Time became torturously slow over the next two weeks of Eric's life. It seemed like nothing happened—the world seemed to stand still as he waited . . . but for what?

Pam, upon his return, reamed him out for being gone for all of two fucking days. Tara, it seemed, thought she could join her. To be yelled at by his progeny and her progeny had been something the old Eric simply wouldn't have taken. But this new, hopeless Eric just stood there, letting them both be the bitches they thought they had the right to be. And who was he to deny them that? He'd cursed Pamela with the absence of a soul when he'd turned her, and in so doing had cursed Tara, too, in a roundabout way. If anything, he deserved the lecture from them.

Of course, that was all done right before dawn. Once he'd been suitably chastened, he'd spent a long day in his coffin beneath Fangtasia, his mind bouncing from topic to topic. Lucifer. His soul. Lucifer. The Queen of California. Lucifer. The blood that he'd gotten on the cream linen suit. Lucifer. The black convertible Corvette still sitting in the Fangtasia parking lot. Lucifer. Hell. Lucifer.

Lu-ci-fer. Like the crowd that had chanted his name.

Every single thought always led back to the damn devil and his warm, concerned eyes. The heat they had shared in his hotel room, in the elevator. The scent of him. The slight tilt of his head when he was trying to wrap his mind around something. The little sigh that would escape him when he didn't know what to say. The rough feel of his stubble against Eric's lips.

It could have been his. All of it.

But he'd fled like a damn coward and there was no going back and asking for another chance.

Why would Lucifer want to give him a second chance?

He wasn't just damaged goods. He was fucking cursed. That's what he was.

So Eric rose the following day and tried to get back into the life he used to live. He sat on his throne and tried to watch the fangbangers. But the time spent there only had him worrying about the car sitting outside next to his silver Corvette. How many nights had that lovely little number from 1962 been sitting in the strip mall parking lot, where anyone could steal it or damage it? What if a bird shit on it? Or a possum decided to move into it?

He had been sitting in his spot for perhaps two hours before he was out the door and into the night. He bought a tarp. Went over every inch of the car to make sure nothing had happened to it. Covered the car with far too much care. But he knew Lucifer would be back for the car and he wanted it to be in perfect shape for the devil. Where Eric was broken, the car should not be.

With the car taken care of, he then set to work on the suit. For a normal human, those pesky bloodstains meant the suit was ruined. But Eric was a vampire—he had gotten the toughest bloodstains out of the strangest places over the course of his life. When Pam walked in on him scrubbing furiously at the collar of the jacket, he'd snarled at her and she'd disappeared back into the bar.

The following night he had brought the suit, bloodstains freshly removed, to the cleaners to be properly pressed.

The night after that he'd brought it back and hung the damn thing in his office.

Then he waited.

And waited.

A week dragged by—no Lucifer. The suit stayed on the hook behind Eric's office door. The Corvette stayed snug under its tarp next to Eric's car. Pam got on his nerves. Tara was rude to the customers. Eric remained broody and unresponsive to Pam's insistent whining. He barely tolerated anyone.

A second week—no different.

The day Sookie walked into his bar, he at least began to feel again. Crazy that—how a fairy waitress from backwoods Louisiana could draw him out of his shell when he was in a depressive state. Especially since it was she—or at least his old love for her—who had spurred him to find out about his soul.

Sookie came in with someone in tow, and it was very apparent that she was with the man. Not just frequenting Fangtasia with someone who was maybe looking for vampiric help. No, the waitress flounced into his bar wearing, of all things, a white floral summer dress, clinging to the arm of her new lover. That she dared to wear a white dress to come see Eric while showing off the man he'd felt her make love to—well that was a bold statement on her part. Hadn't he told her he'd always think of her in the little white dress? Did she do this on purpose, to make him remember?

However, when she walked into his bar he found that actually it didn't hurt. Perhaps it helped that she hadn't chosen to go back to Bill. No, Sookie's instinct had drawn her to someone that actually had a soul. Eric, sitting on the throne he'd grown bored of, decided she could have done worse. The man would, at the very least, be able to protect her when the next catastrophe came into her life. And there would be a next time for Sookie. There always was.

Sookie, with no sense of tact, marched right up to Eric on his little dais with Alcide Herveaux following behind like a trained puppy. At least she chose someone worth looking at, Eric mused as he watched her coming. And for all that he detested werewolves, he also knew they had great stamina—especially where it counted. He'd be more disappointed if he hadn't known Herveaux though. He'd been the only were in Shreveport that hadn't been wrapped around Russell Edgington's pinky finger, and that spoke volumes about the man's worth, even if he was a dog.

Besides, anything was better than Bill Compton.

Sookie stood in front of Eric with her arms crossed over her chest and told him in no uncertain terms that she was now with Herveaux, and that if Eric had a problem with it, he needed to tell her now. Herveaux lived in Shreveport still—and had a mighty fine business to boot—and Sookie was expecting to spend more time in Eric's town.

Did Eric have a problem with that? The fact that he'd now be seeing Sookie more often, except she'd be with the werewolf and not with him.

He found that no, he did not. Aside from the fact that he kept feeling her emotions every time something happened, he found he could care less. It seemed the time he'd spent with Lucifer had done him some good, at the very least. He was no longer in love with the half-fairy waitress from Bon Temps. No, he was in love and mourning the lost possibility of Lucifer instead. In no mood to coddle anyone's feelings, Eric glared the confident woman down. "You can waltz around Shreveport with your puppy all you want. It doesn't concern me. Fuck him on top of the bar for all I care." He waved a hand in the direction of the bar, with Pam glaring at him from behind it.

The were growled at his crass words and Eric turned to growl right back. While he didn't give a rat's ass that Sookie had found love—and something in the back of his mind found joy in that—he was not going to be disrespected while in Fangtasia. And certainly not by a fucking were.

But Herveaux seemed to have no sense of self-preservation. "You will treat the lady with respect, vampire," he spat out.

"I'll treat her with respect when she earns it," Eric shot back.

"Excuse me?" Sookie managed to get in.

Eric turned his bad mood on her next. "You come into my place of business and demand an audience with me. You present me with your new lapdog—sorry, lover—and tell me you're going to be in my town. I gave you your space when you asked for it but this isn't much of a reunion. You don't ask me how I've been; what I've been up to. Just tell me what's what and that I can shove it if I've got a problem with it. It's nice to see you too, Sookie."

Sookie, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed. "You're right. I've been a bit forward. I apologize."

Eric waved a hand at her, not particularly caring, either way. "Besides, no hard feelings, as far as I'm concerned. It's not like we were in love. Right?"

Sooke was taken aback by that. Then hurt. Then pissed. "I see you're back to being your old asshole self," she replied, sass back in her voice.

"Isn't that such a shame?" Eric replied, rankling at her words. "Why shouldn't I be? Haven't you heard? Vampires don't have their souls. I'm damned for all eternity when I die, so I might as well do as I please. I've got to earn that torture, Sookie Stackhouse." Speaking the words out loud, the first time since he'd gotten back to Louisiana, set Eric off.

Anger, where once there had been hope, sprang to life.

As if to prove a point to Sookie, or perhaps to the God who had cursed him, Eric reached out vampire quick and grabbed a fangbanger that had been edging toward him. He lifted the man off his feet, baring his fangs at the man. "Is this what you want? A brush with death?" he growled at the man.

Eric would have assumed the man would beg for mercy, plead to be released so he could run out the front door and never return to Fangtasia. Instead, Eric was given a terrified nod. This particular fangbanger had a death wish, it seemed. And who was Eric to deny that of him? He could be the angel of death. Gladly.

With the thought of fallen angels—or the absence of them—spurring him on, he attacked the man, teeth sinking into flesh. Blood spilled, cascading down his chin to fall on the button down shirt he was sporting—he'd begun to change his style, Lucifer's words about dressing to impress having never left him—catching in the light stubble on his chin. This was no lover's embrace, no consensual act, and Eric ravaged the man's neck, the anger at a God who played with mortals' lives consuming him in the moment.

He was lost to the world, the dusky taste of the man's blood the only thing that could still his thoughts. If he wasn't a worthless cause, then why hadn't Lucifer shown up? Why hadn't the man come after him, told him he was wrong? Because he wasn't worthy of love, not even the devil's love. That was why.

He was angry. At a God who played with souls like they were toys. At the devil who hadn't loved him. And at himself for falling for a man who couldn't love him back.

Eric barely heard the shouts—Sookie, Alcide, Pam, even Tara. He didn't realize they had been calling his name until the fangbanger was ripped from his hands by Pam and Alcide combined. He watched, snarling, as Tara knelt by the trembling fangbanger, biting into her own wrist to offer her blood to him. Eric had almost killed him—but he felt hollow inside.

"What is wrong with you?" Pam accused, as she stalked back toward Eric.

The music had stopped and the crowd of people had grown awfully quiet. Eric glanced around to see many of them skirting the dais, heading for the door.

"We don't do this here, Eric," Pam continued, getting close enough to look up at him with worried eyes. "Not in public."

"Who gives a fuck?" Eric replied, sounding not angry but defeated as he said the words. "What even is the point?"

"We are trying to integrate into society, Eric. You can't just kill a man in front of witnesses—we don't do that anymore. Your orders." Pam reached a hand out, trying to grab one of his. Eric hissed and pulled away from her.

Eric looked back to see the man moving restlessly in Tara's arms, Sookie's friend staring daggers into him. Well, he hadn't actually killed a man. But he had to admit he'd been well on his way.

"What is wrong, Eric?" Pam begged. "Speak to me."

When Eric didn't reply, simply wiped a sleeve across his mouth to try to rid himself of the man's blood, she sighed. "Where the hell is that man you were hanging around? The British guy who pretended he was the devil? At least you were in a better mood when he was around, even if you were gone most of the time."

"Fuck. Off. Pam." Eric bit each word out, his teeth clenched as a debilitating heartache seared through him. Where was he indeed. Lucifer's absence spoke volumes.

"Eric . . ." This came from his right, Sookie looking up at him with a sadness in her brown eyes. Eyes that looked nothing like Lucifer's. "I'm so sorry . . ." She was apologizing like she'd broken him.

"Why the fuck does everyone think there's a problem?" Eric hissed, feeling like the world was ganging up on him. "There is no problem. Everything is fine."

"Eric Northman, everything is not fine," Sookie said, using her no-nonsense tone of voice that she'd used when she had made him stay in his hidey-hole not that long ago. Her tone softened, those brown eyes offering him compassion where he didn't deserve it. She reached a single hand out, touching his elbow. "You are crying, Eric."

He staggered back from her touch. He was? He raised a hand, fingers dipping into the tears that had come unnoticed. He looked at the blood on his fingertips in awe—tears he hadn't even felt himself expending. All because of . . . what?

It wasn't Sookie, even if she thought it was her fault.

It was . . .

It was that damn Corvette sitting under the tarp outside. It was the suit hanging in his office. It was his phone, devoid of texts from the man in L.A.

He was crying because of Lucifer.

He was crying because Lucifer wasn't there.

"I wish you hadn't shown me feelings, Sookie. They fucking hurt," he said.

Before she could reply, before anyone could ask about his fucking welfare again, Eric ran. He was out the door, nothing but a breeze to ruffle the hair of the fangbangers he left in his wake. He bolted across the parking lot, but stopped next to his car before he could think about it. He ripped the tarp from the smaller car, freeing the Tuxedo black Corvette from its protective layer of fabric.

He stared at the two cars sitting under the halogen lamp, both glittering with beauty. They were so different and yet so alike. One sexy glam, the other racy curves. They fit perfectly together, sitting next to each other.

It was supposed to be a fucking metaphor, Eric thought. A physical metaphor. One had sharp fangs, the other had opulent luxury. One was silent, the other could never shut up. One dark, one light.

He was supposed to be in love.

And he was supposed to be loved back.

But he wasn't worth it. He had no moral compass, no way to salvage the soul that was waiting somewhere, waiting for him to die so he could pay for his sins. He was broken and he wasn't worth it.

Eric bunched up the tarp in his hands, fingers digging into the fabric like claws.

God, how he wanted his devil back.