Annika Northman: Part Two

Chapter 2: Moral Anarchy

Fangtasia is a strange place to call home, I know enough to know that. Most homes are private and have windows, for starters. But I've spent the last three years here, so, strange or not, Fangtasia usually feels like home. Safe and comfortable and mine. But it isn't like that tonight.

Tonight, Eric is angry.

"HOW could you FAIL ME?"

I wince, even though there's a door and a set of stairs between Eric and me. He is in the basement, and I am waiting on the floor above, outside of the basement's heavy door. I've heard him yell like that – bellow, is a good word for it – only two or three times in my life, and never at me, I'd probably die if he yelled at me that way. It's a horrible sound.

Something has clearly gone very wrong. I could hear it in that yell, but what's more, I can feel it in the air, which is vibrating. It isn't a painful vibration, it almost isn't there, but it is, and it won't stop. And it's coming from Eric, I can recognize that like I'd recognize his voice. But I haven't seen him in the hours since Ginger returned me to Fangtasia. I waited in his office for a long time before Pam finally came in with a fangbanger – I'm not supposed to use that word, but there really is no better term for it – and threw me out, told me that Eric was busy and probably would be for the rest of the night. At which point I began to kill time in my room, reading, watching a documentary about the Siege of Leningrad on my portable DVD player, skipping through the forty-seven songs on my new iPod within five minutes, trying and failing to work on a French assignment, and then just pacing, as I do, in silence. For a long time – like I said, hours. Up until I heard and felt the club close for the night and for almost twenty minutes after that.

Then I caved and went to search for Eric.

When I found his office empty, I should have simply waited in there. But I'd waited for so long already, so I thought it couldn't hurt to just walk down the hallway, see if he was out on the club floor. But the bar was abandoned, and I felt a tiny pull in my gut, a pull from the basement – from Pam, not Eric, but I decided to follow it anyway. Which is how I ended up outside this door, listening to his muffled voice.

Well, it was muffled, anyway. Until he yelled.

All I know for sure is that he's not yelling at Pam. She wouldn't just take it. There might be someone else down there, but other people aren't down there very often, so Eric is probably on the phone. With someone I would not trade places with for all the treasure in the world.

Wait – there. Pam's voice. I stop walking and stare at the door, holding my breath. I can't make out what she's saying, she isn't speaking loud enough. I could press my ear against the door, but no. That would be eavesdropping. This . . . isn't quite that. Somehow.

Eric answers her. Loudly. Not with the shout he was using before, but not with a calm, controlled tone, either.

Pam answers evenly.

No answer . . . no, there. Just a tiny something. Eric, in a low voice.

Pam replies.

A pause. Maybe a whisper from Eric.

Then a loud response from Pam. And even louder stomps up the stairs.

I back up against the wall, it's all I have time to do, before Pam throws open the door. She's still in one of the black, tight outfits she wears during work hours, her makeup so thick and dark it might be comical if she weren't so beautiful despite it. At the sight of me, she huffs out a breath and slams the door behind her. "Whatever you want him for, I suggest you wait."

She walks away, hips swinging, without further explanation. Leaving me to bite my lip and consider. Pam knows Eric in a different way than I do. If she says to wait . . .