Chapter 5: The Lone Wolf
My fourth sunset felt different.
The heaviness lifted as darkness claimed the sky outside my blackout curtains. I came awake all at once—no grogginess, no transition. One moment dead to the world, the next absolutely alive.
Vampire metabolism. I'd read about it, seen it on screen. Experiencing it was something else. Every cell in my body vibrated with borrowed energy, blood reserve humming at 145/220, the night calling me toward purpose.
I showered under water as hot as it would go. Twenty minutes of warmth I couldn't generate anymore, streaming down skin that would never change. The sensation reminded me of mornings in Seattle—coffee brewing, rain against windows, the ordinary miracle of waking up alive.
Small pleasures. Hold onto them.
The suit fit better than expected. I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror: average height, lean build, unremarkable face now wearing professional clothing. I looked like a regional banker or a funeral director. Forgettable in the best possible way.
Monroe waited thirty minutes east.
The Honda Accord I'd purchased handled the highway without complaint. Used, unremarkable, cash transaction from a lot that didn't ask questions. The original Sam's memories had known exactly where to go.
I drove through twilight into full dark, watching Louisiana scroll past. Strip malls, fast food chains, churches on every corner. The landscape of American nowhere, indistinguishable from a thousand other stretches of rural highway.
This is my territory now.
Monroe emerged from the darkness like a promise. Population fifty thousand, economy struggling, downtown hollowed out by Walmart and bad luck. The perfect hunting ground for a vampire with patience.
I drove the main streets first. Noted the bars—three were open, all half-empty on a Tuesday night. Noted the storefronts—half shuttered, half struggling. Noted the people—blue collar, working poor, the kind of population that wouldn't ask questions about a new business owner with unusual hours.
The Silver Dollar sat on Third Street, between a bail bonds office and what had once been a hardware store. The neon was off, but a pickup truck sat in the parking lot. Someone was inside.
I parked across the street and watched.
Through the windows, I could see a man behind the bar. Seventies, white hair, moving with the careful slowness of someone managing chronic pain. George Patterson, presumably. He was polishing glasses that didn't need polishing, performing the rituals of a dying business.
Tomorrow. Tonight is reconnaissance.
I pulled away from the curb and continued my circuit. Past the original Sam's building—the pawn shop was closed, apartment above dark. Past churches and liquor stores. Past a roadhouse called Lucky's that had actual cars in its lot.
That's when I spotted her.
A woman leaning against the back wall of Lucky's, partially hidden by shadow. Dark hair, dark clothes, the particular stillness of a predator at rest. She was talking to a man—human, judging by his heartbeat—who didn't seem frightened despite the intimacy of their position.
Vampire.
I knew the posture. The original Sam had fed exactly like this a hundred times. Find a willing target, charm them into privacy, take what you need without taking too much. Clean, professional, invisible.
She was good. Better than I was. Which meant she was either older or more practiced.
I parked the Accord two rows over and watched.
The feeding took four minutes. The man emerged first, looking dazed but happy, adjusting his collar. He walked toward Lucky's back entrance with the unsteady gait of someone who'd donated a pint. The woman stayed in the shadows, licking her lips, her eyes sweeping the parking lot.
They locked onto my car.
She made me.
I had options. Drive away, avoid confrontation. Step out, establish dominance. Sit still, see what she did.
I chose option three.
Thirty seconds later, she was at my window. Knock knock.
I rolled it down.
"You've been watching me for twenty minutes." Her voice was low, accented—Spanish, maybe Cuban. Her face was angular, severe, the kind of beauty that made people uncomfortable rather than attracted.
"Fifteen," I corrected. "You fed for four. I arrived at the eleven-minute mark."
Her eyes narrowed. "New to the area?"
"Recently arrived. Looking to establish."
"Establish what?"
"Residence. Business. The usual."
She studied me with the evaluating stillness of an older vampire. Not ancient—nothing in her presence suggested Eric's weight—but older than me. Older than the body I wore, probably.
"This area isn't officially claimed," she said. "But I hunt here. Have for three years."
"I'm not challenging your hunting grounds. I'm scouting commercial opportunities."
"In Monroe?" Skepticism colored her tone. "This town is dying."
"Dying towns have cheaper real estate."
Something flickered in her expression. Interest, maybe. Or reassessment.
"What's your name?"
"Sam. Sam Huffman."
"Elena." She didn't offer a last name. "How old?"
"Hundred fifty. Give or take."
Her eyebrow rose. "Give or take?"
"Memory gets fuzzy around the Civil War." The lie came easily. The original Sam would have said the same thing.
"You're registered with the Sheriff?"
"Planning to. Tomorrow night."
Elena leaned against my car, arms crossed. The position was calculated—blocking my door, establishing physical superiority without direct threat. Classic vampire territorial behavior.
"Eric Northman runs a tight ship," she said. "He doesn't like surprises in his area."
"Which is why I'm registering before I establish. Everything proper, everything official."
"And Monroe? Specifically?"
"Far enough from Shreveport to operate independently. Close enough to remain compliant. This town needs investment. I have capital."
"How much capital?"
"Enough to buy a failing roadhouse."
Her expression shifted again. This time I could read it clearly: calculation. She was weighing my potential value against my potential threat.
"The Silver Dollar," she said. It wasn't a question.
"You know it?"
"George Patterson drinks at Lucky's. Talks about selling, never does. He's dying."
"Cancer?"
"Something. He doesn't specify." Elena pushed off my car, stepped back. "You're either very smart or very stupid, Sam Huffman. Monroe isn't much of a prize."
"Prizes are expensive. I'm looking for value."
She almost smiled. Almost.
"Here." She produced a card from her jacket—plain white, a phone number handwritten in precise strokes. "If you're serious about establishing here, we should talk. Not tonight. But soon."
I took the card. "You're not going to warn me off?"
"Monroe isn't mine to warn you from. I hunt here because no one else bothers." She started walking toward a motorcycle parked at the lot's edge. "But if you build something worth protecting, I might be interested in helping protect it."
"For a price?"
She threw a look over her shoulder. "Everything has a price, Mr. Huffman. The question is whether you can afford it."
The motorcycle's engine roared to life. Elena pulled out of the lot without looking back, disappearing into the Louisiana night.
I sat in my car, her card in my hand, processing.
First contact. Not hostile, not friendly. Transactional. She'd measured me and found me potentially useful. That was better than dismissal.
The radio crackled to life when I turned the key. Country music, someone singing about tractors and heartbreak. I didn't recognize the song—2008 music from my perspective was old news, but here it was current.
Time displacement hits weird.
I drove back toward the Sunset Motel, Elena's card on my dashboard. Tomorrow: George Patterson. Tonight: planning, feeding, rest.
Monroe had a vampire already. Now it had two.
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