It is difficult not to take notice of him.

The way he stands a head or two above the other guests, how he is clearly aware of the fact, yet prefers to act as if he is not.

Something in the way he carries himself, regal, though as far as gossip goes he is not an aristocrat. A primal sense about him, a hunger in those odd glittering eyes, how they seem to bend all thought to him.

A precarious notion, attempts to be noticed by him, whilst not seeming too forward. A woman in her position, teetering on the edge of spinsterhood, must not appear desperate to attach herself to a gentleman.

The contest for his attention made clear in the eyes of every lady in the room, how they all focus on his whereabouts just as her, she attempts to formulate a plan for him to take notice.

A sharp wit, her father had always spoken of her, but a shy tongue made for unnecessary social contradiction.

Quickly inserting herself into the nearest conversation, feeling bold enough to let that shy tongue loosen, she has her cohorts cackling within minutes.

Much of the attention in the room shifts toward her group, curious as to the nature of such sudden exclamation, and she does take notice that many of her friends and neighbors look on in disbelief that she indeed is the cause of it.

Letting words flow freely for the first time, her tongue turning sharp, stabbing at the boredom of the night. Indeed it is only a matter of minutes before he quietly inserts himself into conversation, standing directly across from her so that those devilish eyes may focus more clearly.

It is as if his presence overtakes her, the boldness she felt before turning to confidence, matching his interested stare with her own.

Soon it seems that the conversation exists only between the two of them, he offering a slice of topic, she biting eagerly with witty retort.

It feels she has known him ages though they have only just met.

When all participants slowly break away he offers his hand and she has no choice but to take it.


It is wildly improper being alone with him on the balcony, but never has she felt so alive in taking such risk, her heart beating twice over.

He is Eric from the north, declaring his name for the first time.

Much further north than she can imagine, his slight accent clearly not associated with this land, his voice low yet smooth. The way he speaks sends chills throughout her body, under his gaze she has the inclination to do whatever he wishes.

Pressing himself against her, the movement itself so sudden and swift she gasps with surprise, hand running gently across her cheek she cannot help but lean into the touch.

He is laying claim to her, a possession she feels deep in her bones, her blood.

He talks of stars and how they do not shine as much as a deftly crafted word from her mouth.

His lips on hers suddenly, another swift movement she feels no need to repel, arching into him eagerly.

This behavior is beneath her, she knows, but does not deny the sheer delight of the action.

Promises whispered in her ear, by his side and forever words to take notice, she thinks him so enamored to propose marriage so quickly. Lips on her neck, pulse gaining a rapid pace, she lets her hands move to his hair and yes falls easily from her mouth.

Only when she feels the pinch, the sudden fear rising in her heart, that her life may be drained away in his kiss does she realize his intentions were of something else entirely.



Saying good bye to their respective sheriff's and Kings, if not for their society vampires would truly be monsters, not that she believes that for a second. Disappointment confronts them as they are yet another pair taking sail for the greener pastures of the new world. Honestly, she'll be glad to be free of the monotony undead life in Europe has become.

Finally, after a nearly decade of considering it, they have booked passage to America traveling on one of those new steam powered ships she has heard so much about.

In steerage unfortunately, stuck huddled against the rats and the riff raff. While she'd clearly prefer to risk the possibility of first class, the bowels of a ship the worst place possible for all her dresses, Eric insists that it's the only sure way to avoid the sun.

That, and if some lower class passenger were to fall under some mysterious ailment or suddenly disappear altogether, less of a fuss is sure to be made.

It is not so long ago she was positive she'd never travel beyond a homeland she was sure to die in.

He took her away from that simple life, shown her things the human she used to be would never dream, and this new voyage now a clear indication that it's not going to end anytime soon.


America is an oddity in and of itself, a constant contradiction of new and old available in any direction one should choose to turn their head.

Spending only a few days in New York, crowded streets and harsh urban conditions too reminiscent of a place they just abandoned. Making their way across the river, slowly down the coast, taking trains when convenient. Big noisy contraptions she enjoys immensely.

It is remarkably easy to hunt, a variety of different people constantly about, the land open wide enough for bodies to simply disappear any place they choose to be.

Washington is full of pompous political windbags that remind her too much of the aristocracy, and taste just as sour.

The Carolinas are unbearably hot, but the people seem to have a spicy tang to them, and she cannot get enough of it leaving a pile of bodies in a town too small that has them fleeing at more vigorous pace than intended.

Louisiana seems to strike a chord in Eric, perhaps because it is the complete and total opposite of where he comes from, spending an abundant amount of time passing through.

Crawling up the Mississippi, on massive river boats as they feed on gamblers and drunkards, and spend money unwisely on lavish dress and parlor games.

In St. Louis they overhear that gold has been found out west, and only have to share a look in passing to know their next destination.

Across the plains, the land so lush and alive, they nearly slaughter an entire village because the natives, true natives, taste so sweet they cannot help but gorge themselves.

Walking across a field in the middle of the night, her arm entwined with Eric's, moon shining high above.

She cannot think of another place she would rather be.



She dislikes Lorena they second she offers a hand, feigned politeness trying desperately to mask a superiority that has no place in their presence.

What is it about American vampires that make them so smug?

That odd sense of entitlement because they were made in a free world, or whatever it else it could be to get them thinking that way.

Her companion, on the other hand, seems to know he's in the presence of something bigger than himself, his stance humble and apologetic. Both of them as pale as marble, something about this jazz age style she'll never understand despite loving the pearls.

Standing besides the comically lavish chair Eric is sitting in, borrowed from the local sheriff, too busy looking them over to notice he just said something in old Swedish. A habit he's recently picked up, talking about people while directly in front of them.


Paying attention now, one of them is going to end up punished for a little incident involving a couple of speakeasy patrons and a violent bloody mess they didn't bother to clean up. Bodies with bite marks lead to suspicion, suspicion leads to questions, and questions lead to trouble.

They do have a bit of a reputation, wild nights and carefree antics that make her think about past indiscretions. Lorena isn't much of a maker, Bill Compton doesn't seem to have a clue as to what is taking place here, or that may not be seeing Lorena for awhile.


Bill looks like a lost puppy without her, miserable and lonely sitting on the bench in front of the piano she and Eric helped themselves from a victim a few years back. It's pathetic to the point of earnestness, the pity welling up from some unknown place inside.

Seventy odd years he tells her, and they've never been apart.

The urge to one up him is present, a taunt about nearly two hundred perched on her tongue.

Eric must see something to let him stick around; a punished one's child is usually left to their own devices once they're shipped off.

He's angry of course, the idea that a society of rules and boundaries exist amongst their kind still new, feeling foolish for not being aware before. Bill places his hands on the piano keys, the inquiry of him playing naturally follows suit, and she actually smiles when he busts out jelly roll blues for her.

There's nothing special about him, still relatively young, but the piano play is entertaining. Leaning over and nipping his neck without asking, fangs taking a little taste.

He leaps up in surprise, stuttered words asking what she means by it, asking about she and Eric, are they not…?

It's a common idea amongst vampires that makers and their progeny rarely stay together once the sex stops.

And while it happens frequently enough to be (nearly) called a fact, she grins at the idea that they're part of the exception rather than the rule.

The physical connection between she and Eric had ended little more than a year ago, and while it appeared mutually beneficial, she feels no need to leave his side simply because his eye now wanders to other possibilities of the flesh.

Nearly two hundred years together, all they have been through, what was the point in severing their companionship?

Almost laughing in his face at the old fashioned way he speaks, how green Lorena has left him, she explains that she was merely curious.



Funny that after all the years beside him, he still thinks he can keep things from her.

The bored, cold contempt he tries to pass off isn't fooling her for a second. She can feel his interest rising as easily as if it were coming from herself, as well as the annoyance that Bill had met her first.

Sookie Stackhouse, the remarkably unremarkable human that seems to have both Bill and Eric wrapped around her finger despite numerous declarations to the contrary on her part. A feisty little spitfire, annoyingly so with her constant verbal defenses as if anyone whoever opens their mouth is attacking her.

It feels like her eyes might actually get stuck from rolling them so much.

So easy to see how much Bill is enamored of her, the way it radiates off him in protective waves.

Eric is vastly more subtle, nothing more than a twitch of the eyebrow, but she can see the question forming in his mind as to what has Bill so invested in her.

Putting a hand on her hip, she sighs smelling the trouble to come like a freshly rotting corpse.


Eric always keeps his cards close to the vest, but of course she's allowed a peek because she's Pam, always the exception because she's the only one he trusts.

This time though, he's not letting her in on anything, merely barking out orders whenever he needs something and only offering apologetic gratitude when the task is done.

Bad enough he's acting this way, but over a human? Makes it even worse.

Sookie Stackhouse likes to walk and talk as if she can handle herself just fine when it comes to vampires, that mouth of her writing checks Bill somehow manages to jump in and cash.

It's easy to see the way she gasps, heart skipping a beat whenever Eric or another vampire do their best to remind her that she's out of her element. He won't harm her no matter how many times he'll flash his fangs or growl, treating her like a future lover despite the fact she's made it clear that Bill is the only one she's interested in.

Still, she knows that look, the uncanny patience that doesn't mind waiting for what he wants, planning and twisting events to his will.

She hopes those plans don't involve turning her, because it's bad enough having to put up with her with what little interaction they have.

But if he thinks she'll stand idly by while little miss mind reader makes fools of them all, he should know better. Just like he should know, no matter what his fascination with Stackhouse, she's the one by his side.

She's the one that will always be.