Charlaine Harris - Dead in the Family

Changing the subject when she had nothing left to say was another of Pam’s characteristics. I had to smile and shake my head. “How’d the meeting with Victor go?” I asked.

“It would be a good thing if Victor met with an unfortunate accident.”

“You really mean that?”

“No. I really wish someone would kill him.”

“Me, too.” Our eyes met, and she gave me a brisk nod. We were in synch on the Victor issue.

“I suspect his every statement,” she said. “I question his every decision. I think he’s out to take Eric’s position. He doesn’t want to be the king’s emissary any longer. He wants to carve out his own territory.”

I pictured a fur-clad Victor paddling a canoe down the Red River with an Indian maiden sitting stoically behind him. I laughed. As we got into Pam’s car, she looked at me darkly.

“I don’t understand you,” she said. “I really don’t.” We went out to Hummingbird Road and turned north.

“Why would being a sheriff in Louisiana be a step above being the emissary of Felipe, who has a rich kingdom?” I asked very seriously, to make up my lost ground.

“ ‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,’ ” Pam said. I knew she was quoting someone, but I didn’t have a clue who it was.

“Louisiana is hell? Las Vegas is heaven?” I could almost believe some cosmopolitan vampire would consider Louisiana as less than desirable as a permanent residence, but Las Vegas—divine? I didn’t think so.

“I’m just saying.” Pam shrugged. “It’s time for Victor to get out from under Felipe’s thumb. They’ve been together a long time. Victor is ambitious.”

“That’s true. What do you think Victor’s strategy is? How do you think he plans to dislodge Eric?”

“He’ll try to discredit him,” Pam said, without pausing a beat. She’d really been thinking about this. “If Victor can’t do that, he’ll try to kill Eric—but he won’t do it directly, in combat.”

“He’s scared of fighting Eric?”

“Yes,” Pam said, smiling. “I do believe he is.” We’d reached the interstate and were on our way west to Shreveport. “If he challenged Eric, it would be Eric’s right to send me in first. I would so love to fight Victor.” Her fangs gleamed briefly in the dashboard light.

“Does Victor have a second? Wouldn’t he send that second in?”

Pam cocked her head to one side. She seemed to be thinking about it as she passed a semi. “His second is Bruno Brazell. He was with Victor the night Eric surrendered to Nevada,” she said. “Short beard, an earring? If Eric allowed me to fight for him, Victor might send in Bruno. He’s impressive, I grant you. But I would kill him in five minutes or less. You can put money on that.”

Pam, who had been a Victorian middle-class young lady with a secret wild streak, had been liberated by becoming a vampire. I had never asked Eric why he’d chosen Pam for the change, but I was convinced it was because Eric had detected her inner ferocity.

On an impulse, I said, “Pam? Do you ever wonder what would have happened to you if you hadn’t met up with Eric?”

There was a long silence, or at least it seemed long to me. I wondered if she was angry or sad about her lost chance for a husband and children. I wondered if she was looking back with longing on her sexual relationship with her maker, Eric, which (like most vampire-vampire relationships) hadn’t lasted long, but had surely been very intense.

Finally, just when I was going to apologize for asking, Pam said, “I think I was born for this.” The faint light from the dashboard illuminated her perfectly symmetrical face. “I would have been a dismal wife, a terrible mother. The part of me that has taken to slashing the throats of my enemies would have surfaced if I’d remained human. I wouldn’t have killed anyone, I suppose, because that wasn’t on my list of things I could do , when I was human. But I would have made my family very miserable; you can be sure of that.”

“You’re a great vampire,” I said, since I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She nodded. “Yes. I am.”

We didn’t speak again until we reached Eric’s house. Oddly enough, he’d bought a place in a gated community with a strict building code. Eric liked the daytime security of the gate and the guard. And he liked the fieldstone house. There weren’t too many basements in Shreveport, because the water level was too high, but Eric’s house was on a slope. Originally, its downstairs was a walk-in from the back patio. Eric had had that door pulled out and the wall made solid, so he had a great place to sleep.

Until we’d become blood bonded, I’d never been to Eric’s house.

Sometimes it was exciting being so closely yoked with Eric, and sometimes it made me feel trapped. Though I could scarcely believe it, the sex was even better now that I’d recovered, at least in large part, from the attack. At this moment, I felt like every molecule in my body was humming because I was near him.

Pam had a garage-door opener, and she pressed it now. The door swung up to reveal Eric’s car. Other than the gleaming Corvette, the garage was spotless: no lawn chairs, no bags of grass seed or half-empty paint cans. No stepladder, or coveralls, or hunting boots. Eric didn’t need any of those accoutrements. The neighborhood had lawns, pretty lawns, with rigidly planted and mulched flower beds—but a lawn-care service trimmed every blade of grass there, pruned every bush, raked every leaf.

Pam got a kick out of closing the garage door once we were inside. The kitchen door was locked, and she used a key so we could pass from the garage into the kitchen. A kitchen is largely useless to a vampire, though a little refrigerator is necessary for the synthetic blood, and a microwave is handy to heat it to room temperature. Eric had bought a coffeemaker for me, and he kept some food in the freezer for whatever human was in the house. Lately, that human had been me.

“Eric!” I called, when we came through the door. Pam and I took off our shoes, which was one of Eric’s house rules.

“Oh, go get your greeting over with!” Pam said, when I looked at her. “I’ve got some TrueBlood and some Life Support to put away.”

I passed from the sterile kitchen into the living room. The kitchen colors were bland, but the living room echoed Eric’s personality. Though it wasn’t often reflected in his clothing, Eric harbored a love of deep colors. The first time I’d been to his house, the living room had surprised the hell out of me. The walls were a sapphire blue, the crown molding and baseboards a pure, gleaming white. The furniture was an eclectic collection of pieces that had appealed to him, all upholstered in jewel tones, some intricately patterned—deep red, blue, the yellow of citrine, the greens of jade and emerald, the gold of topaz. Since Eric is a big man, all the pieces were big: heavy, sturdy, and strewn with pillows.

Eric came out of the doorway to his home office. When I saw him, every hormone I had stood to attention. He’s very tall, his hair is long and golden, and his eyes are so blue the color practically pops out of the whiteness of his face, a face that is bold and masculine. There’s nothing epicene about Eric. He wears jeans and T-shirts, mostly, but I’ve seen him in a suit. GQ missed a good thing when Eric decided his talents lay in building a business empire rather than modeling. Tonight he was shirtless, sparse dark gold hair trailing down to the waist of his jeans and gleaming against his pallor.

“Jump,” Eric said, holding out his hands and smiling. I laughed. I took a running start, and leaped. Eric caught me, his hands clamped around my waist. He lifted me up until my head touched the ceiling. Then he lowered me for a kiss. I wrapped my legs around his torso, my arms around his neck. We were lost in each other for a long moment.