Annika Northman: Part One

Chapter One: The Man in the Basement

Disclaimer: I own nothing of True Blood.

...

Dawn is only a couple of hours away, and Fangtasia has closed for the night. This is why I can leave my room without anyone seeing or caring. I have to pass by Eric's office to do so, and maybe he hears me, but he won't care, because all the things I'm not supposed to see are done and gone. Until tomorrow night.

Except there might be one thing I'm not supposed to see. The thing I'm going to see right now. But it might not even be there. He. He might not even be there. The man in the basement. I've had visions that were wrong before. Nonsensical, even. Or irrelevant. Actually, a lot of them are irrelevant to me. But even some of those seem relevant to Eric, which is what matters.

This one would be relevant to both of us, if it's real.

I don't have to go into the club part of the club to get to the basement. I just slip down a hallway, tiptoeing, even though I know it doesn't help much. Sneaking around behind Eric's back, or Pam's for that matter, isn't about hoping they don't hear you, because they always can. It's about hoping the sounds you're making are some of the sounds they're filtering out.

I reach the basement door.

I'm not supposed to go into the basement.

But there's a sudden pull in my gut, a yank, really, that makes me gasp. And then the man flashes through my head again. Alone in the basement, shirtless, black, slumped against a wall, chained to it, and – it's too dark to be certain – I think there's blood on his face.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Then I open them and open the door.

The smell is horrible. Like sewage and something rotting. A dozen concrete steps stretch down before me. The staircase makes a sharp right at that point and finishes itself in five more steps.

You can still turn back.

There's the yank in my gut again.

I step forward and ease the door closed, as much as I can. It still makes a hard, loud closing noise. And then it's very dark. But there are small lantern-like lights above the door. That's enough for me to see by. I reach for the staircase rail, rusted and pipe-like, and begin to descend.

It only takes five steps for me to see the entire basement clearly. Which is when my chest dips and I have to swallow really hard. There are dim yellow lights along the wall, not doing a lot, but enough for me to see what I wasn't supposed to see.

There's a man sitting in the far left corner of the big concrete room. Shirtless. Chained to the wall by a collar around his neck. Most certainly bloody. And staring at me.

"Oh, shit," he mutters, I think to himself, before straightening up against the wall. "Hey, there, sweet pea. What's yo' name?"

My hands are tight around the rail. Somehow it never crossed my mind that he would speak. His voice is deep, but quivering and breathy. Ragged. There's a hint of the too-nice, condescending tone people use with children, which I would normally immediately dislike him for, but not now. It's not important now.

Don't answer him. If you answer him, it's real.

"I'm Annika."

Shit.

"Annika." He has a thick southern accent, a lot of people around here do, but there's something extra about his. Smoother. "Ain't heard dat one be-fo'. I like it, though. It's real pretty. My name's Lafayette . . . You a human, ain't choo, Annika?"

"How can you tell?" Me, I can spot a vampire a mile away. But I've grown up with them. A lot of humans don't seem to have any sense of it all. Not that I spend much time around humans.