Disclaimer: The Southern Vampire Mysteries are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.
CAETERA DESUNT (The Rest is Wanting)
Chapter 2: Oh, Come All Ye Faithful
"Highest, most holy, light of light eternal. Born of a virgin, a mortal he comes, son of the Father."—John F. Wade
"He's waiting for you."
Chase didn't need to be told who waited for him. It was Eric, naturally, The Boss in more ways than one. No one held higher authority in Area Five than Eric—save for King Felipe de Castro and his trusted Nevada minions. He knew it ruffled Eric's feathers to serve the western monarch, but it was a fait accompli at this point. No sense giving de Castro an excuse to rain death and destruction on Northman's head as he had on the late Sophie Anne. Brandon couldn't blame Eric for simply going with the flow. In fact, he felt the Sheriff showed remarkable good sense in protecting himself, his business interests and his people by agreeing to work for the King. All the surviving vampires of northern Louisiana were acutely aware of who they had to thank for their continued existence.
And, don't forget the Stackhouse girl. Sukie? No, Sookie.
Eric saved her skin, too, though Chase knew she wasn't very appreciative of the Viking's methods. Stupid human. Didn't she realize how close she'd come to living a new life in Las Vegas? She had Eric to thank for not being chained to de Castro's throne in a metal bikini like the mouthy princess in that space fantasy. The Stackhouse wench should show Northman more respect. She trod a dangerous path, and woe betide her should the Sheriff unkiss their partnership. She'd be on her way to Vegas before the sun set, and fulfilling de Castro's every whim before dawn.
Brandon had been a first-hand witness to the vagaries of royalty from many angles, none of them 100% safe. Men close to King Henry rode high one day, and were cast into the Tower the next. If they were lucky, Henry forgot them, or changed the royal mind. Of course, some were more deserving of losing their heads than others. Cromwell came to mind, the thought of the odious man's fall from grace bringing a smirk to Brandon's lips. That was one execution he relished watching, sharing a pint or ten with others of like mind until they all stumbled home. Only he—
That was the night everything changed. I'd forgotten, after all those centuries.
Eric wasn't on his usual throne. Chase bypassed a knot of sloe-eyed, would be vampires, ignoring their yearning expressions. They disgusted him. Humans had their place in the world, and it wasn't to join the ranks of the elite. He met few deserving of the gift, and no one who begged for it should have it. They made the worst of all vampires: mewling cowards or blood sucking fiends. The sight of the wannabeswould turn his stomach if he had one.
Chase slipped quickly through the "Employees Only" exit, heading down the hallway. A knock on Eric's door requested admission into the office.
"Enter."
Closing the door, Brandon waited for acknowledgment before stepping forward into Eric's inner sanctum. Northman sat at his desk, staring at an open laptop. Like Chase, the Viking readily embraced technology, learning about computers, telecommunications and modern business practices. He put it all to work improving his personal fortune, as did many other vampires. It paid to know your adversaries, and what one vampire saw as folly, another saw as advantage. Chase and Eric fell into the latter category in the deadly game of vampire chess where one could not afford to be out maneuvered.
Minutes passed. Chase studied the Sheriff, taking in the casual, almost carelessly cut hair, the angular face, the pale skin. Northman was handsome enough, if your bent was for men. He wore expensive clothes and boots, and wore them well, with a penchant for black and blood red. Chase had sampled a few boys in his life, before and after he died, but never found them as satisfying as a wench. Not for the first time, Brandon wondered where Eric had been during Henry's reign. England was at least cognizant of Sweden and Norway, though Brandon couldn't recall a representative at Henry's court. If they were there, they were eclipsed by the Spanish and French, or simply men he hadn't considered worth remembering.
Brandon came back from his reverie at the sound of the laptop closing. He focused on the Viking, only to find Eric staring back at him. Blue eyes took in Chase's all black clothes, running from the top of his head to the tips of his black leather boots. As dark as Eric was fair, he was shorter only by two inches. Chase had towered over many in Henry's court, laughing when they called him a giant. Brandon straightened to his full height, blue eyes meeting blue eyes across the office. Neither man gave an inch over the next few minutes.
Chase might not consider Northman a friend, but he owed him the respect due his position. Therefore, it was he who bowed first, holding it for three beats, then stood upright.
"Pam said you wanted to see me." Neutral voice, perfectly polite and respectful.
A smirk lifted one corner of Northman's mouth. "Nice of you to join us, Brandon." A touch sardonic, but nothing of which to take offense.
"Apologies." A pause. "I had an errand."
"An errand?" Northman's head tilted to the side. "What kind of errand?"
"A personal errand."
Eric steepled his long, slender fingers, elbows resting on the desk. "Purchasing my Christmas present, no doubt." The words were pleasant, but the smile didn't quite reach Eric's eyes.
"No doubt."
Iron will met steely resolve. Neither man could—or would!—afford the other an inch of leeway. Eric, because he was Sheriff and demanded respect. Chase because showing fealty to one he considered base born chafed. Sooner or later, one of them would be forced to relent, and Brandon knew it would be himself. In this place, Northman outranked him. He had no choice but to acquiesce, but he let silence stretch to the breaking point before he acknowledged Eric's right to call him on the carpet for failing to appear as scheduled.
"There was a woman walking in the alley. Alone." A pause. "I followed."
There was a lift of Northman's brows, and a slight stiffening of his posture, but he merely nodded for Chase to continue.
"It's a homeless haven under the I-49 bridge. You might prefer her safe, not a statistic."
Silence, and the lift of one eyebrow from Eric. "That sounds suspiciously like you're thinking for me, Brandon." Dry, droll tone. "Others might take offense at your temerity."
"But you won't." It wasn't a question.
Silence again, then, "Not this time, no." Northman studied him with those icy blue eyes, but Chase never flinched. "You're lucky I consider you an asset." The words were spoken softly, but there was no mistaking the meaning. "I'm not as forgiving as the Boelyn wench."
"You're not as pretty, either." Chase leaned one shoulder against the door frame and smirked. "I cause you less trouble than Compton."
"Which explains why you're still standing in my office, and not in bloody pieces." Less than a heartbeat separated Brandon's words from Eric's response. Both men fell silent, until Eric again spoke. "Don't let it go to your head, Brandon." The Viking toyed with a letter opener on his desk, finally asking, "The woman, she's safe?"
"Perfectly."
"Then get out there and charm my customers."
Dismissed like last century's headlines. Brandon strolled back into the main room, eyes quickly scanning the bar. More patrons had drifted in during his absence. Two skinny teenaged boys in black eyed a leather-clad Pam. Three college girls sat in a booth, each cut from the same mold: blonde hair, blue eyes, full breasts. A bachelorette party in one corner, out for a last fling before the Big Day. Pink cheeks were flushed from more than cold; they'd had plenty of holiday cheer before ever setting foot in Fangtasia. Pam alone probably accounted for more than one blush, considering the lascivious smile on her lips.
A throbbing, pulsing techno version of Adeste Fideles poured from the sound system as Brandon settled into his customary position place near the front door. He nodded to his human counterpart, a human weight-lifter whose muscles came in handy. Greg Watson was good at his job, and Chase found it ironic how human troublemakers seemed more afraid of him than himself. Of the two, Brandon was the more deadly foe. Greg was a friendly, until it came time for him to not be friendly. Then he lost the "good ol' boy" charm and was all business. He would've made an excellent soldier or guardsman atTudor court.
For the most part, the night was uneventful. Same old, same old, got the tee-shirt and worn it to rags. Brandon roamed inside and out, he or Greg taking turns escorting patrons to their cars according to their preference. Between rounds, Chase lounged in a booth, drinking True Blood, and growling at wannabes and fangbangers who approached. He posed with Bridezilla and her Bridezilla Maids, ignoring their lurid hints about nibbling. Chase walked one of the gift shop girls to her car, making sure she was buckled up and locked inside before she left the parking lot.
Pam joined him at the front door when he returned, making remarks about him going soft in his old age. Brandon countered by threatening to give tele-marketers her private number, which made Eric's childe scowl. Truth be known, Chase respected the blonde vampire, probably more than he respected Northman. She was a hell of a woman: strong, independent, courageous. Good to have on your side in a fight. Then again, would a Viking choose any other kind of woman? Like Brandon, she hailed from England, but hers was a later era when women had even less control over their lives than in the Tudor era. At least Eric helped her escape the kind of life a woman faced in the repressive society of Victorian England.
It was near closing when Brandon made his final rounds of both parking lots. Employee vehicles still sat behind the bar, but the public parking area had emptied over the past hour. Humidity was thick in the early morning air, a clammy, cold blanket clinging to every surface. Chase felt it on his face as he patrolled lot, hearing the echo of his boot heels on the asphalt. A distant train whistle, and the hiss of traffic on nearby I-49 made the night seem lonely. The parking lot was quiet, so Brandon was surprised by the unexpected sight of four women standing around a car. They seemed agitated over something, and though Chase came closer, he remained in the shadows, listening.
One of the women pulled a cell away phone from her ear. "Voice mail. Again." She sounded both frustrated and concerned. "You sure she said she was going straight home, Elise?"
"It's what she said, Kitty. She was too drunk to drive, so that blonde vamp called her a cab."
The conversation continued in this vein, each one leaving at least one message for "Viola," asking her to return the call. Chase remembered them; they were the bridesmaids having such a good time earlier with the blonde bride-to-be. Viola—who apparently wasn't answering her phone.
"—had time to get home, unless she went to David's place?"
"She'd still answer her phone—"
"Not if they're ... um ... busy?" The shortest woman, a perky girl with short brown hair and huge, brown eyes, offered the explanation with embarrassment. "She was drunk."
"True." The fourth woman, a buxom redhead who'd flirted with Chase, spoke up, giving her hair a toss. She'd been quite a temptation, being the type of wench he preferred: curvy, friendly, flirtatious, more than a little tipsy. "Well, it's too damned cold to stand around here while Vi gets laid—unlike the rest of us. Call me tomorrow, El."
They broke up, going their separate ways. Chase watched them drive away in the light, misty rain. Back inside, Pam was urging the final few patrons to finish their drinks, since it was close to last call. When time ran out, Greg checked the restrooms for stragglers. Chase locked the front door while servers and bartenders cashed out. Everyone was careful to make sure receipts balanced. Pam closed down the souvenir shop as Eric finally emerged from his office.
"Slow night. Business might pick up closer to Christmas since all the good little Gothlings will want Mummy and Dadums to buy them vampire gifts." Sarcastic, that Pam. "We need to restock calendars and pewter goblets with dragon stems."
"Leave a note for Jessie on my desk." Northman seemed distracted. "She can make the order." He adjusted his leather jacket. "I won't be here tomorrow night."
Everyone's expression remained neutral, though Chase was fairly certain they were all thinking the same thing: Sookie Stackhouse. Before the Nevada take over, Eric tore up I-20 between Shreveport and Bon Temps, but not so much since. No one said a word, but it wasn't hard to decipher their silence. In Brandon's opinion, the Viking needed to either get that girl out of his system, or she needed to come 'round to Eric's way of thinking. Chase turned his back, watching the bartenders wipe down the counter, and didn't look back until Northman walked out the back door.
"That human will be the death of him." No need to guess who spoke; the heavy, German accent betrayed the speaker. "If you ask me, he is a fool to not give her to de Castro as gift for Christmas."
"No one asked you, Helga," Pam said smoothly, voice cool, "and you'd be smart not to repeat that in front of Eric." The German vampire snorted, but held her tongue.
Chase kept his thoughts on the matter to himself. He might agree with Helga, but he wasn't stupid enough to say anything around Pam. What was said in front of the Viking's childe went straight to her sire.
"Well, she don't seem so bad to me," Greg interjected, handing Pam a stack of employee time cards. "If there's nothin' else, ma'am, I'll be heading out." Pam waved her hand in dismissal, and he called, "See y'all t'morrow," on his way out.
Gradually, both human employees and vampires alike left, only head waitress Catriona remaining to finish the weekly schedule. Once it was done, she said her own farewell—leaving Brandon and Pam alone in the bar. He was always the last to leave because it was part of his job to lock up behind everyone else.
At her request, Chase brought out a bottle from Pam's private blood stock she kept in a locked cabinet behind the bar. She smiled, leaning back in the booth, indicating he should bring two glasses. One drink was poured for Pam, a second for himself.
"You seem singularly lacking in what the humans call holiday spirit," Chase remarked, smirking.
Pam sipped from her glass, shrugging. "I never liked the holidays, but that's not the reason. I hate seeing him act like a lovesick puppy." There was displeasure in her every word. "He's a thousand years old, for Chrissake! He should know better than to fall head over for a human."
Brandon savored the glass of "Royal Blüd." He didn't want to discuss this, especially with Eric's childe. Bad enough the German mouthed off; no doubt Helga would regret her impulsive words. But, Pam seemed to expect an answer from Brandon, no matter how reluctant he was to speak his mind.
Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
"It's none of my business," Chase told her, trying to ignore the subject. "I'm not particularly fond of humans, but they have their uses."
Before Pam could reply, there was pounding on the back door. She exchanged a sharp glance with Chase, and they stood in unison. Moments later, they opened the employee entrance to find an hysterical Catriona. The waitress looked a right mess: wide eyes, shaking hands, nearly incomprehensible babbling. Chase had to glamour her before she calmed enough to explain. Once she finished her stammering explanation, Brandon was out the back door, leaving Pam to handle the girl.
It was just as Catriona described: a woman's body in the dumpster, naked save for thigh-high, black stockings and high heels. Bruises on her face and arms. The odor of blood mingled with the stench of garbage. Faintly familiar of face; she'd been in the bar earlier to celebrate her impending nuptials. One glance told Brandon she was dead; a second revealed puncture wounds on her throat, breast and inner thigh.
Apparently, bride-to-be Viola hadn't taken a cab home, after all.