Eric's Demons
Chapter Thirteen
Satarel stood over the body.
Through the curtains early morning sunlight pushed, lighting up the dust motes as they danced on the little currents of air that moved about the old house. On the mantle in the bedroom an old clock ticked, the only noise in the otherwise silent house. His beautiful face was creased in a worried frown, he had expected some resistance from Azazel's daughter, but instead she had looked so at peace when he slit her throat.
His ears picked up sounds of someone stirring elsewhere in the house. At least it wouldn't be that viking bastard, he had fled the coming sunlight, and taken his guards with him. Satarel had waited all night until he had seen them leave before he had made his move. After what he had seen the new witch do to Turel he knew the time had come for subtlety. His brothers were free of their prisons, the Watchers were coming.
Hearing a toilet flush across the hall Satarel stood still and silent, waiting to hear the other witch go back to bed. His beautiful face twisted into a grin that was without mirth as he listened. Not for a moment did he think Eric Northman would leave the bitch unguarded, but what could they do with an attacker who didn't care to escape. Life and death held no fear for him, not when the body was so recently acquired. He could get another. Only the kind of death the witch had given Turel frightened him, which was why she had to die.
Only a few feet and two flimsy doors away Satarel heard the bitch beat her pillow back into shape, muttering under her breath. He had all the time in the world, eternity even, so he waited. This new younger witch was far more dangerous than the old one had been. When he was sure she was sleeping he would go to her room, slit her as he had Nula. For a while he heard her mutter and fidget, heard blankets moved over and again. Then there was silence.
Still he waited. In the silent house he listened for her breathing, waited for it to become soft and regular, waited for her to sleep. Satarel would be sure. For the sake of his now free brothers, and for the loss of his friend, the bitch would die today.
Dreams of splendid armored knights on horseback soon gave way to the dreams Sookie enjoyed every night. Eric was there, magnificent like a statue of some Greek god, oiled up and waiting for her. In her dream he just stood there, oiling himself leisurely, stroking his hard muscles till they glistened wet and delicious in the pale moonlight. With this dream he always turned his back on her so she could rub oil into his back and shoulders, then down onto America's finest ass. She would move to press her breasts against his oiled back, tough nipples rubbing against his cool flesh. For ever she would tease him, her hands over his thighs, his ass, his hips. Finally, with her heat pressed against his backside, one hand would reach round to find him while the other delved in to her own nerve center. Deftly she would bring herself to a quick climax, all the while working him with her free hand. When her orgasm came she would cling to him before he turned to face her, pushing her back, pressing her open then pushing deep, deep inside her.
Eric would be on her, in her, satisfying wants she didn't know she had. He was masterful, at times kind and giving, at others selfish and taking. But always she woke from the dream satisfied and soaking wet.
In the growing light Satarel waited still. The witch's breathing had changed, becoming more rapid. He could hear gentle creaking from her room, and had to stifle a laugh when he realized what the bitch was doing. Masturbating, she was dreaming of the viking. Patience was a gift the immortal had in no short measure. Let her have her fantasy, he would wait.
After what could have been hours, but in reality was probably minutes, she gasped, stifled a squeal. Her breathing became more regular as sleep took her. Like a statue brought to life Satarel waited, and listened. Once he had made women want him the way the witch wanted Eric Northman. A smile played across his beautiful face with the memory of a better time.
Women had been his downfall, he and his brothers. It was their love for human flesh that made them leave their ethereal existence and take the form of man. For them the spiritual plane had grown stale, and they had envied the pleasures of the flesh that men enjoyed while they could not. They had perpetrated the crime of loving, of feeling and for it they were cast from their home and banished to live on Earth with the women they had defiled.
At last there was nothing to be heard but the steady rhythm of the woman across the hall breathing. Satarel moved to the window, risking a peek through a gap in the curtain to see what manner of guard Eric had posted to protect his bitch. A very large man, huge arms and barrel chest stood just outside the window, back to it.
Lycanthropes, very clever, Satarel thought. The man outside was a shape shifter, probably a bear. It was likely he would be powerful enough to rip a grown man apart even in human form. As a bear he would be fearsome, massive and dangerous. The viking had chosen his guard well.
Not well enough though. No one suspected for a moment that the enemy was already within, had been here before the guards got here. Once the bitch was dead it was likely that this huge creature would tear Satarel's host limb from limb in rage and revenge. As a spirit he might stick around to see that.
Leaving the window he crossed quietly to the door. Pausing to look at the ancient crone on the bed, her blood congealing in a sticky pool around her neck Satarel allowed himself a smile at that unexpected bonus.
One down, one to go he thought as he palmed the slim blade, rested his hand on the handle and ever so slowly opened the door. The dust motes were stirred up again, catching the weak morning light when it struck them.
She was only one door and a few feet away from him now. In the hall he could hear her breathing, at peace as she slept. She would never wake up, would never know why her life had so suddenly ended. For the viking's benefit Satarel would carve her up, leave the body so that even her lover wouldn't know her. If he could force Eric Northman to act in temper, to make a mistake, then this would have been a very good day indeed.
At it was still only eight in the morning, he smiled again. A being could fit a lot into a day that was going that well.
With stealth born of infinite patience Satarel opened the door of the witch's bedroom slowly and silently. Inside he could hear Sookie breathing, and through the ever widening gap he could see her on the bed.
If only there was more time, he thought as he looked down at her sleeping form. Her soft blonde hair, pale skin, her perfect limbs. Satarel could smell Eric off her, could smell the sweat from their love making. On her neck a faint scar where the vampire had fed on her. If they had bonded Eric would know the moment the knife pierced her beautiful white skin, he would feel her life blood seeping into the bedding. How many gifts would this day bring, Satarel could scarcely contain his excitement now.
One step at a time, not allowing the host body to breath, he crossed the space between door and bed. She was below him, a female of exquisite looks. Eric deserved a passing nod for his fine taste in women. If only there was time for him to sample her delights before she had to die. Regretfully he brought the knife up, set it against the wound Eric had left on her neck.
"At fucking last!" Sookie told him.
She was awake. Satarel panicked, drove the knife into her flesh. Or tried to, the host arm refused to obey him.
"What... ?" he asked.
"If you'd kept me waiting any longer I would have come looking for you," Sookie told him.
She rose up from the bed, naked and delicious. Satarel was impressed by her generous firm breasts, flat tummy, the closely trimmed hair drew his eyes down, down.
Except the eyes were as defiant as the knife clutching hand. He couldn't move them, the host refused all of his commands. With everything he had he tried to fight the paralysis. Seeing the struggle as lost he realized he had failed here. He would drop the host and flee, come back to fight another day.
But the host refused to drop. Satarel couldn't shake off the human form. He was trapped immobile in a human body in front of the naked witch. He remembered what had happened to Turel and started to panic.
"Nula couldn't save herself," Sookie told him, "but she had time to come to me before she went on."
Calmly Sookie pulled on a shirt and jeans, neither of which were hers, she didn't even look at Satarel as she fastened the buttons.
All the while his panic was growing. She killed Turel, now this child holds me here, helpless. The witch is treating me with contempt. I am Satarel, I was in the Garden when Eve tempted Adam. We taught men how to work metal, how to make war. I can't die here at the hands of a mere child.
"I can read your mind too, you piece of shit!" Sookie told him.
"When you get to the world's end start making room for your brothers."
Trapped in the body, spirit desperately seeking a way out, Satarel felt blind fear overtake him when he felt the surge of power, the rush of wind. Then he was gone. The host body dropped lifeless to the floor.
How dare he interrupt her when she was dreaming of Eric.