Chapter 2: Dirty Deeds

She watched clouds go by the window with a heavy heart. Despite the pay increase and the free luxury penthouse condo, all Olivia could taste was the bitterness of demotion. Sophie-Anne assured her this was far from it, that Olivia was still employed by the Queen and she was still to abide by Her Majesty's best interests. But this information reached her in the form of a letter, handed to her by one of the Queen's staff. If Sophie-Anne really meant it, she would have done it in person. Olivia wasn't an idiot, she could read between the lines. But she knew the risks of the choices she made, or at least that's what she told herself. It was easier that way. Still, Olivia couldn't help but grieve, not because of her new assignment, but because of the old one. She really didn't want to leave New Orleans so soon, but before she already realized it, she was already here, all alone in the small private jet. Destination: Shreveport.

What hurt the most was that Olivia didn't even get to say goodbye.

Other than the usual rumblings of an aircraft, the plane was quiet as she was the only passenger in the jet's cabin. She looked down at her laptop, rereading her notes for the tenth time, her brain not even retaining the words lazily written. From what she understood about her new client, silence and peace would be a rarity from now on. It's a good thing, she thought. Keeping her mind busy would mend her little broken heart a bit faster. Hopefully.

Once she landed, a car was already waiting for her at the end of the tarmac to take her to her new home. Tomorrow she would meet Eric Northman, the infamous sheriff of area 5. All she knew about him was what the Queen had told her, and her opinion of him varied highly depending on her mood. On a good night, he was loyal, ruled mercilessly, was feared and respected by his subjects. Mostly due to his age, as Eric Northman was one of the oldest vampires around, well over a thousand years old. His strength and speed were unmatched. On a bad night, he was a narcissistic asshole and a manipulative power-hungry liar. Olivia guessed he was probably all of the above, all the time.

Every trait she did not want in a client. Olivia wasn't the regular kind of forensic accountant. She was the dark kind, the one you call to launder money and turn illegal businesses clean on paper. And more often than not, it required some fundamental changes in how people handled their business. As if it weren't challenging enough, running a vampire's books was especially difficult in the current political climate. The FBI, IRS and the DEA have been all over their asses, prosecuting vampires at every corner they could since the Great Revelation. But as long as they listened, and lived by Olivia's rules, it would be okay. Olivia lived by a strict set of commands that she very seldomly broke. Rules were the pillar of keeping her head attached to her body, and most importantly, her ass out of jail. So to find out Eric's blindspots, she had to use:

Rule number 3: everyone lies.

And to catch a liar, one must lie too. In order for Olivia to do her job properly, it would require the sheriff's unconditional trust since she would be in control of basically all his money. The first step was to see who the vampire really was. Eric Northman did not know this yet, but he was about to hate Olivia Carson with a burning passion.

When Eric managed to leave his bedroom, he found no trace of broken glass anywhere in the foyer. He had a small, but trusty day staff who took care of most of the pesky things in his life such as Pam's tantrum carnages. In the kitchen, he found a note from his progeny:

Taking the night off - P.

He sighed, reaching into the fridge for a bag of blood to start off the night right. Great, he would have to handle the new accountant alone. Better that, than having cranky Pam around nagging the poor bastard around. After he finished his bag of AB-, he took a cold shower and put on fresh clothes before heading back to Fangtasia.

The parking lot was quiet and empty. Only Ginger's shitty car was parked out front. He thought it was strange for the accountant not to be here already, but nevertheless, more time for him to do more important work. Eric didn't really care if the guy showed up or not at this point. He had more pressing matters in his mind.

Ginger had cleaned the whole place from the night before and almost tripped on herself when she spotted Eric enter.

"Hello, Mr. Northman," she said, all giddy as usual. Everything about her personality got annoying about 5 years ago, but she was a good employee and Pam strictly forbade him from firing her.

"Ginger I am expecting the new accountant to show up tonight. Let me know when he shows up, will you?"

"Y-yes, sir!" She said, an octave too high.

After he sat on his chair in his office, his first instinct was to push the piles and piles of paper cluttering his desk to the side, but he stopped himself.

Not on your fuckin' desk.

Right. These were all the papers for the accountant, carefully prepared by Pam. Already annoyed, he decided to use the computer later. He swivelled on his chair and reached for the security camera remote. He leaned forward closer to the four monitors behind his desk and rewinded the ancient device to around opening time. He flipped the tapes between forward and backwards on the video, looking for a specific woman, until he found her: lower corner of the entrance footage. 11:13 PM. Pam ID's her, she enters. Forward three seconds, another camera: at the bar. Ginger serves Ophelia a glass of white wine. Then, she disappears in the corner until… 11:46 PM, where she crosses the dancefloor with Pam. 11:49 PM, she sits with Eric. 11:52 PM cops show up in the parking lot, 11:54 PM she leaves through the east exit, running down the alley. The backstreet camera shows her taking off her pink heels and running south bare feet until she is entirely out of frame.

This…. Literally gave him nothing. What a waste of fucking time.

"How did she know?" He muttered.

He rewinded the tape again, this time looking at the bathroom hallway camera. Eric recognized the human he brought back to consciousness last night as he entered the bathroom with a vampire he knew, Anthony Grey. It wouldn't be too hard to find him either, Eric knew exactly who he was. Grey owned a 24-hour dry cleaner across town. And, he would be having a date with the Magister and become a fangless little bitch soon enough.

"Knock, knock!" Ginger's high pitched voice spoke behind him.

"What?!" He barked, not turning around.

"Miss Carson is here!"

Eric swivelled back in his chair so fast the bearings on the chair almost came loose. Behind Ginger, was her. They locked eyes, both knowing the gig was up.

"Thank you, Ginger, please close the door on your way out." He commanded.

Ginger awkwardly shuffled around Miss fucking Carson and closed the door gently behind her. The room suddenly felt very hot.

"I'd say nice to meet you, but it seems we've met last night." She spoke in her friendly voice.

That's was the fucking understatement of the year. Carson was not only a lady accountant (that was on him, he just assumed Carson was a man), but they did indeed meet last night. But Eric Northman had met her as Ophelia Crawford.

Carson can be quite delicate. But not like a flower, more like a bomb. He remembered the Queen saying. No motherfucking shit.

She looked different than last night. Carson was wearing high-waisted black leather pants, an oversized men's oxford shirt tucked in, and navy blue closed-toe heels. Her hair was blown out straight, and her make up was sheer and radiant. The only things that were the same, were her nice brown eyes and her maddening delicious scent. The fact that she was even hotter as Carson, deeply irritated him.

"I'd like to apologize for last night," she added after Eric's long silence. She stepped forward and took a seat across the table, realizing he wasn't going to invite her to. "I needed to know how you operated without knowing who I was. You see, people tend to lie to their accountants..."

"Do they now?" Eric asked rhetorically.

"I wasn't really expecting you to notice me. I only meant to be a fly on the wall."

How in the fuck does someone like her expect to go unnoticed? Eric wanted to ask the woman how she knew about the raid, but he didn't anticipate her to be truthful. He didn't know what to ask her next at all. Miss Carson looked at the table, recognizing the papers.

"I see you've gracefully prepared the documents I've asked," She noted with a smile.

Eric pushed his chair back, away from the table, and gestured for her to take a look at the papers herself. She hesitated, but got up and slowly approached his side of the table, glancing at him over her shoulder periodically. She knew he was studying her every breath.

He watched her go through the papers, meticulously examining them, stacking them carefully in a specific order on her left hand, until there were very few piles left. Her scent was pure, and golden, and filled him with happy post-war memories. If he reached forward with his hand, he could grab her ass too. He liked that.

"Where's the rest?" She asked, in a serious tone.

"It's all there. Everything the old accountant had."

She chuckled sarcastically. "I'm not like your old accountant, Mr. Northman."

"No," he replied coolly. "You aren't." In a swift quick movement, he stood up and stepped real close to Carson's body, who took a step back, almost sitting on the table. She held all the papers in front of her as if they were somehow her body armour. Her scent was intoxicating. "Bruce wouldn't have lied to me."

"I already said sorry." She barked back, straightening her back. Her heart beating fast, but not a trace of fear showing. "I will need all the documents pertaining to all your real estate properties, your offshore accounts and assets, plus your Blackbook. I'm also missing all documents pertaining to Pamela-"

Eric's jaw tightened. The Blackbook was the recording of his V selling side business. Who sold what, from whom, to whom and how much. No human in this area could deal vampire blood without his blessing - and most importantly, without his cut. This meant Carson knew all about the V, of course, she did. She worked for Sophie-Anne, the one who made him get involved with this dirty business first place.

"Why do you want the Blackbook?" He interrupted angrily with a snarl, fangs out and inches to her face.

"I'm an accountant, Mr. Northman," she repeated, not even flinching. "Our Majesty has sent me to launder your dirty vampire money and commit tax evasion so the Authority gets a bigger cut than the IRS, and to embezzle your drug-dealing money so she gets her rightful part, and the Authority never ever finds out about it; all while keeping the feds and the DAE away from both of us, and the filthy paws of any of your associates out of all of it."

And here it was: the real punishment by hers truly, Queen Sophie-Anne. Eric disliked this human bitch about as much as he wanted to fuck her and drink her dry. It was a lot. But of course, he couldn't.

"Now, where is your Blackbook, Mr. Northman?" She repeated.

The tone of her voice, so demanding, so authoritarian, so audacious… It was truly pushing his buttons. However, Eric Northman only had one button: annihilate. Which, due to the edict on her head, he could not do. Plan B. Eric looked deeply into her eyes, softening her soul. He was going to glamour this little breather into submission. He raised his hand, softly touching her jawline with the back of her finger. Never again she was going to give him this sassy sour attitude.

"Easy now little bird…" he whispered.

But her eyebrows frowned and with a fast wave as she slapped his hand away. "Glamouring doesn't work on me, Mr. Northman."

Eric paused. She was becoming more and more interesting by the minute. It was extremely rare that a human could resist being clamoured but it was possible. It made sense Queen Sophie-Anne would hire a human with such capabilities. The only way of getting information out of her would require much more painful methods. And again, due fucking edict of protection on Carson placed by the Queen, Eric could do no harm to her. No physical harm anyway. Eric came with another idea. What he was about to do was much worse. Oh no, he was in it to play the long fucking game.

"Miss Carson, I believe we've started on the wrong foot here," he said, retracting his fangs. "You can call me Eric."

Her body half-relaxed. "Olivia," she told him.

"Good. Olivia, my progeny Pamela will drop by your place tomorrow first thing after sunset with the remainder of the papers you require, including my Blackbook," Eric reached over his desk, his body completely pinning hers against his desk. Her skin was warm, and it was becoming increasingly difficult not to sink his teeth on her soft tanned skin. He grabbed a pen and a post-it note. "Your current address, please."

Her heart was still beating a mile a minute, hard against her ribcage. Come on, play ball with me. Olivia hesitated but took the pen and paper and scribbled some little words, in perfectly neat handwriting.

"That would be all, Mr. N- Eric." She smiled again. Yes, let your guard down little bird. "I shall review your current situation, and we will meet again at this time later on this week."

Eric stepped again, letting the woman leave. Olivia took all the stacked papers and put them neatly in her briefcase, closing it with two clicks. Her remarkable scent was starting to fade away, leaving a hole in Eric's stomach. The tone of her hair and skin against her white shirt was beautiful. This was no longer a question of who was Olivia Carson. But what was Olivia Carson?

Oh, the game he was about to play was a wicked one.

Pam stood in the hallway at 7:05 PM, waiting. She shuffled on her heels one more time, quietly, killing time. She couldn't mess it up, Pam only had one shot. She closed her eyes trying to hear the traffic outside. The walls in this building were thick - she wondered if the Queen put Olivia here because of it, other than it was just a really nice building. Shreveport was not particularly booming in the luxury real estate business.

7:09 PM. Game time. Pam knocked on the door loudly. Feet walked towards the door from the inside, and Olivia answered the door.

"Hello again, cupcake," Pam told her. Olivia was wearing a men's light blue oxford shirt as a dress, with a blush pink satin ribbon tied around her waist. Eric was right, she was annoyingly attractive once they knew who she was. Or who she claimed to be, anyway.

"Hello, Miss Swynford De Beaufort, you have the papers I need?"

"Yes, I sure do," Pam said, not moving.

Olivia looked down at Pam's hand, waiting to receive the papers. "Well?"

"Eric may be keen on obeying his Queen and accepting you as his accountant or whateva, but I ain't. Especially after the lil' stunt you pulled on Sunday."

The woman sighed as if she were bored with this little game. But Pam had a plan, and about 2 minutes and 35 seconds to kill.

"I'll give you the papers you need, including my own shit, but I'll need something in return." Pam declared.

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"You gotta invite me inside," Pam smirked. "It's only fair."

"Fine," Olivia said, much to her surprise. "Come in Pamela."

She was surprised the woman didn't put up an argument. Pam stepped inside carefully and handed the papers over. Before Olivia could stop her, she rushed deep into her apartment. Again, for Pam's confusion, Olivia didn't seem to mind. It was strange having a human not care about a vampire in their own home, much less not putting up a fight.

"Nice place," Pam said admiring the high ceilings.

"Thanks," Olivia muttered, distracted. She was preoccupied with checking over the bundle of papers she was handed.

Her apartment had nice warm white walls, dark wooden floors, a completely open concept and sophisticated feminine furniture. It lacked the brand new furniture smell and she noticed slight signs of wear and tear all over the place. Dust peeking from under the fridge, small scratches on the dining room table, tiny dents on the TV console, little scuffs on the wall. Olivia's delightful scent lingered in the air, but it didn't seep from the couch or her other belongings. She hadn't been here for very long, but the furniture was. Nothing here was brand new: this was most certainly a furnished rental. Interesting.

Pam glanced at her watch: it was game time. She lazily strutted towards the large living room windows to "checkout" the woman's penthouse view. It looked fine, but Shreveport was no Swiss Alps. She looked down and smiled. Bingo.

"Nice view. Oh, some poor bastard's car is getting towed." Pam said, in her most convincingly uninterested tone. "You don't drive a black BMW sedan, do you?"

Olivia finally looked up from the papers she was given, with a set of deer in the headlights eyes. She jogged to the window beside Pam, looking down at the street. Swing of the bat and-

"Oh, shoot!" She shouted, turning around and running across her apartment. Olivia tossed the papers on the marble kitchen counter, grabbed her car keys and ran out.

Homerun.

While Pam was blowing off some steam the night prior, Eric carefully curated a plan to do digging on this accountant chick the Queen so gracefully sent over. Checking the parking lot tapes of her first official visit, he took notice of her car and license plate. Along with the address she wrote on a note, he did some creeping. She lived in a small and exclusive luxury apartment building in one of the few successfully gentrified neighbourhoods close to downtown. When he went over for further investigation, he also discovered Olivia also, unfortunately, slept with all her curtains closed. So he created a distraction: he glamoured a towing truck employee to tow her car at exactly 7:11 PM, while Pam was inside her apartment.

Alone in the apartment, Pam quickly scanned Olivia's belongings in the living room, and on the shelves. Nothing personal: some boring photography books, some autobiographies that looked brand new and never read. No personal mail, or photos on display. Not even a graduation diploma. The kitchen only had basic staples and regular food (she was a fan of salty snacks).

In Olivia's purse, there were three or lipsticks of a similar shade, dark rose nude, plus some other boring shit. She went through her wallet: no cash but a couple of credit cards, health insurance and her driver's license. Olivia Rose Carson, 28, New Jersey. Looked cute in the picture too.

Pam quickly made her way to the bathroom. Olivia had a respectable collection of hair and skin care products, but inside of the medicine cabinet, there was nothing but Advil. Damn.

"This bitch is boring," Pam muttered. She opened a door off the hallway expecting to be the master bedroom, but instead, she found an almost empty spare bedroom. One wall was fully covered in mirrors, and in the very middle was a sturdy stripper pole. "Ah, maybe not." Olivia Carson had some sexy hobbies indeed.

In the master bedroom, she didn't find anything interesting, other than a vibrator in the nightstand, but let's be honest, who doesn't? Just adjacent to it was a small walk-in closet. Now here is where she would find out who Olivia Carson really was. Everything you needed to know about a woman was in her closet. At first glance, she had impeccable taste, which Pam approved. At the very end of the rack, she peaked a puffy black coat, with an iconic stripe by the zipper. It was a Moncler puffer coat. A designer winter coat for someone who lives in Louisiana? Perhaps she still had family up in New Jersey and visited for Christmas or whatever. On the top shelf, orange dust bags caught her eye. Not one, but three sizable Hermès bags sat lonely on the high shelf. She reached for one and opened it. It was a black with gold trim, brand new, 33" Hermes purse. She examined all three. All were empty, no creases on the leather, no scratches on the metalware - never used. Strange.

Pam raised an eyebrow, putting the bags back on the shelf. Olivia would be back upstairs at any minute now, so Pam went straight to the jugular: her jewellery box. Her jaw almost dropped, as she owned some very recognizable items: a pair Tiffany & Co. Bone golden cuffs, and six different Cartier juste un clout rings, a man's Rolex watch, and the pièce de résistance a pair of Van Cleef & Arpels' snowflake earrings. Pam wanted to hold them in her palm, but they literally made her nervous because she knew the price tag. Something did not add up here.

Pam quickly checked her clothes again, examining the tags of each of the items hanging: Banana republic, Gap, Zara, Guess. She bent over and examined the shoes: lots of heels, no pair over 100 dollars. Something was wrong. Why would some who owned well over 150k worth of jewelry, and 30k in purses shop for clothing at a basic-ass mall and wear cheap shoes?

The specific jacket. The never-used Hermès bags. The jewelry. Those earrings. They were her money stash. Her luxury collection was carefully curated by how well they retained their value if kept in good condition. And they were small enough items that she could grab in one go in seconds and disappear into the night. Olivia Carson not only knew the value of money, but she knew how to hide it in plain sight. Smart little cookie. She was the kind of person who extremely calculated her every move. Pam wondered for a second if Olivia knew what she was doing, going through her stuff, and if this too was meant to be seen. If Pam was meant to discover what she was. Could she be that clever?

Pam knew what she was: Olivia Carson was a runaway. And runaways have secrets.

A.N.:

Hello! Some mild plot twists in this chapter haha

Thank you so much for all the love this story is getting! Just to clarify (if this chapter did not make it clear) I change POVs often, but I do like writing from Eric's perspective the most. Also, there will be no posting schedule, so make sure to follow/fave to get the notifications.

much love xoxo