."
"Sounds lovely," Eric drawled sarcastically. Russell laughed again, leading them a few streets away to a narrow, winding staircase that spiraled below ground. It was surprisingly well outfitted, a basement apartment with no windows to speak of. He'd heard of buildings like these, primarily in Europe, where the developers had known of or had themselves been vampires, carefully architecting a space designed for those who needed light protection during the day. There were a few empty coffins, though Eric asked no questions about Russell's coven or set-up. In his opinion, the less he knew the better.
Eric settled himself down in the nearest coffin and took a deep breath, doing the one seductive thing he allowed of himself after their separation three years prior. Only once, quickly, right before his rest, he plucked the bond. Just a quick test, a shot in the dark, a last sliver of hope he held onto night after night. As usual, there was no response. He let himself drift into sleep.
Russell was already speaking when he awoke, his fingertips drumming against the wood of Eric's coffin. Eric shoved, the lid falling to a floor in a clatter. He still wore his clothes from the night before, his leather jacket smelling of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. He noticed that Russell kept himself in impeccable condition, clean and immaculate. He wore a fluffy bathrobe of deep red, a gold bracelet dangling from his wrist. A practical display of wealth.
"Good, I was beginning to think you would be dead for the night, too," Russell winked. He flew to the door, ushering in a frightened-looking human girl. Brunette, thin, innocent. "You know what they say, breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
Eric took the human without question, sinking his fangs into her wrist. The blood was saccharine, floral, untouched.
"Virgin?" he asked, dropping her arm.
"Only the best for you," Russell crooned.
Eric raised one eyebrow.
"An apology," Russell allowed, no longer beating around the bush, his flourish drifting away. "For the death of your Maker. Know that I hated to see it just as much as you."
"I doubt that. And it's a bit late for apologies, is it not?" Eric sighed, sitting on one of Russell's velvet couches, the human girl still being dragged nervously beside him.
"Better late than never?"
"Just tell me what you want," Eric muttered, releasing the human's wrist and crossing his arms over his chest. She tried to make a break for it; both vampires ignored the escape attempt.
"It's not what I want, Eric. It's what you need."
"I'm uninterested in mind games."
"You are wasting your talents and your abilities here in Stockholm. I've seen you fight, I know you to be a warrior. You have a commanding presence, other vampires will follow your lead. Plus, Godric was one of the finest vampires I've ever met in my existence and you are his Child. I want to give you an opportunity to rule."
"Power gets you killed," Eric said, repeating one of Godric's timeless lessons. "And I have no desire for it."
"It will focus your energy, give you purpose. There's an Area open in Louisiana, in America. It's rural, but you can work your way up. I myself am King of Mississippi now. Our age certainly doesn't hurt matters, hierarchy-wise." Russell looked smug, dangling the carrot of power before him. Eric hesitated, but for a different reason. A memory tickling at his subconscious. Louisiana, the South. Someplace warm, humid, where the days were thick with heat and the nights dripped with stars. She'd wanted that. "Just think it over," Russell said, affecting casual, noting Eric's consideration.
"Do you still search for the sun?" Eric asked, a challenge.
"Is that something you are interested in?" Russell replied vaguely, maintaining his calm. "Like father, like son?"
"No," he answered. "It got my Maker killed and I do not intend to repeat history."
Russell clucked his tongue.
"I still yearn for it," he admitted, "But I do not hunt it. I respect defeat, even if I am the one defeated."
Eric was silent for a long moment, debating the truthfulness of his words. He could not trust Russell, he knew that, though he was beginning to think of the old adage: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Russell was powerful, and though he was not to blame for Godric's death–only Godric himself was to blame for that–Eric could not help but desire revenge against the ancient vampire before him. Plus, even if Russell were still interested in the fairies, there were none left to capture. Eric had only seen two in several hundred years, and now, he knew, he'd never see any again. The light was lost to all.
"I'll think about it," Eric said, standing to leave.
"Brilliant," Russell smiled, clasping Eric on the shoulder. "And, Eric?"
Eric glanced to Russell, waiting for the vampire to continue.
"The Northman was great," he said, "but Sheriff Northman has quite a ring to it, too."
Portland, 1969
"It rained all day," Sookie complained, burying herself under the blankets. The apartment was new, they'd only just moved in. The mattress still lay on the floor, Eric's coffin propped up against the wall. The first thing they'd done was seal the bedroom for light, the rest of the renovations and furniture-buying had to wait. That included a bed frame, apparently. "I wish we could go somewhere warm, like one of the Southern states. Remember Virginia? Virginia was so nice."
"Shhh," Eric whispered, his lips pressing kisses into her bare stomach. She felt the drag of his fangs, the question of the bite.
"What about Louisiana?" she continued, paying him no mind. "Oh, or Texas."
He looked up at her, the blanket draped over his back, his hair growing long over his forehead, a shag nearing his blue eyes.
"Texas? I'm drawing the line at Texas."
"Why? What's wrong with Texas?"
"I'm pretty sure they hunt vampires for sport down there," he said, his forearms reaching beneath her back, pressing her to him.
"C'mon, how do you know that?"
"They hunt everything else, don't they?"
"You're telling me The Northman is afraid of a couple could-be vampire hunters?" she scoffed teasingly, pushing the hair back from his face. His expression solidified, a door closing shut.
"Don't call me that," he grumbled, pushing away from her, leaving the comfort of the blankets. She sighed. She knew better than to tease him on that. After all, the name was given to him for reasons both deadly and permanent. He sat on the edge of the bed, the long plane of his back toward her. She watched the muscles ripple like a wave, enamored all over again. It amazed her, how badly she always wanted him, how his beauty blinded her to all else. She crawled over, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her bare chest to his back.
"I'm sorry," she apologized, her lips trailing down the back of his neck, "How can I make it up to you?"
She leaned her face over his shoulder just in time to catch his small smile, the upturn only on the left side of his lips.
"I can think of a few ways," he murmured, eyes glinting mischievously.
"Oh yeah?" she asked. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around, kissing her quickly.
"Here?" she asked, her lips on his.
"Lower," he whispered.
"Here?" On his chin.
"Lower."
"Here?" His chest, ghosting over his nipples one and then the other.
"Lower," he managed, abdominal muscles clenching.
"Here?" She kissed those, too.
"Lower."
She did as he said, and, unsurprisingly, he was silent.
x
"What do you guys think?" Pam asked, throwing her arms open wide. The space was so barren and empty her voice echoed, the floorboards falling apart and rotting, the ceiling beams covered with cobwebs. No one had seen the inside of this building in years, if not decades. Sookie sniffed the air, sneezing once from the dust. A rat squeaked, scurrying across the floor and squeezing inside a crack where two walls met.
"It's a shithole," Eric said, slapping at a fly circling his head.
"I think it has character," Sookie offered after her sneezing fit finally ended.
"Thank you Sookie," Pam said, glaring at Eric menacingly. Eric just shrugged. "Madeline helped pick it out, she said the place has potential. And it's in a prime location."
"How much is this going to cost me?" Eric grumbled, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes on Sookie. She wandered through the dark, vast room, tripping on several exposed nails in the process.
"We'll make back the upfront capital straight away," Pam said quickly. "Can't you see it? The stage goes here, up against the back wall. The bar right along the side, an open area in the middle that we can use either for dancing or seating or both. I went to another club and they had a VIP area, very chic and modern. I want one. And I want at least two bouncers, werewolves of course." Pam's heel sunk into wet, mildewy wood. She yanked it out quickly, moving into the back rooms. Sookie had never seen her so excited. Actually, she hadn't ever seen Pam show that much emotion point blank. It was surprisingly endearing.
Sookie made her way back over to Eric, careful to avoid any more dangerous outcroppings.
"I think it's nice. She's passionate," Sookie said to him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He looked down at her, curling her hair behind both ears. "And you'll be a business owner."
"Co-owner!" Pam shouted from somewhere around the corner.
Sookie and Eric smirked at each other, ever mindful of his Child's willfulness.
"Do you like me better as a business owner?" he asked playfully.
"Maybe I should be your secretary," she replied coyly. "A short dress, long nylons, pumps. Bent over your desk while you sign contracts."
"Hmm," he mumbled appreciatively, "I like that. And you would call me Mr. Northman."
"Yes, Mr. Northman," she whispered, watching as his Adam's apple bobbed in response.
"Stop roleplaying in my club," Pam snapped, joining them again in the larger front space.
"Pamela, this will be a strip club. I cannot imagine roleplaying would be forbidden," Eric replied, rolling his eyes.
"So it's yes then?" Pam asked, holding back her grin.
Eric glanced at Sookie, eyebrow raised. Sookie nudged him to make the decision official.
"Yes, it's a yes," he sighed.
Pam then broke her personal record for 'most emotion shown at a given moment' once more.
Louisiana, 1983
The Shreveport strip mall was an absolutely pathetic sight. It was set only slightly off the main thoroughfare, the stale, empty expanse of the parking lot the only separation. The asphalt was cracked, weeds growing up within the fissures. Beside the vacant storefront were two other businesses, a hair emporium that advertised cuts for all shapes and sizes, and a religious store that seemed to specialize in child-sized crucifixes. Eric had a hunch on which of their two neighbors would be the first to move out when they learned who'd purchased the corner slot.
"It's no Ravenscroft," Pam said, her face dubious at best, "But I might be able to work with it."
"Do whatever you want, I don't care. Just try not to get us kicked out, these people are conservative."
"You don't have to lecture me on discretion," Pam replied, her fangs snicking out in offense.
"I know," he sighed. Then, after a beat, "Thank you."
"I'm just glad you're back in America. I hate Europeans," she barked, though she was grinning slightly.
"I thought you hated Russians," Eric said.
"I hate them, too."
"Of course," Eric replied. "Of course."
And so began the business of renovating, a tedious and costly process that Eric had no desire to fully participate in. In fact, he had little desire to fully participate in anything. He found his new Queen lackluster at best, and that acting as Sheriff had far less torture and law enforcement opportunities than previously advertised by Russell. His new collection of supernatural beings were primarily outcasts, relegated to rural Louisiana or taking refuge within it. They respected him automatically due to his age, leaving Eric without even a rebellious coup to stifle.
Eric tried to find what Sookie was looking for in the South. Tried to see what she'd wanted to see. Wondered if she would like the willow trees, or the way the moon looked so fat and full, like it was only a breath away from the Earth's surface. He thought she might like the people; they were overly-friendly, even to someone as off-putting as he. The hair emporium left a basket of freshly-baked cookies on their doorstep one night, though they'd threatened to call the Mayor when they realized a risque bar was moving in beside them. A hint of glamour had solved that problem and they had a new batch of cookies the following evening.
He imagined she would be drawn to their traditions, the little human intricacies that were always so fascinating to her. The way every house put up miniature American flags on their lawns during the fourth of July, or how the church bells rang every hour on the hour. He tried not to think about her too often, the pain not lessening over time but perhaps doing the opposite. Becoming more acute. He would remember something small, like the way her hair looked on a particular evening in Morocco, or her face on their wedding day. Moments that cut so deep it was like re-opening a recently scabbed wound and digging deeper, starting up the bleeding once more.
How nice it would be to simply forget. To erase it all and start over.
In a moment of weakness, he did try. The polaroids he always kept in his pocket, taunting him, begging him to look through them once more; they plagued him. He decided that enough was enough, lighting a fire in the hearth of his new home, watching the flames lick higher and higher. One by one, he dropped a photo into the flames. Sookie and him in bed, Sookie playing with a cat, Sookie and Pam in the office of Ravenscroft, Sookie laughing, unaware, Sookie napping, her fist tucked under her chin. He felt a hint of satisfaction, of relief. The process unburdening him. The last photo was one he remembered clearly. It was the day she told him she was going to ask to stay in the human realm permanently, no more traveling back to her homeland, no more lost time, no more waiting. He'd taken the photo on a whim, standing above her, in awe at the beauty before him.
"What the hell are you doing?" Pam asked, appearing behind him, snatching up the photo before it, too, could be turned to smoke.
"Burning photographs, Pam. What does it look like?"
"Eric," she sighed, crouching beside him, forcing him to meet her eye. "Don't do this."
"I have to."
"You don't," she said. "Do not forget the beauty in your effort to destroy the pain. You will lose everything out of your desire to feel nothing."
Eric looked to the floor, nodded. He wished, suddenly, to get the photos back. An unhinged urge to dig through the rubble, to glue the ash together. An impossible task.
"Hold on," she said, "I have something to show you." She disappeared for a few moments, returning with an ornate wooden box, its latch closed. He remembered it vaguely; he'd purchased it a very long time ago and it sat atop the dresser he shared with Sookie. She looked after it; he'd paid it no mind. "I found this when packing up your apartment in Portland. It looks like she collected things over the years and hid them in here. I didn't root through too much, it seemed personal. Should we see what's inside?"
He paused, worried for its contents and what they would reveal.
"Okay," he said, after a long and deliberate hesitation.
They sat down on the couch together and opened up the box.
x
sorry, no 2008 again. broken hearted eric has a lot to say of course. next chapter though there'll be one. thank you for all of your fic recs, by the way. let's just say i've lost myself inside ericizmine and i cannot foresee surfacing at any point in the near future. i love and adore all your comments, please keep them up. x