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 7: Torches
"Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabella, bring a torch, come swiftly and run, Christ is born. Tell the folk of the village Jesus is sleeping in His cradle. Ah, ah, beautiful is the Mother. Ah, ah, beautiful is her Son."—Traditional French carol, c. 1553
The Sheriff's answer was to call a meeting of all Area Five vampires. There weren't many, just twenty-five—twenty-six, including Northman. They hailed from all parts of the world and came from all walks of life: academic, entertainment, entrepreneur, finance, law enforcement. Chase had at least a nodding acquaintance with them, mostly from Fangtasia. There were the usual rivalries and disagreements amongst each other, but the Sheriff was determined to present a united front to the rest of the world.
To avoid possible security breaches at his own condo, Northman decided the meeting would take place at Brandon's house. It was, after all, located in one Shreveport's wealthier suburbs where older homes rubbed elbows with newly constructed houses. Access was limited: only those who lived there (or authorized guests) could enter the gated community. There were roving patrols, cameras at the intersections of well-lighted streets, and the homes were equipped with state-of-the-art security systems.
In Medieval terms, it would've been an easily defendable fortress. Sitting on a point of land jutting into Cross Lake, Woodsmere was originally built in 1916 by James Rawling, a transplanted New York railroad tycoon. The Mock Tudor house reminded Brandon of his own Westhorpe Hall, one of the many estates bestowed upon him by Henry. It stood three stories tall and had walls made of Maine granite. Rawling was known as an excellent host, throwing weekend house parties with lavish entertainments for guests he'd bring in on private trains. Sadly, Rawling lost everything in the Crash of '29. There were many owners in the intervening years, including the city, who wanted to turn it into a resort hotel.
Money for the planned renovations never materialized, and the people of Shreveport voted to spend their funds more wisely. It was sold to one individual, then to another, and so on until Chase purchased it as an investment property. He never meant to live there, though he liked the place well enough. Renovations began in early 2004, with plans for him to sell it on the international real estate market.
Then came Katrina. She forced Chase to relocate from New Orleans. The storm did structural damage to the apartment house he owned in the Vieux Carré. After 278-years of weathering the elements, the building simply could not withstand such a major storm. It first lost the roof, then part of a brick wall, eventually collapsing on top of itself. Fortunately, he and his tenants escaped unscathed, though the humans ended up in one of the refugee camps. Brandon himself fled before the Category 4 hurricane made landfall. Quite a few of the New Orleans vampires weren't as lucky.
According to Northman, many vampires perished in Katrina, or lost their havens. Queen Sophie Anne was at her wits end for some time after the storm, trying to put the pieces of her broken queen-dom back together. She never quite managed, and now it was too late. Unlike the late queen, New Orleans was resilient, surviving Mother Nature's fury to rebuild itself.
Fitting that a Vegas vampire is now king of a state where casinos were rebuilt before homes.
So, Brandon moved into Woodsmere as he'd never meant to. The renovations continued in earnest, since the Shreveport house would now be his primary home.
First to arrive was Northman himself, followed closely by Pam. They were greeted by Chase's long time steward, Matthew Hornsby, and shown into the large, formal drawing room. One of Brandon's favorite places in the house, it was completely period in decor. Dark, oak paneling once covered walls of the drawing room in an estate house in England. Fallen beyond repair, Chase purchased that house with the sole purpose in mind to save what he could for use in renovating Woodsmere. Walls, flooring, wainscoting, crown molding—everything that could be preserved or restored was carefully removed and shipped to the States. Now the dull, aged wood gleamed with the deep luster which only comes from polishing with beeswax.
Comfortable chairs were arranged around the huge hearth. In deference to the weather and aesthetics, a fire burned brightly, flames crackling as the wood popped and sputtered. Pam immediately made herself at home, dropping into one of the wing-back chairs. Not exactly Brandon's period, they were better padded than the wooden monstrosities of Tudor times. Northman, however, hovered near the fireplace, silently watching the fire.
"He's in a mood," Pam explained, rolling her eyes. She gave an exaggerated sigh by forcing air in and out of her chest. Not exactly breathing, it nonetheless conveyed her feelings on the matter.
Brandon acknowledged Pam's comment with a nod, nothing more. For once, he was in complete agreement with the Viking. This was the concern of all the Area Five vampires. Even though the murder (murders, if the first one at Fangtasia was taken into account) wasn't committed by a vampire, a certain amount of the populace would believe otherwise. Therefore, this needed to stop before things got out of hand.
By that, I mean torch wielding gangs of ignorant trailer trash who bought into the whole FOTS philosophy that the only good vampire is a staked vampire.
Slowly but surely, the rest of the Area Five vampires arrived, with Bubba and Julio Menéndez last through the doors. Matthew made sure everyone was served a glass of Brandon's private stock of Royal Blüd, a fine French blend definitely not synthetic. (For Bubba, whose tastes ran more to a feline vintage, there was True Blood.) Once everyone was comfortable, the manservant made a discreet withdrawal from the room, closing the double doors behind himself. All eyes turned toward Northman, who stood in front of the fireplace.
"There's a problem, and I want it solved."
There were no opening jokes, no niceties, no thanking anyone for being there. The Viking towered over the seated vampires, his cold eyes moved from face to face. His lips were pulled into a thin line, making his face angular and hard. It might have been better if the Sheriff showed anger, but his features were frozen in an emotionless mask.
"I want the perpetrators found." Northman focused on Menéndez, silent for a few moments before he spoke again. "What have the police discovered?" It was not a request.
Everyone could see the detective was uncomfortable under that icy scrutiny. "Not much," he admitted. His voice wavered slightly, and it was easy to tell the vampire fought an internal war: loyalty to his race, dedication to his job. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. "We identified the first victim, but the second isn't in our jurisdiction. All I know is both women were found in dumpsters behind casinos, the Eldorado and the Louisiana Downs in Bossier City."
Northman's head tilted slightly to one side, as if to convey he was waiting for the Spaniard to continue.
"Eileen Kildare, a systems analyst working for LSM Gaming, Inc., was here overseeing a merge with Beauliere Investment Corporation, LLC," Menéndez said. "Thirty-two, divorced, no kids." The detective stopped for a moment, still fighting that losing battle. "She was from Gulfport, where she was a known associate of Simon Beauliere." No need to say Beauliere was a vampire. "BIC owns a condo in Summer Winds, where she stayed. She left work at the usual time, but didn't show up the next morning. Last person to see her alive was a convenience store clerk where she stopped for cigarettes. He said she was alone, but there were two men hanging around outside when she entered. He didn't remember anything special about them, just described them as bums."
Again, the Viking was silent, eyes never leaving the Spaniard. Finally, "How was she killed?"
"Exsanguination. Coroner found three bite marks on her, all consistent with vampire fangs." He went on to add placement of wounds, which were nearly identical to those of the first victim, the one not reported. "...definitely not the crime scene. Theory is, she was killed somewhere else, then transported to the dumpster behind the Eldoraro. They're canvassing the area for witnesses, but have nothing so far." Julio paused, then added, "Forensics found some trace evidence, but they won't know anything until they get the DNA test results."
"And that will be—?"
Menéndez's lips compressed into a thin line, which is to say, they disappeared altogether. "This isn't CSI. We don't get DNA tests results in an hour. The lab in Baton Rouge is backed up. We'll be lucky to get the results by the middle of January. Sir."
Frustration was etched on Northman's chiseled features. "I see." His hands rested on the back of the chair he stood behind, index finger tapping. "You will inform me of those test results."
"Of course." The detective, nodded, lips still compressed. He was by no means happy. He picked up a manila folder on the table beside him, handing it over to Eric. "Here's a copy of everything I could find. It's not my case, so I don't have access to all the files." There was distaste in his tone, and the Spaniard fell into a sullen silence for the rest of the meeting.
"Where's Bones when we need her," quipped Pam, who drew a frown from her sire. "Oh, come on—that was funny." She made an exaggerated frown as she sipped her Royal Blüd.
Chase quirked a half-smile at Pam, probably the only one present who appreciated her irreverent gallows humor, dark and wry. A couple of other vampires chuckled very softly, probably afraid of incurring Northman's wrath.
"The perpetrators, they are human, no?" This from Helga Gerhardt. The German leaned forward in her chair, pinning Menéndez with her eyes. "Could this be the work of, how you say it—an outlaw?"
"I was wondering the same thing." Bill Compton spoke up. "Not to mention some of our race say those of us who revealed ourselves sold out to the humans. Maybe it's one of them trying to turn people against us?" Chase saw the Bon Temp vampire had healed well after the Fae war, and looked almost back to normal.
The debate went on for a while, with everyone voicing an opinion, or putting forth an idea. Northman listened, and somewhere in the middle of the discussion, came around the chair to sit. Brandon met his eyes once, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders; as if to say, 'don't ask me, I've no clue.' At the very least, personal differences and petty disagreements were set aside in view of what could possibly be a greater threat.
"...could be anyone, that's th'frustratin' part. If'n we knew who t'look for, we could get th' truth outta them." That was from a vampire who spoke with a thick, Southern accent. He looked no older than sixteen, but had been turned before the War Between the States. "They had t'leave some evidence. Ain't no sich thang as th' perfect crime."
While Chase personally agreed with teenaged Billy-Bob Montgomery, he remained quiet, letting the others talk. Some were openly curious about Eric's concern; they were only a humans, after all. Even if the killer did try to make their deaths look like a vampire attack, dead humans were still just dead humans. Let the human police figure it out. Those thoughts were quickly quashed by a cold look from Northman.
"Humans panic easily." Chase finally heard himself say. "The media loves to sensationalize things like this—especially if it paints a minority in a bad light. We have enemies—powerful enemies. We may own the night, but they own the day." Every vampire present fell silent, listening. "That which terrifies humans is a burning torch in the hand of our enemies."
The point was understood, even by those vampires created after electricity was common. A few faces wore haunted expressions as memories of close calls or the loss of loved ones surfaced. Others, the younger ones, appeared more skeptical, but even they felt an instinctive fear of final death.
"Didn't any of you ever see Love at First Bite?" Pam inquired. When only three people nodded, she shook her head. "I think it should be required watching for fledgling vampires. Such an inspired film." Sarcasm. That was Pam's Muse.
"Enough." Again Northman fixed his childe with cold eyes. That singe word ended the debate.
"Brandon speaks true. Some of us are old enough to remember what frightened, angry mobs can do. I do not want that in my domain." He stood, fixing his icy gaze on the whole room. "If there is a rogue vampire—find him. If the killer is human—find them, but do not kill them unless in self-defense. A human killer must be turned over to the human police."
Focused, Northman looked from one to the other of those gathered. "In the meantime, I have the dubious honor of informing His Majesty of this threat—unless another of you would enjoy handling that for me?" Silence. "What?—no volunteers?"
"That's why they pay you the big bucks." Pam again. "All right, if this shindig is over, I need to go see if the bar's still standing." She stood up as well, smoothing the tight, black miniskirt she wore. "I expect to see some of you there to thrill the hearts of the fangbangers." She smirked, nodding farewell to her sire.
Northman lingered a few minutes, answering questions from a couple of vampires Brandon knew only slightly. Menéndez approached Chase on his way out, nodding a greeting.
"You have a beautiful home, Señor Brandon." His dark eyes moved over the wood paneling, taking in the paintings and tapestries. "Such an eye for detail. My mother appreciated such lovely things like these."
Of course, his mother probably died fifty years ago. "Thank you." Brandon was polite, but cool. He didn't like the Spaniard, and there was another person he wanted to speak with before she left. "If you'll excuse me?—Matthew will show you out." Indeed, Hornsby was standing by the open doors, ready to be of assistance.
Brandon made a beeline for Helga Gerhardt. "Good evening, Dr. Gerhardt." He used her title, which made her brows lift in surprise.
Helga's heavy, Germanic features softened slightly when she smiled. "You know I teach?" she asked. "I do not often speak of my profession lest I bore those around me. The young ones, the fangbangers and would-be vampires, they do not wish a lecture on history." She shook her head, chuckling. "How is it you know of me?"
"I met one of your students. She spoke highly of you." He paused, nodding good-bye to others leaving. "Meredith Ward—I'm sure you remember her."
"Ja!" The woman's face was suddenly animated. Her smile widened, and she nodded vigorously. "She was my teaching assistant last year, and I miss her. I am, as you would say, not very organized. My office is now a mess."
Chase nodded, offering Helga what passed as a smile for him. "I was thinking of attending the madrigal dinner, and wondered if you would care to join me." Not that Brandon planned to spend the evening with the German; she was a means to an end, nothing more. "Safety in numbers, and all that." His laugh was almost genuine; at least it sounded real to his ears.
"Ja, ja—that would be nice. Ingrid is in Germany for research. She thinks she has found proof das Führer escaped to Argentina with Eva Braun." There was a roll of her eyes. "She is obsessed with that swinehund."
"Excellent. Shall I pick you up at seven?"
"That would be perfect." Helga went on to give him an address in the Highland-Stoner Hill historical district not too far from Centenary College campus. "My house is not as grand as yours, but Ingrid and I are content." Ingrid being her childe and long-time lover, younger than Helga by some twenty years.
From the suddenly gregarious Helga, Brandon learned more about Meredith. Because she was related to Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild, she sat on the Board of Directors for the Historical Preservation Society. Apparently the late Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild (who, in 2007 at the age of 91, helped found the HPS) willed her seat to Meredith because of their mutual interest in preserving the past. He also learned a trust had been set aside to renovate the Dillman-Fairchild house, but nothing could be done since Lurleen's will was being contested by another recently surfaced niece. Save for a small, personal stipend, everything else was tied up in court.
"Meredith and Grace do the best they can." Grace being the late Lurleen's longtime housekeeper, the older black woman Chase saw the first night he followed Meredith. "The children?—one is Grace's grandson, the other two Grace babysits while the mother teaches an adult reading class at night. It is extra money for them."
Many things fell in place. The rundown appearance of the house, Meredith's worn clothes and shoes, the children. The more he learned about her, the harder it was to resist possessing her. Under his protection, there would be no need to worry over money. He could have workmen at her house by dawn. Chase knew of a researcher whose specialty was making certain the interior of old houses was authentic. He knew others sole whose job was to find antique furnishings, wall coverings and carpets. Money would be no object in restoring the Victorian manor house to its former glory. He could even inquire about purchasing the vacant lots to either side of the house and turning them into gardens.
Once Helga left and Matthew retired for the evening, Chase went upstairs to change. He chose his typical black, of course: well-fitting leather pants, perfectly tailored black shirt unbuttoned to there, a matching black leather jacket and boots. With his dark hair and eyes, he looked long, lean and stylish. Dashing, even handsome. He'd drive the fangbangers into a frenzy if he deigned to smile at them.
The cold didn't bother him as he tore through the night on his favorite transportation: a 1999 883 Screaming Eagle Harley-Davidson. It was like a faster version of riding horses. He got the same thrill of wind in his face and the freedom of feeling alone on the road. The state required him to wear a helmet, but he was a vampire. If he was stopped, he simply cast a glamour and voila!—no ticket. Perhaps some might call that abusing his gift, but Chase wouldn't be hurt in an accident like a human. Anything short of decapitation and he'd heal.
In his mind, he rode Zephyr, his beloved black Friesian. Full sixteen-hands high, intelligent and powerfully built, the horse had faithfully carried Brandon for a decade before Chase was forced to hand him over to his half-brother. Charles Brandon always rode Zephyr to the exclusion of other horses; for him to not have Zephyr with him on his return to court would invite questions.
He could always say the horse died, but Zephyr had distinctive markings. If Chase ever rode him around people he knew, they'd know something was amiss. After leaving England, Brandon missed the horse almost as much as he missed his children, but it was as it was lest the deception fail. So much did he love the Friesian, Brandon later purchased a breeding farm in the Netherlands. For nearly four hundred years, Windermere Farms consistently produced champions, proving a lucrative investment.
He had no horses in Louisiana, but that might change. There was ample room at Woodsmere for stables. Simple to have a couple of Friesians shipped from the Netherlands. Unlike some vampires, Chase never had a problem being around horses. But, until he found another Zephyr, the Harley was an adequate substitute: fast, agile, thrilling. It served his purpose, especially when he needed to sort things out in his head.
The thought of seeing Meredith sent a rush of warmth through him which settled in his groin. It was every bit as exciting as the motorcycle between his thighs. At the moment, he wondered if Meredith had ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle, and then the seed of a plan took root. He nurtured it, pouring over it until he was satisfied it was viable.
After he knew her a little better, he'd coax her onto his Harley, and show her what it was like to feel the freedom of the night. Perhaps he'd plant the image of a knight on horseback with his lady riding pillion behind him in her thoughts.
After all, what woman can resist a knight in shining armor?
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks again for the reviews!
To roo86: Glad you're enjoying the story!
To idyllvice: Very true, it is incongruous, but he likes to keep busy. As he said in the first chapter, he likes to be close to the action, and that means being near the Sheriff of Area 5. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it! :)