Disclaimer: If I owned True Blood, would I have had to buy the first season?

Rating: M for Mature

Content: Violence, language and sexuality.

Summary: I carried on with the pretense that I only stayed because I had nowhere else to go, no one else to draw. I wondered how long it would be before he'd call me out on my lies. I think he enjoyed them. EricOC

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Another Way to Die

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Chapter 1: Première Nuit

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I chewed on my lower lip, propping my elbows up on my knees and inhaling the warm, Louisiana night. The curb was surprisingly cool and people milled behind me, absorbed in their own thoughts and words. I was careful not to touch any of them. I wasn't quite sure where I was in Shreveport. I had arrived via bus in the mid afternoon and spent the remainder of the sunlight wandering around. I managed to get a few sketches in; there were plenty of tourists. The majority I had sat down with for sketch portraits were from the Mid-West, eager to be apart of the nightlife in a vampire friendly city. One of the women, a year or so out of Drake University had flirtatiously informed me that she was going to head over to a vampire bar later that night. I decided it wouldn't hurt to mosey on over and take a peek, maybe get a few drawings in.

But when I got there, the woman at the door, clad in leather pants so tight I thought they were sprayed on, jadedly requested my ID,

"Can't you just tell my age?" I asked, puzzled. She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, her half lidded eyes drinking me in like a cat deciding if getting the birdie in the cage would be too much trouble. I suppose she settled on too much trouble,

"I still need to see your ID," I shoved my hands into the back pockets of my cut offs,

"Look, I was booted two months ago; I don't got an ID," So she rolled her eyes and waved me away.

But sitting on the curb all night wasn't exactly the smartest of ideas and I wasn't too keen on entertaining it. I looked around and saw a few Gothed out vamps brooding in the middle of the line and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Pursing my lips and swallowing my nerves, I stood and brushed off my backside. I strolled over and came close enough to hear one of them complain about being out of matches,

"Need a light?" I held out my Zippo, already lit. They eyed me, indiscriminately raking over my frame, my coarse hair, my skin too light to be black, too dark to be white. I held their gaze, hoping they wouldn't disregard me. They seemed like they'd been there before, like they knew the crowd and the establishment as well as their own fangs. Their leather and spandex gleamed in the outdoor lighting of the bar,

"Sure," A girl with a shaved head finally said. She leaned forward, her eyes never leaving mine. She inhaled the tobacco and the fire before tilting her head back to let loose a stream of pale smoke. Then the others lit their cigarettes. They spent a few minutes taking drags and relaxing, moving up in line and murmuring so quietly, I strained my ears to catch what they were saying. It was useless; they knew how to avoid human ears,

"I need to get inside," I finally blurted, "The lady at the door won't let me in 'cause I got no ID," They seemed a little surprised and I played with my lighter, keeping my hands busy and my eyes on them,

"Are you a fangbanger?" The girl asked curiously. A few of her companions, male and female, unsheathed their fangs and hissed softly. They subtly shifted their bodies, making themselves more domineering and seductive,

"No," I replied as she took another drag, "I draw. I wanted to sketch some vampires," They exchanged glances,

"You want to draw vampires?" One of them asked incredulously. I nodded,

"You don't want to get it on or take V- you want to draw,"

"Uh, yeah," There was a pause, as if they needed the time to see if they believed me or not. They began laughing. Finally, the girl settled to a chuckle,

"That- that's a good one. All right, c'mere. I'll take you through the back," She flicked her cigarette to the side and took my hand before I could protest. A tremor ran through my body. There were neon lights and pulsating bodies, Ziggy Pop playing in the back and sweat and smoke and lust and want and the dry, white hot burn up my nose as I leaned my head back, relishing in the cocaine, the heat and then- it was over, she was still pulling on my hand, weaving past the back of the line to an alley between Fangtasia and the warehouse next door. When we stopped, she turned to me, eyes smoldering,

"Now what?" I asked, willing myself not to back into the wall,

"Now we wait," She bared her fangs, "The name's Sabrina,"

"Rochelle," I replied, eager to keep the conversation light and her fangs out of my neck, "Rochelle Laveau,"

"Where're you from?" Sabrina cocked her head to the side, "That sounds like a Creole name,"

"It is," Nodding, I swept up my rat's nest into a makeshift bun, "Born and raised in New Orleans by my mémère,"

"Huh," and the door sung open before she could continue. Her friends stood by, furtively glancing about before ushering us in. We slipped by the bathrooms and down the hall towards the music and dancing. I thanked them before getting away, carefully dodging gyrating bodies and taking a seat at the bar. I looked around, trying to seem as untourist-y as possible. I was an out of towner, but not that much of an out of towner. I had enough money for a drink and asked for a virgin Mojito, setting down my backpack. The bartender cocked an eyebrow,

"You sure 'bout that, cheri?" I almost grinned at the sound of his Cajun accent. It was nice to hear after the constant Southern drawls and the occasional Yankee pitch,

"Yep," So he shrugged and made me one. I sipped my drink, eyes wandering. There were dancers on raised catwalks, their bodies arching and moving with an ethereal, nightly grace. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone, tried not to look like an open invitation. A few doe eyed tourists walked around, gaping in awe and wonder. I spun around on my stool so that my back rested against the edge of the counter. I reached for my sketchbook and pencil and took to doing quick doodles of people. After a drawing out some heads and a couple poses of the dancers, I felt someone tap on the shoulder strap of my wife beater. I twisted a little. The Cajun vampire had leaned forward, palms pressed down on the edge of the sink behind the bar,

"You're wanted," I blinked, a bit confused,

"Like, by the law?" He chuckled and shook his head,

"Something like that," He nodded up at a dark dais where someone sat, like a king on some throne, "It's the third time he's looked over here. You better get on up there, cheri," Although the puzzlement settled in my veins like my mémère's potions, I complied, packing up my stuff. I swallowed and edged through the crowd. Before I reached the steps, the air seemed to smear and the woman from the door of the bar appeared before me. She placed her hands on her hips, leaning her weight on one long leg. Her eyebrow seemed to be permanently arched in some echo of dispassionate amusement. Behind her, I saw a tall, redhead in a second skin black dress walk up the stairs. The vampire in front of me drew my attention back to her,

"I thought I didn't let you in," It was a human statement and something in me knew that she was merely luring me in for a kill,

"You didn't," I confessed a bit as I glanced past her. The foxy ginger looked humiliated as he dismissed her, "I went in through the back," I wasn't going to snitch though. Snitching was a pussy thing to do,

"You're lucky Eric wants to see you," She replied dryly. My eyes traveled to him again. Eric… He was too clothed in shadow for me to get a proper look-see. I squinted in the hazy darkness, "Let's not keep him waiting," She purred, her blonde hair flowing like liquid silk over her bare shoulder. I nodded and followed her up. She waved away a few admirers and stood at his right, her gaze forcing people back. I hooked my thumbs around my backpack straps close to my waist and resisted the urge to rock on the balls of my feet.

At the distance, I could make out more of him. His blonde hair was a little long and those highlights were in no way real. He had to dye his hair, I was sure of it. His features were sculpted, more than model-esque. Briefly, I thought of the old statues and paintings I had only seen pictures of: the works of Masters like daVinci, Raphael, Bernini! Things I had ached to see as a kid, things that seemed to blur into one person in front of me. He spoke with no introduction,

"You're new to the streets," His glacier blue eyes ripped me to pieces. I shrugged carelessly,

"Yeah," He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply,

"And young, too," I shifted, squaring my shoulders and planting my feet firmly beneath me. Some form of amusement glimmered in his eyes. We stared at one another for a few moments,

"Is that all you wanted to say?" I finally inquired,

"What are you doing here?" Eric asked, ignoring my question,

"Sketching," I replied shortly, "And I was drinking a virgin Mojito before you called me over here," If he was human, I swore he would've laughed,

"And what exactly were you sketching?" He murmured,

"You," I replied absently. I caught myself, "Not you specifically," I skidded over my words as his eyebrow curved up by a heartbeat, "You as in, um, vampires," I caught my lip between my teeth, "I wanted to be an art student, but I'm broke," I found myself blabbing, "So I practice by drawing. A lot. I thought that vampires would be interesting models," He watched me for a moments, his gaze unwavering,

"Sit," It was more of a command than a suggestion and I complied, slipping my bag off and sitting where he gestured to his right. The seat was shadowed and I hoped I was hidden from view, "I've got things here, Pam," He continued, not to me but the leather clad woman. She nodded and ghosted down the steps, throwing a sidelong, sultry stare over her shoulder. We lapsed into a strange silence. I pressed my knees together; my right foot was shaking with that stupid, nervous tic mémère always reprimanded me for. It seemed to be getting on Eric's nerves, too,

"Knock it off," He hissed between his pearly teeth. I stilled, but it wasn't long before it acted up again. His hand shot out, gripping my thigh as he stretched towards me. I squeaked in surprise. The familiar shiver trickled down my spine and suddenly, it was freezing and there was sea wind and arctic sun and fur and leather, salt and steel. Calloused hands and calls in a language I couldn't understand or place. There was a deep-set pride and folded into it was the desire to see a pregnant wife and a bundle of children. There was a wooden deck and the ship broke the waves and the gulls flew overhead, crying out and then I jerked away, closing myself off, bringing my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my knees,

"Sorry,"

I was back at the bar, sitting to Eric's right in shadows filled with doubt and lust. I tried not to look at him but in the corner of my eye, I could see his face held a curiosity, an interest. My heart slammed in my chest; I've had detailed sights before but nothing that ever felt so old,

"Not at all," I had almost forgotten that Eric was still there until he responded, his voice as smooth as buttermilk. I shifted uncomfortably, "What's your name?"

"Rochelle Laveau,"

"What was that just now, Rochelle Laveau?" I didn't answer. He regarded me thoughtfully before saying, "Perhaps you'll feel more talkative tomorrow," My head whipped to face him, eyes wide, eyebrows cinched together,

"What do you mean tomorrow?" He propped his chin up on his palm, the perfect picture of sex and masculinity and irrevocable power. It made me uncomfortable, which it shouldn't have! He wasn't the first vampire I had ever spoken with,

"I assume you have no place to stay," With his angling, I knew he wouldn't be the last,

"Yeah, but-" My griping was cut short and sweet when he interjected,

"But what? Are you refusing vampire hospitality, Rochelle?" The threat didn't hang empty between us. I clenched my hands around my elbows like jaws of a 'gator. A prickling sensation crawled up my neck and into my scalp and I was amazed my teeth didn't crack from all my gritting. My jaw ached a little. I may make stupid mistakes from time to time but I was no idiot,

"No," I finally said, defeated, "Thank you," I hoped he would ignore my half-heartedness. He didn't disappoint.

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Mémère is Creole for "grandmother". Let me know what you think!

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The Author