Chapter 4: Dead Man's Things
The Sunset Motel squatted on a forgotten stretch of Highway 165, halfway between nowhere and nothing. Neon flickered against peeling siding—VACANCY always lit, SUNSET barely holding on. The original Sam's memories had brought me here, and for good reason.
The night manager didn't look up from her tabloid when I walked in.
"Room seven," I said. "Weekly rate."
"Hundred sixty. Cash only." She was sixty-plus, leathery skin, the particular emptiness of someone who'd stopped caring decades ago. Her heartbeat was slow and steady. No recognition, no fear. She'd seen worse than me.
I counted bills onto the counter. She counted them back, handed me a key.
"Blackout curtains already installed. Don't ask about the previous tenant."
I won't.
Room 7 was exactly what I needed. Thick curtains that turned noon to midnight. A bathroom with a shower that worked. A bed that would do for the night, though I'd need to retrieve the coffin from storage eventually. The walls were thin but the location was isolated. I could hear three other heartbeats in the building—the manager, someone in Room 3 coughing through emphysema, and a couple in Room 12 doing things that required no elaboration.
I locked the door. Wedged a chair under the handle. Stood in the dark and breathed air I didn't need.
Safe. For now.
The night stretched ahead. I should hunt, maintain my blood reserve, prepare for tomorrow. Instead, I sat on the bed and let the weight of the last forty-eight hours settle.
Two days ago, I'd been dead. Actually dead—corporate heart attack, alone in my apartment, gone before the ambulance arrived. Then nothing. Then this.
A body that wasn't mine. A world I'd only watched on a screen. Powers I was still learning to trust.
And a murdered vampire whose life I'd stolen.
The original Sam's memories pressed against my consciousness like bruises. Fragmentary, incomplete, but present. He'd lived 150 years and accumulated almost nothing—no allies, no territory, no ambition. Just survival. Running from hunters, avoiding politics, drifting through the margins of vampire society.
Until someone staked him and buried him in a shallow grave.
Why?
The question had been nagging since I'd clawed my way out of the dirt. The original Sam was nobody. No enemies worth noting, no secrets worth killing for. Just a drifter who'd made it through fifteen decades by being forgettable.
So why did someone take the trouble to end him?
The answer waited in Bossier City. The storage unit held more than I'd inventoried. I'd been rushed, panicked, racing against dawn. Now I had time.
I checked my watch: 12:47 AM. Hours until sunrise. The storage unit was thirty minutes away.
Go.
The storage facility was dead quiet at 1:30 AM. No security guard, just cameras that probably didn't work and locks that definitely didn't matter. I rolled up the door and stepped inside.
Darkness absolute. My vampire eyes adjusted instantly, revealing the familiar shapes: boxes, duffel bag, the weapon crate I'd already opened. But tonight I noticed details I'd missed.
A floorboard that sat slightly higher than the others.
The seam wasn't visible to human eyes—barely visible to mine. But the original Sam's muscle memory knew what to do. I pried up the board with my fingernails.
Underneath: a metal lockbox, fire-resistant, old.
The combination surfaced from memories that weren't mine: 4-18-58. The original Sam's turning date.
Inside the box: $38,000 in cash, bundled in twenties and hundreds. Emergency fund. Paranoia fund. I'm-about-to-die fund.
And beneath the money, a leather-bound journal.
I lifted it carefully. The leather was cracked, the pages yellowed. Sporadic entries spanning decades—the original Sam's handwriting evolved from formal Victorian cursive to something approaching modern print.
I flipped to the final entry.
March 4, 2008
Hunters in Shreveport. Amateurs but persistent. Saw them near Fangtasia—watching the entrance, taking photos. Stupid enough to be obvious, smart enough to worry me. Silver weapons, maybe stakes. They're looking for someone. Might not be me. Probably isn't. Should leave anyway, but I've been here five months and I'm tired of running.
Tomorrow I meet with M. She says she has information. Says she knows who the hunters are targeting. Price is reasonable. Meeting's in Shreveport, neutral ground. Should be fine.
The entry stopped mid-sentence. Ink trailed off, as if he'd been interrupted.
M.
The same initial from his ledger. The meeting that got him killed.
I sat back on my heels, the journal heavy in my hands. The original Sam had walked into a trap. Someone named M had set him up—or been used to set him up. The hunters had done the rest.
They think I'm dead.
That was advantage number one. Advantage number two: they were amateurs. Obvious surveillance, daylight patterns, the kind of operation that suggested passion over professionalism. These weren't veteran vampire hunters. These were angry people with weapons and grudges.
Why?
Didn't matter. Not yet. What mattered was that they operated near Shreveport, near Fangtasia, near Eric's territory. And I planned to establish in Monroe—fifty miles away, out of their apparent range.
Be small. Be patient. Be elsewhere.
I packed the cash and journal into a duffel bag. Added the weapons, the IDs, the laptop. The coffin would have to wait—I couldn't fit it in the truck's cab, and leaving it visible in the bed invited questions.
On my way out, I noticed something else I'd missed: a suit bag hanging from a hook on the back wall.
Inside: a single suit. Navy blue, conservative cut, quality fabric. Not expensive but well-made. The original Sam's dress clothes for occasions that rarely came.
I held it up. The measurements looked right.
Might as well look the part.
Back at the motel, I laid everything out on the bed. Took inventory. Made lists.
Liquid assets: $77,000 total. $50,000 in cash across the storage unit and safety deposit box. $27,000 in the checking account under the original Sam's name. Enough to establish a foothold.
Physical assets: vehicle, storage unit, the Monroe property I hadn't yet visited. The coffin, the weapons, the identity documents.
Knowledge assets: the journal, the ledger, the fragmented memories. Meta-knowledge of a television show that had somehow become reality.
What would corporate me do with this portfolio?
The answer was obvious: acquire, consolidate, grow. But the vampire world didn't operate like corporate America. Power here was political, personal, territorial. I needed position before I could build.
I opened the laptop—it was old, slow, running Windows XP—and mapped Louisiana.
Area 5 covered northern Louisiana under Sheriff Eric Northman. I knew him from the show: thousand-year-old Viking, pragmatic to a fault, loyal to those who earned it and ruthless to those who didn't. He ran Fangtasia in Shreveport, played politics with the Queen in New Orleans, and kept his territory tight.
Bon Temps sat twenty miles south of Shreveport. That was where canon would explode—Sookie Stackhouse, Bill Compton, the entire hurricane of supernatural chaos that defined the show. Staying away from Bon Temps was survival priority one.
Monroe was perfect. Fifty miles east, economically depressed, minimal vampire presence. The original Sam's property there suggested he'd recognized the potential even without ambition to pursue it.
I have the ambition.
The system interface pulsed at the edge of my vision. Quest progress: Establish Your Domain remained active. Haven secured would complete objective one. Registration with Eric would complete objective two. Income source would complete objective three.
Start with the property.
I searched for Monroe businesses. Cross-referenced commercial real estate listings. Found what I expected: the original Sam's building was sandwiched between struggling neighbors in a dying downtown. The pawn shop that rented the ground floor was three months behind on rent.
But the building next door caught my attention.
The Silver Dollar Roadhouse. Est. 1961. For Sale.
I clicked through to the listing. Owner: George Patterson. Asking price: $180,000. Days on market: 247.
The photos showed a classic Louisiana roadhouse—wooden floors, long bar, enough space for a hundred drinkers. The finances showed a business bleeding money. George Patterson was seventy-three, according to the property records. His wife had died in 2004. No children. No heir apparent.
Dying man. Dying business. Opportunity.
I didn't feel good about it. But I didn't feel bad enough to look away.
The Silver Dollar could be transformed. A neutral ground for vampires and humans. Not a fetish bar like Fangtasia—something legitimate, something that served both communities without the circus atmosphere. A business that generated income and built relationships simultaneously.
First territory.
The sun was rising. I felt it like a weight pressing against my bones, the primal urge to sleep that came with dawn. I closed the laptop, drew the blackout curtains tight, and lay on the bed fully clothed.
Tomorrow night, I'd visit Monroe. See the property. Assess George Patterson.
Tonight, I wore a dead man's suit and dreamed a dead man's dreams.
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