Disclaimer: Charlaine Harris owns all.
Rated M for several reasons.
Chpt 27 Guilt Trip
SPOV
The cold wakes me up and with total disregard for the fact I'm fully clothed, again, I wrap the bedclothes tightly round me, inhaling that certain 'eau de Eric' I'm becoming used to, willing myself back into the dream world.
But it's not happening.
Because of Niall.
I can wriggle and squirm and convince myself I didn't entirely lie to Eric till the cows come home, Newlin was thinking about literally fucking me to death, but I can't make it stick.
When Eric asked Newlin who took him he had a Kodak moment.
My Great Grandfather. The one who looks like an underwear model and talks like Methuselah. The one who is even more terrifying than Eric when he interrupts a quiet dinner with your wife by bursting through the window, wielding a blood stained sword and promising to teach you a lesson you'll never forget.
With a martyred sigh I roll onto my back, recognising that I'm going to have to give it my attention if I don't want the nausea of guilt to keep me awake for the rest of the night, or day, or whatever.
I didn't know what to do or what to say. I didn't know what was right and I've always kinda prided myself on knowing what's right.
I always knew Niall wasn't exactly everyone's idea of a cuddly Great Grandfather, jeez, what was the clue Stackhouse? I got the impression that he was probably a powerful man in his own way, it rolls off him in the same way it does Eric, and I suppose if I'd been pressed I would have been forced to admit that by extension he probably was more than the charming eccentric he plays. But of course nobody forced me so I was even able to ignore the fact that he's been referred to as a Prince more than once too. Let us not, currently, acknowledge the existence of the word 'Princess'.
How do I feel about the fact that he apparently kidnapped Newlin and turned him into a vampire?
Conflicted. It's actually quite fitting in a sick way.
I lied to Eric.
Funny how I've not felt like I'm lying to him until now. I have good reasons for hiding my heritage.
He said please. He meant it. He really does think he needs to know who made Newlin a vampire and perhaps he does if the Kings and Queens are expecting it. Yet despite my resolve to help I didn't tell him.
Would it help if he knew?
'Yeah, Eric, I know the guy who took Newlin. He's a fairy, goes by the name of Niall.
How do you know this Ms Stackhouse?
He's my Great Grandfather.'
I've no idea if it would help Eric but I can't see a way it would help me.
But would it help Eric?
I don't know.
I roll over, punching the pillow.
Some random fairy kidnapped the Reverend Steve Newlin and made him a vampire, don't ask me how, my supernatural crash course didn't include that particular lesson. Does that in any way endanger Eric?
I can't see how. It's more my problem, as in I don't know my own kin very well.
That hardly makes me guilty of anything.
Except hiding something that may be important to Eric, a man who is fighting enough shadowy battles as it is.
Well why the hell should I care? He's holding me hostage. He made me leave my cell at home and he hasn't even left me with a clock so I can tell what time it is. He's a jerk.
He only trusts two people. Pam and Thalia. And Thalia knows more about me than he does.
I punch the pillow, and give it a thorough shake for good measure, but it still won't forgive me or let me get comfortable enough to sleep.
What if I get him and the people he cares about killed because I won't tell him what I am or what I know, though it doesn't seem much? What if I salve my conscious by at least describing Niall and I get him killed?
I'm trapped I realise, remembering Gran's words. Oh! What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. She used to mainly aim them at Jason but in my head now it feels like she was wagging her finger at me all along.
If only he hadn't said please. Stupid word. It's not like he would have meant it.
Argh!
I'm hungry.
Trying to get up I engage in a brief but ultimately victorious struggle with the covers I've wrapped myself in. Problem one solved. Problem two is that I can't see my hand in front of my face, if in fact my waving hand is actually in front of my face. Ouch. Yes, it is. Reaching out I finally find the edge of the bed and what feels like a bedside table. Several attempts later I find a wire which I can follow to a switch and the room is flooded with mellow light.
I'm perched on a bed of the richest brown adrift in a wash of the most varied blues I have ever seen. It doesn't make any kind of sartorial sense yet the effect immediately calls to mind being afloat on a calm sea. The only furniture, the bed and side tables, is of a polished wood that glows with a life of its own and begs to be touched. So I do. Cool and smooth but regrettably not edible.
There are two doors, one on either side of the room. One has a flashing red light next to it which I instinctively know is advertising my incarceration and the other is slightly ajar.
Being a Stackhouse I try the one with the light first. It beeps at me and the light flashes angrily. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. In the spirit of investigation I play with the keypad for a while but the door neither gets any angrier nor lets me out. With a sigh I turn away. I should be much more annoyed about this than I am.
The other door leads to a short corridor where a soft light comes on as soon as I swing it open. There are three more doors leading off it. Door number one is an opulent bathroom, revealed by another automatic light. Door number two is a closet bigger than my own bedroom and filled with neat rows and stacks of very Eric attire. Door number three leads to an Aladdin's cave. A leather sofa, crammed bookshelves, a desk, the biggest wall mounted flat screen I've ever seen and an array of technical equipment that screams boy, makes my head hurt and has me inexplicably missing Jason.
On the low unit under the flat screen is a very expensive looking iPod docking station and the coffee maker we bought last night.
My addiction immediately kicks into gear and I hurry toward it, ripping it out of its packaging and setting it up with fervid reverence, finally realising that I'm just being tortured without the actual coffee. Annoyed I start opening and closing subtly concealed cupboards until I hit paydirt, the refrigerator, all my shopping is in there and with a silent thank you to Eric I start the coffee maker while I pull together a dirty sandwich. I don't know if its breakfast time or tea time but I'm having cheese anyway . . . .
Done with my 'meal' and supplied with fresh coffee I turn my attention to the three remotes lined up on the desk and by dint of much pressing and cursing I eventually get the flat screen to jump into life.
A twenty four hour news channel. Reporting the disappearance of Steve Newlin, the bombing of the hotel in Rhodes and the subsequent bombings of several vampire owned businesses across the US. Drawing an obvious link in the way twenty four hour news channels are apt to do, with all the usual suspects given their air time. I must admit that Nan Flannigan, the AVL spokeswoman, has always fascinated me, but now I'm finding her as annoyingly disingenuous as any other politician. I suspect they aren't telling me the real truth. I know she isn't.
What happens if anyone other than a vampire finds Newlin chained up in Eric's basement? What happens if he gets loose?
What's Niall up to? If I had my cell I'd call him. And if I were Eric I'd stake Newlin and bury the sludge in the deepest pit I could find.
"What has you so worked up?" Eric asks from the doorway, making me jump and nearly spill coffee all down myself.
Really?
He's wearing nothing but a loose pair of pj bottoms and the worst case of bed hair I've ever seen.
He's just . . . . perfect . . . . I've never seen anything like it . . . . the fangbanger's memories really don't do him justice . . . .
Oh god I'm staring, and unfortunately I catch a glimpse of the smirk forming on his face as I look away, I swear I can feel his amusement at my girlie weakness.
I turn my attention and pointing finger to the flat screen where the news anchor is pontificating.
"Why did Stan bring Newlin to you?" I ask.
"I am charged with finding out who killed the bombers."
"The Reverend didn't though did he?"
"There would not have been time." He answers, scratching idly at his incredibly beautiful abs and nearly de-railing my chain of thought.
"The King of Texas was responsible for locating Newlin who had already disappeared." He continues, pushing his hair back from his face in a curiously human gesture. "We both suspected that ultimately we would be looking for the same thing."
"Makes sense." I allow. "But if I could drag your attention back to the news for a moment it would seem that 'Ground Zero' is currently stashed in your basement."
He darts forward in a blur, grabbing one of the remotes and flicking through the news channels like a vampire possessed.
I sidle past him to refill my coffee. The back view ain't bad either. Buns of steel, was that Superman or a workout video . . . .
"Fuck." He grinds out as I sink back into the couch, wrapping both hands around my steaming mug.
And, then he's gone, the door rebounding from the wall with an echoey thud.
I hope he's come to the same conclusion I have. Being caught with the newly vamped Newlin is not going to be conducive to anyone's health.
In the ensuing quiet I remember that I am still in the same clothes I slept in and my attention turns to the bathroom. I don't know why I'm suddenly embarrassed about the prosaic business of taking a shower but it seems too intimate, somehow, with Eric around . . . .
No. I'm itchy and scratchy. It's got to be done. But I won't be wandering around in a towel, I'll need to take everything I need in with me.
…..
When I return to what I have decided to dub 'The Little Boys Room' Eric is fully clothed and seated behind his desk.
He looks up, glaring at me. Great, the night's off to a good start . . . .
"Thank you." He says stiffly and unexpectedly.
I shrug and perch on the edge of his couch, pretending to be absorbed in the muted news story on the screen about rising food prices. It's not like I did much, he'd have come to the same conclusion himself as soon as he'd seen the news.
"We have to leave for Fangtasia in a few minutes, I have many meetings to get through this evening and I will require your assistance keeping an eye on the minds of the customers."
I nod.
"Do you have any needs before we leave? Food?"
"I've eaten thanks." I narrow my eyes at him, trying to gauge his mood. "I'll need to call people, Sam and Jason at least, I can't just disappear."
He raises his eyebrow at me but I refuse to look away.
"I'm not going to tell them you kidnapped me if that's what you're thinking but they need to know I'm okay."
"Have I kidnapped you?" He asks, watching me intently.
"The jury is currently out." I admit, reluctantly but honestly.
…..
It's still early when we get to the club and the doors have only just opened.
The clientele are nothing like I've come to expect. To call them normal seems a bit rude but that's what they are. Tourists who just want to be able to say they've been to a vampire bar. One or two drinks and they're on their way, amazed at their own bravery.
Eric saw me to his booth and then left immediately.
Ginger's been keeping me supplied with water and Thalia's been watching me like a hawk from the other side of the bar.
Gradually more and more vampires are coming in and eventually there's a point when they outnumber the humans, but it doesn't last long. As time passes and the tourists flee, the place is filling up rapidly with the fangbangers I've come to know and despise.
Eric asked me to read the customers so I am.
Sex. Being bitten. Some unbelievably misplaced desires for romance and adventure. Eric. Pam. Me. Sex.
. . . . she's here again, maybe the rumours are true . . . .
. . . . I swear if she keeps dragging me here I'm gonna make that date with Boring Bella, I'm sure this whole vampire thing is a ruse to pack the bar . . . .
. . . . I hope he's here, I hope he's here . . . .
Pam's supplied me with a pad and pen to jot down anything interesting that I hear, since I'm under strict instructions not to disturb the vampires for anything short of an emergency, but so far all I've done is draw a couple of cartoons.
I called Sam and Jason from Eric's cell on the way here. Jason wasn't fussed that I was going to be away for a few days but Sam was predictably tight lipped and I wouldn't be surprised to turn up at the bar for a shift one day to discover I've been fired.
Vampires are coming and going from Eric's office, all of them looking tenser on the return journey than they did on the way in. About half of them are leaving afterwards but the others are arrayed around the club, looking so much like they are expecting trouble I can't believe the humans haven't noticed. They are a curiously unobservant bunch when in pursuit of their own pleasures.
Needing a change of scenery I decide I've drunk enough water to qualify for a comfort break.
In self-defence I pull my shields tight as rampant curiosity breaks around me like a wave on a beach. I don't know why they find me so fascinating or why they're so jealous when I'm clearly nothing more than one of Eric's human employees.
Anyway, the shields are the reason I only realise the club is about to be surrounded by cops and voids when I settle back into the booth a few minutes later. I'm a lousy employee . . . .