Chapter 9

Pam glared at her inbox in frustration. Bill had made it pretty clear he didn't want to see her at present and had snapped at her to email the report on the werewolf - erm – 'misfortune'. She'd done so very promptly, but as yet no response. She could not fathom it. Surely the killing of three weres in the aftermath of a war against said weres merited some discussion. She was not looking forward to that discussion, and if she could re-wind time (what a shame vampires had not evolved that skill, she mused) she would leave Sookie Stackhouse to perish in the woods, but this silence from her king was deeply disconcerting if not downright ominous. She wondered if, at that very second, Bill was busy devising a punishment of extraordinary complexity and violence for his PR manager. Or, he could simply be staring into space dazed by the recent proximity of his dearly beloved human. Jesus, of all the mortals she could have dragged back to Bon Temps she had to light upon that delectable piece of confectionary. She put her head in her hands and moaned. When Sookie had been lying in Bill's office, had he...fed on her? Because if he'd taken her blood, and if half of what she'd heard about that human was true, then the king of Louisiana was a walking fucking time bomb. She eyed the empty bottle of Tru Blood by her key board. God almighty, she was ravenous. The very thought of feeding on a human made her fangs run out and her body twist with lust. Should she text Melissa? At least Bill was prepared to overlook that little arrangement, which was a major concession given the pressures he was under as king. The Authority was tightening up its 'Tru Blood only' policy and the strain on Bill was noticeable. She smiled as she remembered the training event he'd been forced to attend at the Hotel Carmilla when he first became king: 'Drink no Humans! Spread no Fear!' When he'd returned from Dallas with a box full of shirts and badges bearing this inspirational slogan, he'd told her either to distribute them amongst his vampire staff without delay, or to drop them in the nearest Louisiana swamp, the decision was hers. At least he hadn't lost his sense of humour, and he wasn't a total yes-man ... yet. He wasn't too bad a boss, considering.

Pam slapped the table and laughed bitterly. Yeah, right! Considering he'd exiled her maker on the evidence of a psychotic vampire and a bunch of hounds! She paced to the window and gazed into the night, confused and restless. Eric. She'd felt him. After months of a blank where their bond should be, she'd felt him. He was close, either that or she'd been dreaming when she'd woken up just twelve hours before screaming his name, her body and mind a vortex of dense, vicious, abject emotion. The odd thing was, though, that Eric – wherever he was – didn't appear to be in any immediate danger. The pull wasn't the same as when the New Orleans weres had him. It was ...worse. There was no one with him, of that she was certain; whatever was pounding and crushing his spirit was coming from inside of him. Her one thousand year old maker was somewhere close, completely alone, and falling to pieces.

Her phone vibrated. Bill. She headed to office, nervous with anticipation.

'Sit down, Pamela. Thank you for your report, it's very useful. Seven weres in our area including the deputy, Clay, and that mad dog Cooter. Not surprised you remembered his scent.' Pam squirmed. 'Not surprised you killed him, either, really. Which brings me to a key question here, Pam. Did you act deliberately to kill these weres? Were you protecting a defenceless human, or were your motives more ... personal?'

Pam stayed still and silent.

'OK. I respect that you do not want to incriminate yourself. But know this, Pam, if your loyalty to Northman and your instincts for revenge in any way undermine my position then it will be the end of you. I could have had you killed when I exiled your maker; the Authority placed no value on your life whatsoever, do you hear me? But you are a remarkable vampire, Pam. And you know what they say about keeping your enemies close. Do not make me regret my clemency.'

Pam nodded deeply.

'I don't know what the weres had in mind sending that party to our district, but even if their intentions were benign we can certainly expect reprisals now. I intend to ensure the situation doesn't deteriorate too rapidly. For the moment, we are on high alert. I've doubled security and nobody may enter this building who is not staff. This includes...'

'Melissa.'

'Yes. I'm afraid you'll have to do without your pet for a while. As soon as it's feasible, I intend to take a deputation to Marcus and to the sheriff of his area. Our line is that this was a highly unfortunate incident, that you were acting to protect Sookie Stackhouse, that I had instructed you to bring her to me after the incident in the bar. We will offer to make amends.' Pam winced. 'Don't worry, your safety will not be compromised. I will not use you as a trade-off, Pam, but I expect total compliance in return, understand? Now, I intend to take Franklin to New Orleans. He needs to be fully briefed so you will shortly accompany me to Fangtasia.'

Pam closed her eyes briefly. So this was her punishment. Not violent, not tortuous, simple but excruciating nevertheless.

'Couldn't you email him? Do I have to go?'

Bill smiled mirthlessly. 'Some business is best transacted face-to-face. You were at the scene, Pam, and I want Franklin fully briefed. Remember. You started this.'

As Pam took to her coffin seething and miserable, two drunken werewolves were staggering down Jackson Avenue just below her maker's window towards the truck which was their home for the day. They were just staking Sookie out, getting the feel of her routine; they weren't aiming to make any sudden moves unless, as Marcus had put it, some 'golden opportunity arose' in which case he wanted her in his basement within the hour. They'd spent the night at the only were bar in Shreveport, Dark Side of the Moon. Debbie had once been part of the small Shreveport were community – you couldn't really call it a pack – and she'd enjoyed catching up with old friends, downing shots and shooting pool. She was absolutely wasted. As she reached the van, she stumbled and fell to the curb.

'Hehehe! Oh, shhhhhit, Clay. Shhhh... look at this. Two flat t-t-tyres.'

'You what?' Clay looked sceptically where Debbie was pointing and sank down.

'Fuck! How the hell?' He ran his fingers through his curly auburn hair. 'They look slashed to me. Jesus, this fucking slum of a district. We only got one spare. I'll text Marcus, he can send someone over.'

'Nononono! A lady on her own would have to ask for help, Clay. A lady whose phone had run out of charge, shhhe would have to seek assistance.'

'What the fuck are you on about?'

'Sookie Stackhouse is a very nice young lady and shhhheeee would help. She would let me use her phone to call... someone, and if that someone couldn't make it down here for... a little while, she would invite me in to wait, wouldn't she? Because she is a fine and polite Southern laaaady.'

Debbie beamed up at Clay and he returned the smile.

'A golden opportunity. Debbie, Marcus is a very lucky man. You are a fucking genius.'