"Of course, Master," and she practically skipped down the hall cackling all the way. Fucking children.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

EPOV

An entire week went by without the final reports from Pam and Compton. I know Compton's a fucktard, but he's good at his researching abilities. What the fuck is taking so long? I knew better than to email the journalist until I had more. The woman caught me off guard and fucked up my game before I even had it mapped out in my head. I quickly showered, threw on my jeans and Fangtasia shirt and yanked a comb through my hair. Before leaving the house I emailed both Pam and Compton demanding to know where the fucking reports were. Heads are going to roll, people.

I slid into the lot, flung my car into my spot and threw it in neutral while slamming my foot on the brake. The line had already formed out front. I decided to head to the main entrance and check out tonight's menu and thus avoiding staring at the walls in my office trying to figure out my game plan. Fuck, at this point I could not comprehend why I even wanted game. A fucking human? Whatever. It's on. I want her and I will make her mine.

The line was packed and half of the customers were dressed in cheap pleather and dime a dozen corsets most likely won on ebay. How mundane. None of these blood bags have the class or the finances to wear the real shit Pam wore to work. Fuck. Pam. Her shit is getting on my last nerve and my electronics practically cringe from my hands every time I reach for them. It's as if these inaminate objects realize my propensity for abuse and want to live. Fuck, Northman, you're losing it. Did you really just imagine your laptop begging, "I wanna live, I wanna live?"

I nodded at Felicia as I walked past her and into the main area of the bar. I knew I had been avoiding my throne this week, and therefore would need to put in my community service. Maybe I'd get some community service, or just serviced. I hadn't gotten laid since that night a week ago. I couldn't get her blowing me off out of my head. Vampires don't suffer from that particular disorder, but if I couldn't even manage to get off because my head was so fucked up, what was the point? I'd fed, glamoured and sent the banger on her way. That was six days ago. I was hungry, I was horny, I was pissed off as all hell. Pam was enjoying every single moment of my turmoil and that just fueled my fire. I had to find a way to get this Stackhouse issue resolved, and quickly. Otherwise I was buying stock in Apple products to at least cushion the hit my bank account was taking with each new purchase.

As the first two bangers came crawling, I cocked my boot and prepared to kick someone. They were bright enough to notice and scurried off to another corner. Somewhere in the background I could hear a blow followed by whimpering.

"What makes you think you can fucking touch my shoes? Get the fuck out of here!" Pam. Fuck. She sounds cheerful. This cannot be good. I could more than hear her approach, I could sense her. Not wanting this episode to begin, I tried to stare across the room and pretend I didn't notice her. Once she huffed and flung her hands onto her hips, I knew I couldn't avoid it any further.

"Compton has completed his research and I have double checked it. Whenever you are ready to get over yourself, I will meet you in your office." I growled. "Cut the shit, Eric. We all know Master is pissed. Now do you want me to actually help you with your problem or do you want to keep stroking your ego like like a patient in need of Viagra strokes his cock? Either way, without the help of some skilled female," and she actually cleared her throat, "you're both left looking a littlelimp."

"Enough, Pam. Let's go." I rose from my chair and was halfway across the bar in one fluid movement. I could hear the bangers around her coo and squee with delight. Somehow, I knew I would much rather deal with hundreds of these imbeciles out here tonight than face ten minutes alone with Pam at this point. I knew she had no good news for me, and she was practically vibrating with the excitement of laying it on me. When I walked into my office, I willed myself to set my phone down on my desk and decided to take a seat on the couch. My lap top wasn't even a week old yet and I had the suspicion it's tenure in my office was going to be short lived. Once seated, Pam took on a respectful manner, even bowing her head, calling me Master and handing me a couple of documents.

"Pam, what the fuck is this? I believe I had asked you for everything on this woman. You hand me a stack of articles she wrote?" She had something up her sleeve, and that explains the sudden humility. Fuck me.

"I understand. That, Master, are the results of Compton's search. As you can see, the sniveling weasel is quite thorough." This is thorough?

I was on my feet before she finished her sentence. "Is this some sort of fucking joke? Get Compton's ass in here now so I can enjoy kicking it personally!" I was seeing red, blood red, and I didn't care who it belonged to. Sensing my sudden rage, Pam took several steps back.

"Master, it appears that your reporter is under the radar, so to speak."

"Stop calling her that! She is not some fucking reporter Pam, she is more, and I told Compton, in very specific terms, exactly what I wanted and all I get after a week's time are copies of articles? Fiction stories?" I threw the papers into the trash. "Pam, where is the research I demanded of you?" I rounded on her then and she grinned at me. She fucking grinned.

Handing me a manilla folder of what appeared to be less than ten sheets of paper, she grinned like a cheshire cat. "Master, I have completed my task." I thumbed through the documents and was shaking with rage when I finished the last page.

"Pam, what the fuck is this shit? This is nothing!" She looked positively delighted.

"Eric, you know I thoroughly prepped you for the interview. It turns out that any further research would have ended up without result. In your hand is a copy of the deed to her house in Bon Temps, which she inherited from her grandmother. You also have the obituary from her parents' deaths. I already gave you her diplomas, published and unpublished works. In your hands you hold the list of her friends, few as they may be. She has no public interests, tax records do not reflect that she donates to charity and as far as I can see she's never really shown up on the radar. Even the confidential records searches had zero results."

I willed my hands to stop shaking and I took several useless moments to compose myself. Pam was thorough and if this is what she could find, then this is all there was. "I just can't believe this is everything I asked for."

"Oops, my bad. Seven and none." Her grin got wider.

"What?" She is fucking with me, I swear.

"You did ask for her shoe size and what sports she preferred. She wears a size seven and she appears to hold no interest in sports. I believe that completes my full report."

I couldn't fathom having to discover the answers to my questions about this human directly from the source. I go into nothing without full preparation and here I was screwed. I dismissed Pam, "That will be all." I strode around my desk and took my lap top off sleep mode. Pam flinched. "Pam, that will be all. If you don't get the fuck out of here I cannot guarantee the safety of my computer. Leave."

For once in a long time she complied. No cackling, no snarky comments. She just left. I think my frustration finally sunk into her. Maybe deep down she'll regret driving me insane and will cut the shit for awhile. Even a day would be nice.

Down to business. I scoured the folder in my hand. Twenty five years old, up and coming writer. Free lances her work to various magazines she actually holds contracts with. Single, never married. Graduate of LSU, received her masters there as well. Owns a house in Bon Temps, received via inheritance. Had partially owned her parents' home with her brother, but Quit Claim Deeded the property to him when her grandmother willed her her house. Credit report indicates a perfect score. Several open lines of credit, most of which rarely maintain a balance. From Pam's summary of snooping into her personal life, Sookie has few friends, doesn't date and actually resides in the Bon Temps property. Interesting. She did not look like a bumpkin at all, but nothing in the record reflects she is anything but one, albeit educated. Tax records indicate she makes a handsome living. She worked in a bar in Bon Temps, Merlotte's, until college and has been free lancing since graduation. Even her Chevrolet Malibu was inconspicuous. What gives?

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

SPOV

It had been three days since I received the alert on my phone notifying me that someone had accessed my credit report. I opened the email and scrolled to the requesting agency, Fangtasia, LLC. Apparently Mr. Northman is fishing. Let him. I was alone in my home office drinking a mug of tea and scratching the back of my cat, Tina. As I finished the final review of my latest article, I opened my email to submit it to the editor. I noticed the message in my inbox from fangtasia . com. I opened it:

To: sookie(at)stackhouse(dot)com

From: eric(at)fangtasia(dot)com

Subject: Part two

Ms. Stackhouse:

I have been looking forward to hearing from your office regarding your availability. I hope that your silence is not an indicator of your desire on completing the interview. Please advise.

~ E.

Poor guy, his ego must be smarting. I finished submitting my article and shut down the computer. Laughing at the irony, I decided Mr. Northman needed a bit more time to cool off.