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20th October update: Voting for the awards is now open until 22nd October. Next chapter of this will be up on 28th if all goes to plan, thank you for your patience.
Show Time
Valentine's night came and went without incident. So did the next.
I'd been back in Memphis a fortnight, and not a peep from Bardulf. The wait was a harsh lesson in the patience of those whose nights stretched endlessly ahead of them. To us mere mortals, a fortnight was an eternity and my nerves were stretched tighter than a drum.
The stress had better not kill me before I got to beat that son of a bitch at his own game. Pardon my French, but I was mighty frustrated with Bardulf's dilly-dallying. Some of us had lives to live, shifts to work and books to study.
Early the next morning, I got a cryptic message from Niall that the swamp was drier than expected, all was well, and he'd catch me up on the details next time we met. Good news, but it hardly put a dent in my frustration. Neither did yoga class and I declined another pamper session with Meredith afterwards, claiming cramps and an intense craving for chocolate.
In reality I spent the afternoon and my irritation on scrubbing floors and washing out cupboards. When I called Quinn at work he snapped and snarled like a wounded gator, so I wasn't the only one wound tighter than an eight day clock. I was at the stove when he finally walked in, an hour late again. His keys hit the counter with a loud clatter that made my shoulders twitch even higher.
"Still nothing," he growled. "That fucker needs to shit or get off the pot."
He was agitated, his mind jittery. Jittery, I realised, with a particular sort of excess energy that had nothing to do with our predicament. Shoot. I glanced at the calendar for confirmation. Yep, the full moon was Friday, two days away. How had I missed that? I'd been all over the place lately.
"You need to run tonight," I said shortly, giving the pan I was attending one last stir before I turned to face him.
"What?" His eyes flashed.
"Run. Tonight." I waved at the calendar. "Burn off that excess energy. You can't be off balance right now. That's exactly what Bardulf wants."
The huge grin that slowly took over his face shocked the hell out of me.
"Friday," he whooped, his mind pulsing with delight as he grabbed me by the waist and swung me around. "It'll be all over by Friday." Two days and we'll have that fucker by the balls. Mama's party can go ahead, no need to cancel... He pressed a hard kiss to my forehead. "Mm. What's for dinner, babe? I'm starved."
I wasn't so gleeful. "Horse," I said dryly and he laughed, letting me go.
"Funny, smells like pork chops to me." He brushed the hair off my face. "Don't look so worried, babe. This one's gonna go our way, I can feel it."
…
The summons came with the full moon, just like we thought.
As we pulled through the gates of Bardulf's ostentatious mansion, Quinn was positively chipper, spoiling for a confrontation. I was distinctly less enthusiastic. Oh, I was confident that we could knock Bardulf on his metaphorical ass, but only if we played it just right, and I was still pissed that his inability to take no for answer, so typical of vampires, had led us to this.
Clarabel was waiting by the fountain, pinch-faced in a white blouse and a tight black skirt that was almost flattering. She led us inside, past two vamps on guard who paid us no mind, but she didn't take the sweeping staircase up to the second floor like the last time I was here. Instead, crossing to the back of the lobby, she opened a door in the oak panelling there and started down a flight of stairs. Carpeted and well-lit stairs, at the bottom of which I could detect only one solitary void waiting on us, but still…
Basements. Nothing good ever happened to me below ground.
The hand Quinn put on the small of my back was accompanied by a pulse of encouragement and a message: He wants us alive, babe. And I don't smell anything … funky down there. So, squaring my shoulders, I followed Clarabel's bony ass down into Bardulf's lair, which turned out to be nothing more sinister than a media room.
A swanky media room with fancy concealed lighting and thick carpet underfoot, not a dank stone wall or torture implement in sight. Two large overstuffed leather couches faced an equally large screen. Bardulf lounged on one of them, idly tossing a remote in his hand. He'd gone casual for our tête-à-tête: his rock-star stubble paired with tight jeans and a dark silk shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.
"Sit," he ordered, flicking the remote to indicate the empty couch. "Clarabel, see there are no interruptions."
Bony-ass nodded sharply and left, the door shutting behind her with a sharp click. We sat down, Quinn making sure to sit himself closest to Bardulf and I was grateful for that small act of chivalry, even though I knew Bardulf could toss Quinn aside in an eye-blink if he really wanted to get at me. My guard up, I balanced primly on the edge of the couch, knees together and back straight. I'd worn a pant suit and flats in case things turned ugly. Quinn, in a suit, spread his legs insolently and leaned on them, hands dangling. The pose was deceptively relaxed; he was hyper-alert, his mind clear and focused.
Bardulf, the turd in tonight's punchbowl, looked me over as if I were a prize heifer, his cold blue eyes assessing every inch of me.
"What do you want, Tennessee?" I said before he could speak. He could kiss my ass before I'd call him your majesty. "This better not be another job offer. I've made it perfectly clear I'm not interested and never will be."
My attempt to steal the initiative didn't faze him in the slightest. Ignoring me completely, he spoke to Quinn: "We have a problem, tiger."
"What problem is that?" Quinn asked flatly, staring back at him.
"You know very well." Bardulf smiled and it wasn't pretty. "For your sake I hope your woman does too, or she's about to get a rude awakening."
"What is this?" I asked sharply, following our plan to act as if Bardulf had taken us by surprise, fuel that arrogance of his.
"Quinn here has been a bad, bad kitty." He tutted, shaking his head. "A very bad kitty. Participating in a plot to murder a king, no less."
"What are you talking about? What king?" Quinn's voice projected more outrage than he really felt, also part of our plan. Let Bardulf think Quinn was riled up, close to losing his cool.
"Why, Northman of course," Bardulf replied, sitting up fluidly, all his lazy indolence cast aside. His eyes glittered dangerously. "I don't know what's more insulting, that you went behind my back to offer your services to Nevada or that you thought I wouldn't find out about it."
"I did no such thing," Quinn said hotly.
"A denial. How tiresome. Naturally, I have evidence." Bardulf waved the remote at me. "Want to see it, lass?"
Quinn and I looked at each other. This was it.
"Go ahead," I said. Make my night, sucker.
"A wise choice." Bardulf drew his lips back in a smile that was more fangs than humour. "Not that you had any. Enjoy the show."
The lights dimmed and a projector mounted on the ceiling, a sleek modern thing, came to life. The noise I expected, the soft whirr of a rotating reel of film, never came and the silence brought a pang of nostalgia for the machine's obsolescent forefathers. Digital technology seemed cold and soulless in comparison.
That echoed something Eric had said to me, years ago, but I didn't have time to wonder at that. A corridor, much like the one in which Eric had made that comment, had appeared on the screen.
Concentrate, Sookie, this is important.
A caption announced 'Summit Venue, Louisville' in case I hadn't recognised the hotel from the décor. If the time and date that followed was to be trusted, we were looking at the day before the vamps arrived. A man in a rumpled suit hurried past, head down and then Quinn came into view, striding after him. The man stopped and turned his face to us.
Finch.
He leered and his lips moving silently. Another caption appeared: After a woman are we, Quinn?
Bardulf's voice came out of the dark: "There's no sound, but as you can see lips can be read. Pity your back is to the camera, tiger. Most unhelpful of you."
Whatever the on-screen Quinn said in reply, Finch's leer turned into a scowl. The captions continued, supplying his half of the conversation: Yes, yes. I filled out the forms … Of course all my merchandise is legal. Do you think I'm an idiot? … A booth on the main aisle, high visibility. And I better get it. … Good. Everything's set for Friday, then.
Friday. The day of the assassination attempt.
As the image faded, Quinn snorted. "That doesn't prove a damn thing. It was a routine check. Finch had a stall at the trade fair."
"A stall he used to make contact with the werewolves who attacked Louisiana," Bardulf said, his voice grave. "And hardly routine, I think. Your assistant Dylan dealt with the other stall holders. Why speak to Finch yourself?"
"Because Finch was a sleaze," Quinn said, "and Geiszler didn't want any fall out with the cops. I took care of it myself. Made sure everything was above board."
"Made sure Finch got what he wanted," Bardulf drawled softly out of the darkness.
"He put in a request," Quinn said, indignant. "The hotel handled the allocations."
"Of course they did. And you didn't smooth the way at all."
"I don't see any evidence here," I interrupted, glaring in Bardulf's direction even though he was no more than a faint silhouette. As a scare tactic hiding in the dark was wasted on me, but not being able to read his expression ticked me off. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms and the sting dissipated some of my irritation. "This is a waste of time, Tennessee."
"Don't judge a play by the first act, petal." His teeth flashed in the dimness, catching the reflected glow from the screen. "There's plenty more to see yet. This next clip is silent too, but you'll find it speaks for itself."
Another hotel corridor, this one crowded with people. Quinn's bald head bobbed along above the throng and as he came into sight, a girl darted out of a group of women and grabbed his arm. She smiled broadly up at him. A skinny thing, her hair dyed red but showing dark at the roots.
Quinn stiffened beside me. I couldn't ask why, but he'd told me to read him whenever I needed to. Dipping into his mind, I got an impression of a hot, sunny day, dusty city sidewalks and cars honking. And a single thought: Shit, Gloria.
Whoever Gloria was, he obviously knew her well because the on-screen Quinn let her drag him into a quiet corner for a lengthy chat, their heads far too close together for any lip-reading. Gloria flicked her hair, pouted and smiled as they spoke. When she laid a hand on his chest I itched to smack it off of him, but on-screen Quinn stepped back smartly and, by the way her face fell, gave her the brush off in no uncertain terms.
Good man. I let out a silent sigh of relief, but the real-life Quinn beside me didn't unbunch his panties one bit, his mind still churning uneasily. Shit. There had to be more to it than this Gloria treading on my toes. Then it dawned on me who she must be.
The donor. The one Finch murdered, the one whose room the werewolves hid in.
I hadn't got a good enough look at her body to recognise her without the ugly bruises, but Quinn told me he'd bumped into her, that he knew her from when she'd worked for Special Events in Atlanta.
From what I'd just witnessed they'd been more than work colleagues, that was for damn sure. Quinn had neglected to mention that and I restrained an unladylike desire to give his ankle a swift kick. Not a good idea when I could feel Bardulf's eyes on me. No doubt he was watching us like a hawk, ready to swoop on any sign of disunity.
Damn him to hell. My poker face was getting a work out tonight.
"Gloria Honeypot," Bardulf said, his amused tone breaking the silence just as it became intolerable. "A stage-name, of course. She was christened Kimberley Tate. A stripper turned blood donor, and an old flame of yours I believe, tiger. Whatever were you discussing so intently, the day before she was killed?" The couch shifted under me as Quinn leaned forward to speak, but before he could say anything Bardulf's oily voice cut him off. "Oh, don't bother making up another excuse. They bore me. Let's move on, shall we."
Next, we saw Quinn discussing staff rotas with the head of maid service. Her office was wired for sound and when she named the laundry service the hotel used quite distinctly, Bardulf gleefully informed us that Kentucky had tracked down where the twoey assassin had gotten hold of a maid's uniform: it had been stolen from that very laundry. Then, in another silent clip, we saw Quinn stop a porter wheeling a stack of supplies down a service corridor. After a brief conversation, Quinn liberate a case of bottled water and waved the porter on.
"That is the same brand of bottled water found in Finch's room," Bardulf practically crowed. "Laced with poison."
"That was for the green room," Quinn growled. Shit. He's got this all sown up. He shifted restlessly on the couch again, his mind swirling faster, rippling with unease and frustration.
"Was it," Bardulf said flatly. "Easy for you to palm a bottle and slip it into Finch's room."
"Anyone could've done that," I said firmly, willing Quinn to stay calm a little longer. "That water was all over the hotel."
"Louisville PD have the bottle in their evidence locker," Bardulf said. "It was wiped clean of course, but there are ways of finding out who came into contact with it. Ways the police do not have access too."
"Really," I said calmly, ignoring a hot pulse of anger from Quinn. "You seem so sure that would incriminate Quinn here. As if you, oh, I don't know, planted that bottle."
Infuriatingly, Bardulf's response was an amused chuckle. "Now why would I need to do that, when I have so much on tape. Contact with Finch, contact with Gloria, knowledge of the laundry, the hotel, and access to the water," he listed relentlessly. "That is more than sufficient to prove opportunity."
"But not motive," Quinn's voice rumbled out. "Why would I want Northman deader than he already is? I've taken what I want from him."
His hand, hot and heavy, descended on my knee and squeezed. I put mine over it and smiled sideways into the darkness at him, presenting a picture of unshakeable unity. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, asshole. A silver pipe, and I hoped he choked on it.
Bardulf chuckled again as the screen lit up. "Oh, but I believe you have plenty of motive, tiger. And I can prove that too. Take a look."
We sat through more footage, each clip increasing Quinn's agitation. First we saw Quinn approach Eric. Two of them disappeared into a restroom, Neb on point, waiting outside with his arms folded. Eric soon exited in a blur and Quinn with a scowl, kicking at a trash can. Next I watched with a sinking heart as Quinn and Jephson, Eric's head of security, bowed up on each other backstage, in the green room. When that was followed by an angry exchange with Eric too, I almost groaned out loud. Then the pièce de résistance: shaky cell phone footage, complete with sound. It showed Quinn and Dylan bellied up to the hotel bar, beers in hand, their voices clear enough over the general noise:
"Man, don't let the deaders get to you," Dylan said, taking a sip of his drink.
"A stake is too good for that arrogant fucker." Quinn's hand clenched around the bottle he was holding and he shook his head, scowling ferociously. "Northman has been a thorn in my side for too long. World would be a better place without him in it."
My stomach fell. That was just about the worst thing he could've said. Quinn hissed beside me, his mind a whirl of anger and self-recrimination. Damn those Weres from security. How the fuck did they know about Sookie being pledged to him anyway? Shouldn't have let them yank my chain, shouldn't have let Northman get to me...
Shit, he was hot under the collar for real now.
So was I. Sweat was beading uncomfortably on my neck and in the small of my back, prickling in my hair. The low-ceilinged room was stifling and airless, but I was sure I'd seen vents when we came in…
The son of a bitch had turned the air off.
Of course he had. Vampires were immune to fluctuations in temperature. Just another trick to shorten Quinn's temper I reckoned, and I was damned if I'd ask Bardulf to turn it back on. I'd rather pass out than give him the satisfaction.
I was mighty glad Bardulf didn't know about that pheromone Felipe had got a-hold of. If he had, he'd have the air on full, pumping it out. Quinn was stronger than a wolf, had more control over his shifting, but even he couldn't fight biology. If he went feral and attacked Tennessee in his own house, I had a strong suspicion supe law would not be on our side. Hell, something like that would probably give Bardulf carte blanche to kill Quinn and demand my lifelong servitude in recompense.
That did not bear thinking about.
The lights came up and, blinking in the brightness, I took a discreet peek at the ceiling. Yep, vents. Sneaky son of a bitch.
"You have quite the grudge against Louisiana, don't you tiger?" Bardulf said, sweat-free like the lizard he was. He smiled viciously at Quinn, then ran his gaze over me, lingeringly. "A murderous grudge at that. But what man wouldn't, having had to share his woman with him. That must have stuck in your craw, tiger. Whose idea was it that she weasel her way into his bed? I'll wager it was hers. Makes you wonder just how much she enjoyed it, eh?"
Quinn snarled at him, "What the fuck—?"
My hand clamped onto his knee, my nails digging hard into his flesh. That was our signal, the signal that meant calm the eff down. Thankfully, it shocked him into shutting up.
Just barely, though. Quinn seethed with questions, his mind spinning rapidly as he attempted to make sense of Bardulf's words. I, on the other hand, was much calmer. I already knew Bardulf believed I was some sort of Mata Hari figure, cosying up to Eric on Felipe's say-so while I was really with Quinn all along.
I hadn't quite got round to telling Quinn about that. It seemed so far-fetched and I couldn't explain how I'd discovered it, not without admitting I'd helped Neb interrogate Finch. That might lead to why I was in Eric's suite that afternoon, and that was can of worms that needed to stay tightly shut. A ten-gallon can.
The best way to divert both Quinn and Bardulf was to go on the attack, so that's what I did.
"How in the hell did you get all this?" I hissed, gesturing at the screen and then folding my arms. That was another signal: for Quinn to take a back seat and let me handle things. "Did Kentucky give you every damn surveillance tape he had?"
"No. Isaiah has no hand in this." Bardulf smiled wickedly. "Although I rather think he would kick himself about that. It's amazing how many cameras he put in that hotel, isn't it? I had a … friend, shall we say, conveniently place on his staff."
Of course he did. Had he planned to frame Quinn from the start, as soon as he agreed to help Felipe kill Eric?
Maybe he had. Desmond was right, Bardulf was a devious bastard. I needed to draw him out, make sure we knew everything he had on us, make sure there was nothing to come back and bite us in the ass later.
"Everybody knows Quinn and Eric hate each other," I said, thickening my accent. Let him think I was upset, scared. "That ain't news. Everything else you've got is circumstantial and it don't add up to a hill of beans. You ain't even shown Quinn was in cahoots with Felipe."
His quiet chuckled filled me with dread. There was more?
"Ah, yes," he said, leaning back lazily and throwing a leg up onto the couch. "Nevada. Now that is something the cameras didn't catch, sadly. But technology is so diverse these days, isn't it?" Smiling like he wanted to bite my heart right out of my chest, he flourished the remote dramatically and pressed a button. "The coup de grace, Miss Stackhouse."
A crackle came out of the speakers, a phone rang tinnily and was picked up.
"Alvarez household," a voice answered. An older woman, Hispanic. No-one I recognised, but Quinn was frowning, confused.
"Hey, Maria. Just returning your call. How are you?" That was Quinn.
"Oh, John! How good to hear your voice. You are at the summit, yes? Working hard, as always."
"Uh-huh. Burning the candle at both ends. What about you? How's your son?"
"Much better, thank you. And your family, they are good?"
They chatted some about Frannie and his mom, then something about a recipe this Maria was gonna send him, compared notes on the weather for a while and hung up. Whole thing lasted five minutes tops and seemed a perfectly normal if somewhat dull call.
Except I had no clue who Maria Alvarez was.
As the recording finished Quinn fired thoughts at me machine-gun fast: Maria is a nurse. Retired now, worked at Whispering Palms. Her and Mama were close. She calls now and then, see how Mama's doing. That's all.
But she's in Nevada, I wanted to yell back mentally, didn't you think that might look suspicious?
Bardulf sure did. Gleefully triumphant he said, "The call was placed from hotel reception to Clark County, Nevada, barely an hour after the attempt on Louisiana. To this Maria Alvarez, passing on who knows what coded message."
"There was no coded message," Quinn said, fists balled. "I was returning her call. She's a friend."
"A friend," Bardulf said, eyes glittering with malice, "whose cousin Eduardo is head of security at de Castro's largest casino."
A bolt of surprise rippled out from Quinn. Shit, he is? I didn't know that. Is Maria working for Felipe? How long for? Maybe she was forced into it. Fucking de Castro… His mind became unreadable, a tangle of betrayal and doubts. Maria Alvarez looked so innocent in his memory, like a kindly aunt, and he'd never imagined she could be a plant.
It didn't matter if she worked for Felipe or not. As long as Bardulf could make it look like Quinn was in contact with Nevada, we were fucked.
Or we would have been if I hadn't read Finch and seen this coming.
Unfortunately, shock and anger were written all over Quinn's face. Bardulf, who was watching him closely, smiled to himself and turned to me. "The tiger and Maria have been in regular contact these last three years," he said. "I have her call history. They spoke almost every month, mostly from payphones, hotels. Twice from his own phone." He tutted. "That was sloppy of him."
"Those were innocent calls," Quinn gritted out, the planes of his face broadening as he fought a shift.
Shit.
"Were they?" Bardulf said coolly. "We'll never know, will we. It was only chance this one was recorded."
I began to protest half-heartedly, my attention on Quinn, but Bardulf cut me off.
"No more denials." Eyes hard, he waved at the screen. "All this makes for a persuasive case and should it fall into Northman's lap, he will demand the tiger's head. As things stand, I have no grounds to refuse him."
He paused to let that sink in. Then his eyes caught mine and a familiar pressure squeezed at my temples. "Perhaps," he said, "Northman will begin to wonder how long you've been working for Felipe, Miss Stackhouse. Imagine how furious he will be once he realises how deeply he's been duped, eh? He does so hate to be betrayed. There'll be no mercy for either of you."
Quinn growled, the sound so loud I felt it vibrate in my chest.
"You bastard," I hissed, clamping a hand around Quinn's thigh as if he might launch himself at Bardulf. That wasn't far from the truth, but Quinn was still himself enough to think: Go for the jugular babe. I'm done listening to this crap.
"Check mate, lass." Bardulf chuckled coldly. "Even your pet fairy won't save you. I can't see Niall lowering himself to beg mercy for a fur-ball like the tiger here, can you?"
"What do you want?" I asked harshly.
"I knew you'd see sense. You're the brains of this delightful little partnership, aren't you?" His smile was gloating. "You can start by call me your majesty. You need to get into the habit."
My lip curled.
"Don't sneer, lass. I'm not a monster, it will be a mutually beneficial arrangement. One where you put your fabulous talent completely at my disposal, and I pay you a reasonable rate. A very reasonable rate as the tiger gets to keep his head. With an occasional taste of your blood thrown for good measure, I think. I hear it's divine."
Quinn growled again, vibrating like a bowstring. "Lay a fang on her, and I'll—"
"Ah-ah," Bardulf said, waving a finger. "None of that. You're not in a position to make demands, tiger." He examined me clinically, eyes tracing major arteries, lingering provocatively on pulse points. His lip curled derisively. "Frankly, I can't see the attraction. What's another busty blonde after you've had a hundred of them? She can donate into a bag for all I care." Then his face went hard and his voice sharpened. "As long as she behaves, that is."
Over my dead body. Time to end this. This was the moment of truth, and the moment of greatest danger.
"I don't think so," I said. My heart beat loud and fast, but my words were clear and strong. Pulling a flash drive out of my jacket, I held it up where he could see it. "I might look dumb, but I'm not stupid enough to move into your kingdom without insurance."
His fangs dropped. "What is that?"
"Evidence. A paper trail from you to a certain BSA rep and his mistress. A wide, blazing paper trail anyone with half a brain could follow."
Bardulf's face turned stony, his eyes glowing with rage as he snapped, "How did you get that?"
"Never you mind." I tossed it to him and as he caught it I stood, forcing strength into my legs, determined not show weakness. It helped that Quinn got to his feet right alongside me. "Why don't you take a gander at that and get back to me when you're ready to eat humble pie. We're leaving."
It took some nerve to turn my back on him. An itch started up between my shoulder blades and lasted all the way to the door, where I stopped and looked back. "And don't think there aren't copies of that. Make one move to force my hand or hurt as much as a hair on Quinn's head, and that will land in the BSA's in-tray faster than you can spit."
His face flickered with the beginnings of a snarl, but he controlled himself, smoothing it back into a blank mask quick as a wink. But not quick enough. I smiled to let him know I'd seen his reaction. A tight smile, but a smile nonetheless.
"Remember," I said warningly, "I have powerful friends. Friends it would be better for you not to piss off. And who knows, maybe we've got more dirt on you. Better be careful, Bardulf."
That was as much of a hint at Plan B as I dared make, as much of one as Desmond thought I could get away with safely. Praying it would be enough to stay Bardulf 's hand from any violent retaliation, I held my head high and swept out of the room, Quinn protectively at my back.
Amazingly, no-one stopped us leaving.
Outside the cool night air was a welcome relief after the stuffy heat of the basement. My hands shook as I got into the car, but I stayed silent until we were half a block away. Then I let rip, spitting cuss-words as I let go of the fear and anger I'd been bottling up. As my tirade wound down, I slapped at the dash, wishing it was Bardulf's face, and hissed at the pain. "Goddamn vampires! I'm so effing sick of their games. Where the hell do they get off, thinking they can take over my life."
Quinn laughed wryly and reached over to take my hand, rubbing at my stinging palm with his thumb. "Preaching to the choir, babe," he rumbled out. "I've felt that way for years. You were fucking magnificent in there, Sookie."
He was buzzing with triumph and admiration, and more than a little lust.
"Thanks," I said, smiling at him, "so were you. Turn the air up, would you? That asshole was trying to cook us into submission in there. Shame for him that I'm a Southern gal. We can take the heat."
He laughed again, his eyes shining with pride. "You sure can, Sookie, you sure can."
