That's Not My Name

 

Chapter 2

In the office of Fangtasia, Eric is sitting in a chair with a barber’s apron wrapped around his neck. Pam is standing behind, cutting his hair.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to foil it? It’s looking pretty drab.”

“Maybe tomorrow. It’s almost daylight.”

“Okay. But you are getting dangerously close to looking German.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

The phone rings. Pam walks over to answer it while Eric pulls off the apron and runs his fingers through his still damp hair.

“Hello?” Pam frowns, disappointedly “Oh, Sookie. Let me check.”

She glances over to Eric, who shakes his head.

“Not tonight. I could make something up, but…yeah. Uhuh. He’s been in a foul mood all week, so I’m not going to push it. Bye now.”

Pam hangs up the phone and walks back over to the chair, brushing off a few stray hairs from Eric’s neck.

“As much as I hate to say it, you will have to talk to her at some point. She might send Bill.”

He offers his familiar refrain, “I will get to it. Maybe tomorrow.”

Hearing the sadness in his voice, she rests her head on his shoulder. He tilts his head to touch hers.

“Lets go home.” He says.

“Why don’t you let me grab us some take-out? Chinese? There’s an adorable new delivery girl at Changs.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Pam looks concerned, but does not push it. They pack up their things and head out the door.

Some time later, they arrive at the front of a modern townhouse. Pam unlocks the front door and they walk through. In front of them are two doors – one at the top of a short flight of stairs and one just off to the left. As soon as they walk into the foyer, Eric glances up to the door in front – it is not quite closed. He glances back at Pam.

She says, in mock horror, “Are we being robbed?”

Eric deadpans, “Why get take-out when you can have delivery?”

As he approaches the door, he sniffs the air. Blood. Not fresh. Lots of it. His expression changes and he vamprushes through the door, Pam right behind. He stops in front of the sofa. There he sees a figure lying asleep, covered in a towel from his bathroom. On the coffee table, there is a bag stuffed sloppily with a blood-soaked shirt and pants. Eric’s eyes widen as he walks closer and gently tugs at the towel to reveal the figure underneath, clothed in just underwear.

“Peia.” He whispers in disbelief.

“I thought you said she was dead.”

“She is just full of surprises.”

“She looks pretty beat-up.” Pam responds, noticing her arm in a sling, a healing gash in her side and the shallow breathing of someone who has broken ribs.

Eric cannot suppress a small smile.

He moves closer to her, kneeling next to the couch. He brushes the hair away from her face. Her forehead is hot, like the last time. He looks up at Pam.

“I’ve got this.” Indicating that she should go.

Pam nods, but with a concerned frown.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

Eric acknowledges with a quick glance.

He gently pushes his arms underneath Peia’s body, then lifts her up. She is completely limp. He carries her toward a door on the other side of the room. He fumbles for a second key to this door, unlocks it and moves through the entrance. The motion causes Peia to stir. She mumbles, weakly,

“Can I stay here for a while?”

“As long as you like.” He assures.

Inside this room is a large, king-sized bed with a black duvet and red satin sheets. He pulls back the duvet and lays her gently down. She has drifted off to sleep again. He quickly undresses and climbs in the bed next to her. He runs his hands over her shoulders and then gently moves her head to wake her. She blinks her eyes.

He whispers, “Peia, I have to pop your shoulder back in. Blood can only do so much. It is going to be painful.”

She nods her understanding. He turns her on her side and positions himself behind her for support, his face against hers. As softly and quickly as he can, he wraps his hand around her exposed upper arm and then forcefully shoves the bone back into the socket. She only whimpers, but he feels the hot tears begin streaming down her cheek. He pulls back slightly, causing her to roll toward him onto her back. He releases his fangs and is about to bite his wrist when she realizes what he is going.

“No.” She whispers.

“I want to help you.” He responds, concerned.

She attempts a small smile of reassurance. Talking is painful, so she says only what she has to.

“I am healing. I want to know how long it will take on my own.”

He finds himself unable to go against her wishes. He retracts his fangs and moves in closer, pressing the skin of his chest against her back. She lets him envelop her – the points of contact tingle with recognition. It feels extraordinary. It feels like home. Before she lets herself drift off to sleep, she asks meekly through tears,

“Can you take my headache away again?”

He smiles, happy to be asked. He releases his fangs just long enough to graze the surface of his own tongue, opening up a small wound. He moves his head around just far enough to kiss her temple, letting his tongue place a few drops of his blood onto her skin. By the time he removes his lips, the wound is healed, her headache is gone. They sleep.