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)
Part 4: Carol of the Bells
"Oh how they pound, raising the sound, o'er hill and dale, telling their tale..."—Mykola Dmytrovych Leontovych
The following evening Chase arrived a little after sunset. No question why vampires preferred winter to summer, not when night came so early and lasted so long. (Of course, there was no truth to the rumor a vampire came up with Daylight Savings Time!) He heard Northman's office manager before he saw her. The middle-aged woman was sitting at the bar. Jessie Thomas wasn't a heavy drinker, but every day she had one cocktail—vodka on the rocks. She said it was to relax her for the drive home.
"Evening, Mr. Brandon," she said as he slid onto a bar stool beside her.
"Evening, Jessica. You're looking well." Truth told, the woman reminded him of his mother, and he always treated her kindly in memory of that venerable dame. The Thomas woman exhibited the same gentle eyes, congenial nature and the gentility as Mistress Brandon. Of course, his mother also possessed the patience of Job; she'd needed it to deal with her running a large household. Much as Jessie Thomas needed it to handle her employer.
At any rate, Jessica Thomas informed Chase the Viking was in his office, speaking with two police detectives: one human, one vampire. She only knew it was in reference to a missing person last known to have visited Fangtasia.
"The human one called just after I got here at nine," the older woman told Chase. "I explained Mr. Northman didn't have regular office hours, 'cause he's a vampire, but do you think that stopped him from calling back every hour on the hour?" Jessie shook her head, rolling her eyes. "Any idiot should know a vampire wakes up after dark!"
She sipped her vodka like a lady, adding, "Apparently one needn't wait the obligatory 48-hours to report a missing person if that missing person happens to be engaged to Capt. Owen Petrie's son." She emptied the glass, setting it on the bar. "Here."
Jessie handed Brandon a folded newspaper. He accepted the paper, opening it. Viola's picture was on the front page beneath a "Local Woman Missing" headline. Chase scanned the article after requesting an A-negative True Blood from Garcia, the bartender. "Viola Lynne Adams."
"The señorita is muy bonita," Garcia said, delivering the warmed drink. "No wonder her man wants to find her." He grinned at them, then turned to continue readying the bar for opening.
"So, the police are here to find out if we saw the woman or know anything about her." It was a statement, not a question. Chase finished reading, sliding the paper back to Jessie.
"Apparently, though they didn't say much to me." She refolded the paper, sliding it into her briefcase. "Her poor mother must be worried sick." Jessie shook her head again, gathering her things. "I'd better be getting home. Edgar's alone since the boy's off skiing in Colorado. He's helpless by himself." A chuckle and she was heading to the exit. "Have a good night, gentlemen."
"Be sure to lock your doors," Garcia reminded her, nodding as he headed to other end of the bar to slice lemons.
With Northman's office manager gone, Garcia busy, and Pam nowhere in evidence, the bar was quiet. The usual raucous music wouldn't start until just before the opening time, some hours from then. Chase sipped the synthetic blood; it wasn't nearly as satisfying as the real thing, but it would take the edge off a vampire's hunger. At least it would suffice until an opportunity arose to feed from a live donor. Despite what advertisements claimed, a vampire couldn't subsist on True Blood alone. They needed the whole blood once in a while or they came down with the vampiric equivalent of anemia. They exhibited weakness, lethargy and could even lapse into a state of suspended physical powers and activity, rather like the dormancy of a hibernating animal.
Brandon finished the blood substitute and rose from his stool. "I'll be on rounds if I'm needed," he told Garcia, heading for the employee exit.
A substantial downpour had sprung up since Chase arrived at work, and he paused under the back awning, watching it fall. Not that a little rain would bother him; he wore a waterproof leather trench coat. The rest of him wouldn't matter since he had, after all, grown up in England. Not exactly known for it's sunny weather, his homeland was a country of perpetual mist, rain and damp. If he wasn't used to rain after 500-years, he never would be. Besides, a selection of umbrellas stood in a cylindrical brass holder just to one side of the back door. If he wished, he could use one, but why bother?
Stepping from beneath the awning was like plunging into an icy river. It recalled memories of riding north to put down The Pilgrimage of Grace for Henry. Rain was a constant companion for most of that horrid journey. It made life miserable for everyone, noble and commoner alike. He and other dignitaries sent north to Louth at least had the option of riding inside an enclosed wagon, but Brandon chose to ride, leading his troops and sharing their discomfort. His lieutenants also rode, but his infantry, archers and pikers slogged through deep, muddy tracks left by horsemen and wagons. Few possessed oilskin covers to keep the rain at bay. He at least tried to find them shelter come nightfall—barns, caves, stables, great houses. Unfortunately, the farther north they went, the fewer and farther between shelter became.
There were plenty of other times he'd endured cold and wet, most often during wartime. He was, after all, a soldier sworn to the defense of England's crown. Even after his change, he fought in her defense, though he could ill afford to join an actual military force. He served his country, even if his nightly sojourn into enemy territory left unanswered questions come morning. Speaking several languages had advantages, and the enemy rarely saw him coming. Blood was blood, but better to spill enemy blood. It was easy to avoid discovery in a war zone; strange and unusual events were common, and no one had time to investigate. Brandon survived more wars than he could remember. Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps he was just very good at killing.
Chase circled the employee parking lot, making sure no surprises waited in the dark, dismal night. The dumpster was empty; apparently garbage was picked up early Sunday morning, so Eric was right to insist they move the body before dawn. Brandon never thought to ask about pick up days before, but he'd never take it for granted again. Missed details like that could mean life or death to a vampire. If police were this anxious to find Viola, Brandon imagined they might not stop to listen if they'd found her body in Fangtasia's dumpster. That would just be more ammunition for people like the Fellowship.
He was returning from checking the public parking lot when he saw her. She wore the same faded blue coat, her only concession to the rain one of those clear plastic hoods handed out as free advertisements by banks and hair salons. Her head was lowered, probably to avoid getting a face full of rain. She was drenched in a matter of moments after leaving the bus stop. Walking toward the alley, she was taking the same path as the night before. Rain pelted down on her without respite. Chase at least had vampiric speed to aid him.
In a blur of movement, Brandon was at the employee entrance, pausing only long enough to grab one of the huge, black golf umbrellas. Then he was back out in the storm, splashing his way toward the alley. Never for one moment realizing his sudden appearance might startle the girl out of her wits, he made a beeline for her, rainfall masking his footsteps.
"Miss Ward?"
Brandon's voice was a cultured baritone, perfectly polite. The only problem?—it came from directly behind her, and she gave a cry of pure surprise. Thankfully, the sound was muffled by rain and he already had the umbrella open, holding it over her. Respite from the wet seemed to startle her almost as much as his sudden appearance. She blinked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. She stood in silence, the flight or fight instinct obviously warring within her.
After several moments of indecision, she finally reached for the umbrella handle. Chase saw her hand shake.
"Th-thank you."
He didn't know whether her stammer was from cold or fear. Probably both, all things considered. "You're welcome." He bowed from the waist, turning on his heel. Better to leave her than risk further frightening her.
"Wait." He halted, icy fingers of rain finding their way inside his coat. "Who are you? How do you know my name?"
Brandon could hardly tell her he followed her home and heard her talking to the homeless men. That put him in the same category as a stalker, and he didn't think that knowledge would comfort her. Chase turned, eyes meeting hers, willing her to be calm.
"You've nothing to fear. I'm a friend." His expression exuded trust. "If you'll excuse me—?"
"But how do I return this?" she asked, glancing up at the umbrella.
"You don't."
Chase hurried away like a skittish colt, leaving her alone in the alley. Much as he'd rather sped away in the blink of an eye, he forced himself to dash into the parking lot as any human would to escape the rain. He felt a right churl, but what else could he do? He doubted she'd appreciate knowing he was a vampire, not after seeing her reaction to his sudden appearance. Better to leave her thinking him a Good Samaritan than truly scare the wits out of her. At least she kept the umbrella and would be protected from the rain—if not from predators.
"But, what's your name?"
Chase heard her call as he re-entered the parking lot. Hopefully she wasn't following, and he could get inside Fangtasia before she realized where he went. The second he was out of her line of sight, Brandon practically flew to the rear entrance, slipping inside the bar a heartbeat later. Though muffled in the storeroom, it was impossible for Chase to hear anything above the sound emanating from the main bar. Apparently, someone decided to start the music a couple of hours early. He took it on faith he managed to escape her notice. She might look for him, but there'd be no trail to follow. Even if she figured he went into the bar, he doubted she was brave enough to actually enter.
Chase sluiced water off his coat with a bar towel, removing it to let it dry on a peg by the employee bathroom. He dried his head the best he could, scrubbing at his dark hair. Long enough to be stylish, it brushed the back of his neck; he wore it in a queue, something he'd adopted from the Regency. He was still damp, but that was the least of his concerns. As he passed Northman's office, the door opened and Janine stepped out to nearly collide with him. Brandon's hand instantly went to steady the girl, fingers encircling her arm. She gasped, startled by his close proximity.
She stammered out an apology, which Chase accepted as he released his grasp on her. "They just sent me to find you." Janine looked relieved to see him. "Mr. Northman and the cops want you." She took a breath, leaning closer to whisper, "They're talking to everyone about a missing woman last seen in here last night!" There was an edge of excited fear in her aura.
Brandon pretended to be impressed, then said, "I saw that in the Times. She was part of that bachelorette party, wasn't she?"
Janine nodded, enthralled by this brush with fame. "Yes! They were in my section. I waited on them." She looked around nervously, adding, "Pam called her a cab, but—"
"I should probably get in there," Brandon interrupted, patting the waitress on her shoulder, "and you should get back to work."
With a final nod, Janine scurried down the corridor. Sound levels rose then fell as she slipped out of the "Employees Only" door. He knocked at Northman's door, hearing the obligatory "come in" a moment later.
Stepping into the office, Brandon was instantly aware of a thick aura of tension between the Viking and the two men sitting opposite him. They turned as one when Chase entered, eyes riveted on him. Nondescript, both of them, even the vampire. The human resembled a drab beach ball. Everything about him was round: face, body, eyes. Perhaps in his forties, he was fighting a losing battle with baldness, affecting the typical "comb-over" of thinning hair. His suit was tan, his shirt wrinkled, his tie a vague pattern of dark and light brown with touches of red. He had pudgy hands with stubby fingers and held a small pad and pen. He was sweating profusely, probably terrified to be in a vampire's lair. Chase could literally smell his fear.
The vampire was diametrically opposite his human counterpart. Tall, thin and dark, he had the swarthy appearance of a Spaniard with Moorish antecedents. Chase had seen him before; a new arrival since the Nevada take over. Where the human was round, he was all angles: sharp features, square face, chiseled chin. Wavy black hair, slick with oil. Narrow dark eyes and a pencil-thin moustache gave him the appearance of a Hollywood villain. His suit was dark blue, his shirt white, the tie a striped red, blue and gray.
Though he possessed better fashion sense, Chase still took an instant dislike to him. The vampire bore an all too close resemblance to Señor Eustace Chapuys, the Imperial Spanish Ambassador to Henry's court and a staunch advocate for Queen Catherine of Aragon, the Spanish princess Henry wanted to divorce so he could marry the Boleyn witch. The only thing Brandon had in common with Chapuys was a thorough and complete loathing of the Boleyns; they were crafty and sly, concerned only with their own advancement. The father eagerly prostituted his daughters to the highest bidders; Henry first had the older, then the younger, thus beating out the king of France by bedding both sisters. The brother was easy on the eyes, but just as cunning and conniving as the rest of his greedy family. It was almost as good watching their fall as it was Cromwell's.
Compared to the detectives, Northman was the epitome of style and composure. A study in black, the Sheriff sat behind his desk, hands clasped in front of himself. Dressed in monochromatic black, he wore a poet shirt. A gold Rolex watch on one wrist, a gold Thor's hammer pendant hanging from a woven gold chain. Every inch of the vampire entrepreneur screamed power and good taste. Maybe too much power for one man, but Brandon gave the devil his due—Northman was in complete control of this situation. Both cops knew it, and it really, really rankled the vampire detective.
"You wanted to see me?" Chase spoke in an even tone of voice, betraying nothing more than mild interest. He gave the Sheriff a respectful bow, barely acknowledging the policemen.
"Not me, precisely." Eric's reply was wry, almost amused. "These men want to ask you some questions about a patron who disappeared last night." Northman's gesture was languid, as if the entire procedure bored him—which it probably did. "Mr. Chase Brandon, Detectives John Andrews and Julio Menéndez, Shreveport P.D." Introductions complete, the Viking rose. "Feel free to use my office. If you'll excuse me?—I'm expected elsewhere."
Without further comment, Northman left, office door closing firmly behind him. Chase had no idea where he was headed: close as the bar, or as far away as Bon Temps. Considering he took the Stackhouse girl to his place close to dawn, likely she was still in Shreveport. That probably meant she wanted to go home—unless she'd finally recognized her fortune lay with Northman, and accepted his protection.
That was of much lesser import compared to answering questions for the police. Brandon focused on the two detectives, scrutinizing them closely. Andrews was ostensibly the lead, but he was no match for Menéndez. The Spaniard wasn't old enough to have been part of the Inquisition, but he handled the interview with all the skill of a master interrogator. Unlike Andrews, he was no fool, nor was he afraid. Andrews might have seniority, but he was relegated to taking notes. The questions were cleverly presented, designed to glean the most information from the fewest words. A few trickier ones were obviously meant to lead a suspect into revealing more than they wished.
Clever, yes, but not as experienced as Brandon. Chase was used to men who satisfied King Henry's exacting standards; he watched highly skilled men extract confessions—not exactly the truth, mind—from people accused of treason in the highest degree. Those who entered the Tower through Traitor's gate rarely left alive. A stay in those dungeons broke all but the strongest of will. Resisting was useless under the tender mercies of those who inflicted exquisite pain meant to wring confessions by any means. Innocence made no difference to Henry; he wanted results. Men like poor Mark Smeaton underwent hours of torture so his confession would damn Anne Boleyn and her brother. Was she innocent of the charges of adultery and incest? Probably. Certainly the young musician was, but no one is safe when a king makes up his mind to be rid of an unwanted wife.
"So, you've no idea if Ms. Adams actually left in the cab, and you said you overheard her friends say they couldn't reach her. That was—?"
"Approximately an hour after the cab was called, near closing." Brandon was officially bored. "Officer—"
"Detective."
"—I told you everything I know." Brandon fixed Menéndez with a steely stare, refusing to grant him the respect he so desperately wanted. "Ms. Adams came in with four friends. I posed with them, then overheard them say they couldn't contact her." Chase shifted from his lean against the office door jamb. "This interview is over."
The human cop picked up on his irritation. "I think we have everything, Mr. Brandon. Thank you. Sir."
The vampire wasn't happy, but Brandon didn't care. When he hesitated to leave, Chase spoke again. "I remind you this is Mr. Northman's livelihood, and I doubt he'd appreciate having his employees prevented from performing their duties during operating hours." Chase turned to the door, opening it. "Good evening."
Andrews hurried to the door, tucking the notebook in his pocket as he moved. "No, of course not." The human was all too glad to escape what he obviously felt was a dangerous vampire den. "Thank you for your cooperation. Sorry for any inconvenience, sir."
"Please leave through the employee exit."
"But, we parked—" Andrews shut up, and Chase directed them to the rear entrance. They'd be forced to hoof it through the rain, and Brandon knew that rankled Menéndez. That made Brandon smirk. Once the police left, he headed out front. The bar was packed, once again proving even bad publicity is good publicity. Northman nodded to him from his throne where he held court over a throng of black-clad Goths, pale-faced vampire wannabes and people curious enough to see for themselves what the deal was. The Stackhouse girl sat at a table with Pam.
Chase headed to the front, pausing beside Greg. He watched the two drenched policemen drive away and saw the rain was abating. Saying he was going to do his rounds, he stepped outside. A few stars twinkled through breaks in the clouds, winking like crystal eyes in the black velvet sky. Chase circled the building, checked both parking lots, and heard the chime of distant church bells signaling the hour. He paused, remembering the man with whom he once debated religious doctrines, the man to whom he swore an oath fealty.
Brandon and all the other vampires in Louisiana had already been called upon to swear such an oath to a vampire king who lived in far away Las Vegas. Whatever Chase thought of this new king, he kept wisely to himself, but couldn't help wondering if a carol of bells would signify joy or sorrow for de Castro.
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks again to everyone who reviewed and/or marked the story for notice. I'll try to keep updating it regularly---at least till I run out of already written chapters. :)
To murgatroid-98: I answered this in PM. Let's just say New Years also means new beginnings for some people.
To charhamblin -- Also answered in PM. I admit I was deliberately ambiguous about when this story took place other than Christmas time. I didn't want to have too many spoilers for the books. I will say Eric & Sookie are bonded; that comes out in later chapters.