Moving in a suit of leather was quite a tricky thing to do; I didn't know how Pam did it so often. Janice Herveaux had bound my torso in a cage of ribbed leather and had nearly taped a pair of glossy black pants to my spindly legs; she had bound my hair in two tight red braids plaited with violet ribbons, and she had strapped my feet into platforms that pushed me several inches away from the ground. I was just glad she hadn't put me in a wig; Sookie wore a sleek, cropped bob the color of ink over her golden head.

"I'm goin' to be listenin' to people's thoughts, okay? An' I want you to see what you can see. I know you don't know how t'control it and all, but please try—for me," Sookie whispered in my ear as her and I walked beneath the illuminated entrance to Lou Pine's.

Sookie looked at me with her dark eyes—eyes that I had seen water so profusely and frequently since my arrival in Jackson that I could not say no to them. "Okay."

Sookie and I split, as did Alcide who followed along like a lopsided third wheel, to cover as much ground of Lou Pine's as we could. In spite of my costume, I still felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb in the riotous bar; I frequently gained the odd eyes of bystanders. One drunken man even took to pulling at one of my girlish red braids with his grubby fingers before his friend pulled him away—I was but a porcelain doll to these savages.

An auburn-haired woman rushed by me, accidentally knocking me aside. This was an incident that I was familiar with—both metaphorically and literally; I would have brushed it aside if it had not have tested the edges of my capacity.

I heard the howling of wolves ripping through the loud music that played from the bar's speakers. While the sound of belting wolves would sometimes be played as the tranquil soundtrack to a rural, winter's night, there was nothing peaceful in this cry. It was a tear through any ephemeral joy, gushing scarlet blood.

The night when I had been with Eric at my house, with the werewolf scrambling beneath his body before he had sunk his fangs into the wolf's squirming neck, I had felt a branding on my neck similar to that which I felt now. Fire sparked at the top of my spine and I instinctively ran my hand across the smooth, untouched skin of the back of my neck. My trembling fingers waited to trace a newborn scar, yet there was nothing there but jagged nerve endings.

A heavy hand on my shoulder pulled me away from the agony I was slipping into. I turned and was instantly captured in a cloud of must, ripened by the scent of sweat, wet fur, and beer. The one hand on my shoulder slipped to clutch one of my cheeks, the other grabbed at my exposed arm.

"Alcide Herveaux brought you along? He sure's got a thing for redheads," the man who kept me between his hands dragged me in closer so I could be further engulfed in his stale odor and damp embrace. "Lucky for you, so do I," he chuckled. When his lips parted to bear his yellowing teeth, I tried to break myself from his iron grasp to no avail.

"Let me go," I grumbled as I pulled away.

"A lady like you's can't be here in the first place, Alcide should know that! He couldn't'a thought you'd slip in without capturing a few fellows' eyes?" He laughed. With one free hand, I caught his wrist and tugged him off of me. That burn that still heated the back of my neck gushed from my body to his in that one touch, and I was instantly free of him. He jumped backward and yelped, awkwardly straining his neck as his hand clenched the scar that already marked his neck.

"What in the Hell—"

"Cooter!" A shriek announced from the bar. The man looked toward the origin of the sound then looked back at me; his mouth was pinned in a straight, grim line. He reached out to grab me harshly by the neck, but once his hand made contact with my skin he whipped himself away, as though I were hot to the touch. He looked again at the bar where his female companion yelled for him once more, and when his head turned I saw his angular scar bubbling and dripping blood down onto the hem of his white shirt.

"Christ almighty, woman," he grunted and pushed my shoulder backward. I stumbled into the crowd, grabbing for something to pull me away. But it was this man, Cooter, who captured me again and took me away. I could not exercise my unknown abilities when he took my elbow, and I was soon pushed into a locked bathroom. Two tall stalls sat opposite two mirrored sinks; toilet paper was strewn across the floor like confetti and the walls were spray-painted with neon obscenities. The bathroom door reflected with a full-body mirror; its handle shook but would not turn, and I eventually resorted to sitting in one of the stalls with my knees to my chest.

After several minutes that ticked by slowly like hours do, the door eventually barged open with three men smelling like Cooter had—sweat, wet fur, and beer. They kicked open the stall beside me with big, black boots, and then mine before dragging me out.

"Coot said he left us a surprise in 'ere," one said as he threw me against a sink. The metal bowl felt as though it pulverized my hip bone when I hit it. I was sure a purple pool of a bruise would surface before the night ended. "I didn't think he'd leave us such a pretty one."

"She don't got no meat on her, though," a second commented, pulling at my arms. His dirty hand then reached for my waist to pulling me closer to him from the center. He looked at my chest quizzically, skeptically, then with mild disappointment. "Ain't got no tits."

I am aware of this, I thought to myself with a scowl. I desperately flung a knee upward to try and launch it into the crotch of the man who'd first thrown me into the sink. The third man, smallest in stature but most gruesome in countenance, jerked me sideways—both away from the two men and the sink farthest from the door.

"I like them like this," he snarled. His lips were thick, wormlike—sat on his face unusually like two pink slugs sliding across his wide face. "So skinny you could snap 'em like a twig," he spun me around until my pelvis again was crushed between his pulsating hips and the bowl of the sink. Though his fingers danced on the hem of my leather pants, they began to slide downward to grab hold of a fleshier part of me. He squeezed hard, then laughed. "Though, you ain't all bone, are you?"

The man's hips again pushed hard into my bottom—so hard I was sent sliding several inches along the sink. He yanked me backward with a sharp pull at my waist, but the sharp jerk gave me time and several inches to launch outward and slam the base of my palm against the mirror hanging on the bathroom door. Into nearly a thousand fragments, varying in shape and size, the mirror shattered to the ground with a mellifluous crackle. The pieces fell like a puzzle being dumped out of its cardboard box.

As punishment for my action, I was pushed into the shattering mirror myself—where I lost my balance and fell to the floor into a pile of shards. Several pieces dug into the backs of my legs and in my arms, but nothing compared to the mirror fragment that lodged itself deeply into my lower abdomen. The shard sat tucked in the leftward curve of my hipbone. I cried loudly once my body overcame the shock that accompanied the injury. As the three men took steps toward me, I looked at the mirror in my body and reached for it with clenched teeth. I would only hurt more if I left it in.

With an uncompromising tug, I pulled the mirror out of my hip. It was painted with sheer coat of blood and sliced my hands which held it tightly yet unsteadily, but I held it up as a weapon regardless. Blood gurgled from the deep slice, but I grabbed hold of the sink and pulled myself from the ground.

"Damn, you're a fighter!" One laughed bitterly, the chopped sounds leaving his throat sinking as deeply into me as did the shard of glass now in my bleeding hands. He pushed me with his boot and kicked the glass out of my hand, then dropped to pull me toward him.

For a moment, I felt the pain of my dripping incisions disappear from my body. The man who touched me collapsed under the pain I sat silently beneath. When his hand slipped from my arm with fragility, the weight of the pain broke back onto me again. However, the predicament I had accidentally put him in left him defenseless on the ground, and I took the chance to grab the shard of bloodied mirror and sink it into the man's neck.

Murder. I had done it; it was done.

Two wolves now stood before me. Their eyes were lowered with their heads and a fuming growl vibrated from behind their jagged sets of teeth. Before I could adapt my defense mechanisms from those regarding men to those regarding wolves, the claws of one of the beasts sank deeply into my shoulder and dragged toward my right breast. This was the first time throughout this encounter that I truly screamed; the pain was excruciating. But it left me—here and there, on and off—with every touch and nibble of those wolves. A canine yelp would sound when they neared. As the blood flowed out of my body, I was no longer able to understand what I had done, how I had gotten there, what the wolves had done, and what I had done.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a brass gramophone, spinning with a record that played a mournful opera. Behind the gramophone were spines of books assorted neatly behind panes of glass, the small golden text on each spine flickered with the light of the fire in the fireplace opposite the bookcase.

I sat up with a startling degree of comfort, in spite of my most recent memories whipping through my mind. I could feel the claws and the teeth ripping through my skin and my muscle, but when my pale hand raised to touch the skin where there should've been gashes, my skin was smooth and devoid of scarring or suturing.

In perplexed curiosity, I kicked my feet out from beneath the silk sheets and planted them on the floor. Upon looking at the Oriental rug my feet had landed on, I caught sight of the garments I wore: a set of silken cream pajamas consisting of a boatneck, quarter-sleeve blouse and a pair of wide-leg pants. The outfit was quite comfortable, but I was further perplexed by why and how I was dressed in this attire. I soon realized the two braids Janice had made of my hair were undone and my hair streamed freshly-washed and sweet-smelling to my shoulders.

I felt as though my body should've been fractured to some degree, that I should've taken things slowly—but I could not find reason for this. I was in perfect health; movement came with no difficultly. I also felt as though my mind should have been fractured to some degree, but something about the attack in Lou Pine's had not struck me as… frightening; that, or it had yet to strike me.

There was a set of metal doors that provided the only exit from the room. No windows lined the walls nor any access to a bathroom; there truly was no way out aside from the metal doors. I approached them cautiously, squinting my eyes as if to read the exotic engravings carved across their surface.

"And it's silver," I noted to myself quietly. "No windows and a silver door," I sighed to myself. I tried not to admit to myself that I was most-likely within the residence of a vampire.

I was shocked to find the doors opened with a gentle push at the crack between them, or I was perhaps putting more power into my push than I felt; an odd current of electricity zipped up my spine when I pushed. And yet, when I emptied into the hallway, my unlikely abundant strength failed me.

"Our special guest has finally awakened," a voice erupted in my right ear. Before I could turn to look, I was plucked from my spot in the hallway and placed comfortably on a suede chaise lounge. I was in a parlor, a room dressed in the same fashion as that in which I had woken up. In spite of the generally warm temperatures in Mississippi, the owners of this manor clearly had a fondness for fireplaces, as one roared with yellow flames not ten feet from me. The walls were red and stacked with books, although the bookshelves made space for Antiquity-period sculptures and busts that were titled with golden nameplates. A cherry oak table sat in front of me, with a glass of white wine on it next to an elaborate chess set. I would have devoted more time to studying the intricate figures of the knight, queen, and bishop had the figures across from me not been even more intriguing than the chess pieces. On a camelback couch matching in material and color with my chaise lounge, one Eric Northman sat with a small grin on his face. Not far from him sat a dark-featured man I had not ever seen before. The same man who had dragged me down to this parlor also stood close to me. Temporarily ignoring other company, I squinted my eyes at Eric in a scornful and skeptical fashion. In truth I was observing the grooves of each muscle beneath the blue sweater he wore, and found myself—again—perplexed by how these grooves seemed to emulate those of the Roman emperors captured in the manor's Classical sculpture collection.

"Georgina Stackhouse," spoke the man who had delivered me to the parlor. I looked to him; his look was nearly elven, his features continually pointed and drawn into angles that revealed the late age of his turning. He cleared his throat and pulled a file from a drawer of the table that separated us four in the parlor into opposite corners. "Not your last name, but we'll play with it for now," he added.

"Stackhouse is my last name."

"Are you the daughter of Corbett Stackhouse or Linda Stackhouse?" The man asked.

"No, Adele Stackhouse adopted me legally when I was seven months old. E'eryone knows Sookie is the one with the magic. I ain't a Stackhouse by blood, so I don't got none of that," I declared.

"That all makes sense, Miss Georgina, except," he huffed, looking back to the papers. "Well, you do know a Mister Bill Compton?"

"I do."

"As I am the King of Mississippi, there is a Queen of Louisiana. And as Bill resides in Louisiana, he is beneath her queendom and is her subordinate. Now these papers here," the man tossed the file onto the table so I could see. I glanced at the papers, hoping only to cast a quick look to not draw any notice, but I could not help my latching pupils.

It was a file I'd seen before, the front page an image of a family tree. At the bottom of the arrangement were Sookie's and Jason's boxes, hanging like the ripened fruits on the tree—Sookie's circled in red ink. And beneath Sookie's and Jason's boxes was "G. Stackhouse", written in the same script I had seen before. I tentatively reached out to pull the papers closer, and I saw the pale, manicured hand that had held it out for me in the reflection of the window above the sink.

"These papers are from the queen, Queen Sophie-Anne. She gave them to Mister Compton and sent him back to Bon Temps, from where he originated—as I'm sure you're aware—to procure a certain Sookie Stackhouse… And the rest is history, as you know very well" he said quickly. "But the queen did not write your name on this paper, that was Mister Compton. Why would he have done that, Miss Georgina?"

I looked at the paper with a furrowed brow, realizing the reality the man's words pieced together in my mind. Bill had been sent by his queen to learn about Sookie; everything was planned. Did he even love Sookie?

"Miss Georgina?" The man repeated.

"Curiosity, I reckon? I do not know sir, and I don't know how I'm s'posed to, seein' I can't read people's minds or nothin'."

"Russell, why are we making a fuss over this little girl?" The man sitting on the couch beside Eric asked with an accented tongue. His eyes drew into mine as he raised his thick eyebrows, clearly unimpressed with my slight stature and superficially dull nature. I looked down at the chessboard in front of me with feigned disinterest; his attitude slightly wounded me, but that was not worthy of sharing with everyone. I should have been glad a vampire did not want to deal with me, but blatantly revealing his thoughts on my being absolutely insignificant in front of Eric was unfortunately embarrassing.

I looked to Eric's shoes beneath the table, feeling my eyebrows furrow once more. Eric knew very little of me, and what he did know about me wasn't enough to distract him from Sookie, but he did know something. Yet when I denounced any allegations suggesting I may share powers similar to those belonging to Sookie, he said nothing.

"Not enough meat on her bones to feed even one of us," the same foreign man scoffed, leaning back into his chair with indiscreet distaste.

"May I go?" I asked loudly, wishing to leave the room as soon as possible. Again, I was glad a vampire had no interest in drinking my blood; but, the embarrassment of the man insults before Eric was becoming too heavy to bear. "And go as in leave wherever in the Hell I am?" I raised my voice.

"You may go to your room only, I am not done with you yet," Russell answered. As I stood and prepared to leave, Russell shouted: "Guards!"

"If you will permit, I can escort the lady to her room. I would like to inquire into how Miss Stackhouse actually took down two of your Weres," Eric requested.

I looked down at the Oriental rug, awkwardly tracing the design with my pupils as Russell permitted Eric's escort. I did notice that Eric was the only one who actually acknowledged that Stackhouse was, in fact—and legally, my last name. Russell had only called me 'Miss Georgina'.

Eric was soon by my side—nearly a foot above me, but still beside me. He extended an elbow, acting as a true escort in the most mannerly fashion. Hesitantly, I touched his forearm and let him lead me out of the parlor. When the guards closed the doors to the parlor behind us, I released my light grip on his arm.

"Eric, why didn't you tell 'em that I—"

"Georgina, shut up," he said firmly beneath his breath once him and I reached the base of the grand staircase. When we begun out ascension, I glared at him beneath heavy lashes. The walk to my chamber was silent—Eric was even more quiet on his feet than I, and Gran called me 'Twinkletoes' for a reason.

Thankfully no guards were yet posted beside my doors, and Eric quickly opened the doors to my chamber. Once we were within the security of my room, I had to close the doors behind us, as they were layered in thick silver.

"Tell me now!" I insisted.

"Georgina, Russell Edgington is nearly three-thousand years old. Believe me when I say that you don't want him knowing about what you can do."

"I do believe you Eric, but what does it matter to you if Russell knows? How is having a one-thousand year-old vampire knowin' about what I can do any better?"

Eric sighed and looked around the room, trying to find his answer to my seemingly dumb question painted someplace on the walls or furniture.

"And it's not like anyone has a name or explanation for what I can do so who gives a rat's ass!" I exclaimed, walking to the bed to start folding the sheets. I was getting out of here; I was certainly not going to get caught up in all of this vampire bullshit. I only went to Jackson to help Sookie find her runaway fiancé, not to deal with any of this crap. I voiced this fact to Eric.

"Georgina!" Eric eventually boomed, successfully shutting me up. "What do vampires despise the most about being what they are?"

My brow furrowed and I bit the inside of my bottom lip. "Bein' heartless, greedy, pale bloodsuckers?"

"Please, Georgina, use your head."

I sighed, shrugging and actually taking the time to think. "Not bein' able to save the humans they love, I guess? I don't know, I'm not one of you."

But I had a better answer for him.

Eric was over a millennium old; he'd lived through everything we learned about in history class like it was nothing and he had to keep all those expired years to himself, I consulted my previous contemplation… Eric spent hundreds of years alone, watching human lives fade and bloom again around him like annual flowers. He was the perennial sage of the universal gardens.

"You're lonely. Anything you know or love has to die… An' you can't."

"And when you've touched me, what do you see?"

I can taste the North Sea; feel its melancholy waves tug my fingers back and forth and stain my hands with salt. I can see the fjord you played in as a boy—in a time so long ago the books can barely remember; I can smell the winds that whistled through the pine that sat on the cliffs dripping over the steep walls of a great blue mouth of the ocean. I can hear the snaps of a fire made by your parents; smell the twirling smoke that left the circular window at the center of your longhouse's thatched roof.

"Everything you know and love that had to die."

Eric was soon in front of me, standing very near. His large hands captured the two sides of my face with a surprising slowness and unsteadiness. No immediate memory flushed through my head when he touched me, yet a soft snow began to drop from the very ceiling we two were beneath. I looked up at the fragile snowflakes that floated down—no origin in particular.

"What is it?" Eric asked quietly and patiently.

"Snow," was my answer. I had never seen snow before. And as though imitating the dream, where I touched Eric's lips with my thumb and our eyes opened to the fjord, I raised my hand to lay my hand on his cheek. Once the warm skin of my fingers met his cold cheek, he looked up to see the snow.

"Snö," Eric said to himself.

I had never controlled these faculties before, but it suddenly seemed so easy.

With Eric's throat not far from by eyes, I watched him swallow slowly and look down at me again. "Russell has three times as many memories as I do. When he finds out he can see them all again—using you—what do you think he'll do to you?"

Chain me up in his basement someplace. Lock me in this room forever. Keep me as his personal pet. I, too, swallowed nervously.

"This is," he spoke, then brushed his thumbs upward to brush the fallen snow from my eyelashes. "Everything to me."

I slipped backward, releasing myself from his grip and him from mine. His eyes faltered, turning to reality. The snow was gone, his home was gone; I wanted to give it to him, but I couldn't let myself become a toy for all vampires to use when they get homesick.

"And you want me for the same reason Russell will!" I exclaimed, turning my back on him; though, instantly, he was before me once again—his hands on me again. Though unlike last time, there was no memory to float down from the ceiling.

"This is still everything to me," he said lowly. His fingers threaded in the roots of my hair, pulling my head to an angle so I could look meet his eyes. My eyesight morphed into that of tunnel vision; being so close to Eric seemed illuminating. Every trace of energy in me stood up at an erect angle. I had never felt so close to another person when I met his eyes; and yet, he was not even a human being.

"Why ain't I all torn up after that werewolf attack, Eric?" I asked.

As though culpable for some common crime, his eyes averted mine. "I fed you," he said, but his voice grew more and more steady with every passing letter.

"So I should have a whole bunch of dirty dreams about you from now on, is that right?" I asked and he chuckled lowly. A smile illuminated his fair features, and he looked down at me with something aside from possessiveness.

"Nothing you won't enjoy," he responded. "Georgina," he continued on a more serious note.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to get you out of here," he spoke with molars clenched together, as though his head bore some unknown force. "But there's something I have to do first."

I expected a flush of anger; why would he delay my rescue? And yet, the gravity laden in his every features soothed my expectation.

"What do you have to do?"

"Something I've been waiting to do for over a thousand years."

"What?"

He shook his head, unwilling to answer. Yet I stole the answer from him with a brush of my hand against his cheek. The hot gurgle of revenge igniting my every blood vessel; this feeling was not mine, but I felt it as I watched those muscular wolves follow their master out of Eric's doorway a millennium ago. I could feel the cold, heavy metal of Eric's father's circlet in my hand as Russell Edgington carried it away from his private collection all those years ago.

"Georgina, you can't steal!" Eric reprimanded me immediately. The crinkle between his brows and the subtle curl of his lip told me his anger was not legitimate.

I began to smile in return, but his attention was grasped by something else suddenly. Any string of intimacy between us snapped and he released his hold on me. He soon stood by the door.

"Open them," he ordered, unable to touch the metallic surface of the doors. Obediently, I did as told. When I tried to follow him into the hallway, he grabbed my wrists and held me still. "Stay here."

My russet eyebrows furrowed and I stepped forward to no avail; he kept me planted where I was.

"Please, Georgina," he urged with a more pleading tone than before.

"Why?" I asked.

He shook his head and I soon felt his lips on my hairline, smoothing over the silken baby hairs that still grew where my suntanned, freckled forehead met my pale scalp. My questions seemed to leave me with his affectionate gesture; I still wished to go and see what had disturbed him, but I was willing to resign and wait for him to visit me with an answer. I said nothing, but stood still and uprooted myself from the ground I stood on. When I looked up to him to meet the face that had kissed me so gently, there was nothing but a blur.