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That's Not My Name	By : marksandspence Category: S through Z > True Blood Views: 6314 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I have not created the True Blood (credit to Charlaine Harris & Alan Ball) or BtVS universes (credit to Joss Whedon) and do not have any claim on the characters other than the ones I have added. I make no money off of these stories.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Author’s Note: In doing some fact checking for this chapter, I came across some reminders of how the characters differ between the television show and the Southern Vampire Mysteries, mostly in terms of backstory. I would like to come clean once again that I have not read any of the books and so everything I know about Eric and Pam (etc.), I have either learned from the television series or have made up. I hope this does not totally annoy fans of the SVM, although I imagine it might! Also, if I do get something from the television series unforgivingly wrong, feel free to e-mail me (marksandspence@yahoo.com). Actually, any feedback would be most welcome!
Chapter 9
Back to the present (i.e., jump forward 8 months)
Pam emerges from the office and walks toward Peia, who is still sitting at the bar, lost in her own thoughts. She had helped herself to a drink, but has not touched it. Pam stops next to the stool Peia is sitting on and stares at her without speaking for a disconcerting minute, a skeptical frown on her face.
“Eric tells me you are family, but I am not at all clear whether to bite you or take you shopping. And that kind of ambiguity pisses me off.”
“I could use some new clothes.” Peia offers.
“That’s no secret, honey. But okay then. We’re going shopping.”
Pam walks over to the cash register and pulls out a wad of cash.
“But don’t get all gooey on me. We’re not sisters yet. I’m doing this because I could use a new set of wedges and it will make Eric happy. Not to mention that I would be mortified for anyone to think we are related with you dressed like that.” She circles her hand in Peia’s direction as she utters the last word.
Peia suppresses a smile as she slides off the stool and follows Pam out the door.
*
A few hours later at Fangtasia, a woman holds a picture up to the bartender, who glances at it, shakes his head nervously and nods toward Eric who is sitting in his usual place. The woman acknowledges the suggestion, but takes a slow turn around the club, scanning faces, before approaching him. She wears a decorative headscarf, wrapped too loosely over her head to be a cultural requirement, but rather gives the impression of the wearer being slightly out of time or place. Her features are vaguely European, with strong eyebrows, long, narrow nose and delicate chin. Hair and eyes matching browns, she could be from anywhere. In fact, she had spent her youth in the city of Tbilisi back when it was a growing city, the new capital of Iberia, an insignificant cousin of King Ujarmeli. Fifteen hundred years had all but erased her memories of the city of her birth, but the formality of her (vaguely) royal upbringing remains in her countenance and stature.
She quietly observes the bartender finding an excuse to deliver the message to Eric, noting his reaction. Not an easy one to read, but she feels confident that he must know something. Why else would the bartender bother alerting him? At this point, she decides to learn more, she must address this vampire directly. She hesitates, momentarily embarrassed by her folly. He need not know her urgency. She does have other business here. Convincing herself, finally, to go forward with her indulgence, she glances up to see that Eric has left his chair. In a moment he is in front of her.
“I am told you are looking for someone. Perhaps I can be of assistance?” To her hear, his polite indifference sounds perhaps a bit over-rehearsed.
Proximity permits Eric to sense her age and his suspicion is somewhat overwhelmed by deference.
“Have you seen this human? I was told she might have travelled here. She was last seen in southern California.”
She hands him the picture. It is of Peia, sitting in front of the door of a club, as a bouncer would, looking tough with a thin silver chain wrapped around her upper arm.
“Sorry,” He responds, stifling any sign of recognition. “I would be happy to keep the picture as reference in case she appears.”
The woman nods, hiding her disappointment well.
“What is your business with this human?” Eric decides to ask, feeling it expected.
“It is a personal matter. Unimportant. Thank you.” She tries a bit too hard to hide her embarrassment.
“And yet you travelled from California to find her?” Eric responds, skeptical.
Something in his tone piques. He knows her.
“I have other business here.” Her spirits lifted by this glimmer of hope.
“With the King?”
She thinks a moment – she had not even bothered to investigate the politics of this region before initiating her journey. Who did they put on the throne to replace Sophie Anne? She shakes it off – whoever, they are insignificant. She closes her eyes a moment to see the page in The Book she needs. Opening her eyes, she responds,
“On the contrary. I believe my business is with you. Am I speaking with Eric Northman, Viking, turned on the date 982 AD by the Maker, Godric?”
Eric’s eyes widen slightly. She is a Recorder. He had never met one before. Somehow, he expected someone with more of a librarian look to them.
“Yes. I am honored…”
“My name is Dali. I Record the continent North America. Do you have time to meet now, or shall I return tomorrow?”
“I will make time now. May I get you something? You will find I have much to offer.”
She responds in exaggerated formality, “I require only your cooperation and honesty. The integrity of The Book depends on it.”
He looks her up and down, before saying with curiosity and awe “Where is it?”
“Oh, The Book. Left it in the car.” Probably should not have done that. In too much of a rush to find Peia. “Do you have an office where we can meet in a moment?”
Eric nods, indicating the appropriate door. She nods and disappears for a second, returning with a large, woven bag. They walk to the office. Once there, Eric nervously clears off a space on the desk and rushes to find a comfortable chair for Dali to sit on. She nods in appreciation, pulling out The Book, along with a peculiar looking pen and seal, setting everything on the desk. Eric waits patiently, unsure what someone from this ancient vampire order would need from him.
She flips through The Book, finding the necessary page. In gold lettering at the top are the words “True Death” in Latin.
“It is rumored that you were present at a number of significant true deaths of late. We require witness, not rumors to complete the entries. Although, any veritable information would be invaluable to the accuracy of The Book.”
Suddenly Eric looks nervous, overwhelmed by the presumed content.
“Everything is in there?” He says, staring at the oversized, leather bound book in front of him.
“Not everything. Of course there are many volumes. We are not magicians. But somehow The Books sounds kind of clunky.”
“Right.”
“Lets jump right in with Godric.” Dali is staring down at the entry when she asks with indifferent formality, “Can you, Eric Northman, confirm this final death?”
“Yes,” he responds with some emotion.
“Were there witnesses?” She looks up from the book as she asks this.
“I was there.”
Having not confirmed this prior, she offers, “I am sorry. Seeing the death of one’s Maker is a pain I would never wish on anyone, despite Our need for witness.”
She writes something in The Book, then asks, “Mode of death?”
“Sunlight.”
She makes a note. Then without looking up, “Murder, suicide or accidental?”
“Does it matter?” He pleads, the words catching in his throat.
“It does.”
After a moment, he is able only to say, “Self…”
She nods her understanding, makes a note in The Book. Looking up, she says,
“You should not feel shame in this. Many of the old ones meet their final death this way. They say we are immortal and yet, the limit to our existence proves often to be ourselves.” Seeing the pain in his face, the hint of tears in his eyes, she decides to add, “My Maker did the same. Someday you will stop blaming him for this choice.”
He looks away from her before responding, “Is there anything else?”
“Oh yes. First, I need your signature in blood.” She hands him what appears to be an ink jar. Off of his confused look, she adds, “There are a few more. Best extract enough blood for all the signatures at once.”
He takes a small knife she hands him, cuts across his wrist and then pours the stream into the jar before the wound heals.
“Next up, The Magister.” She says with a hint of anticipation.
Eric’s eyes widen. He has yet to be called out on his role in this. He stumbles a moment before mumbling, “I…uh..”
Understanding his likely concern, “We do not pass judgment and we do not share information with the AVL if that is your concern. The Order of Records was in existence long before the AVL, long before the Authority. We operate with autonomy.”
Eric nods and responds, “I was witness to the final death of the Magister.”
“Mode of death?”
“Beheading. Murder.”
She nods, writing it down. She then flips to an entirely different section of the book.
“What of Russell Edgington?”
“I can confirm that the former King of Mississippi has not met the final death.”
“I see. And his consort and offspring, Talbot?”
Awkward.
“I was witness to his death. Stake to the heart. Murder.”
“Right.” She utters under her breath as she writes it all down.
“And while we are on the subject of royalty, what of Sophie Anne Leclerq?”
“I was not witness to that. Bill Compton could likely supply you with additional information on that. King Bill was present at her final death.”
“We do not accept the signatures of any vampire under the age of 500. However, I will make a note. Likely Regicide.”
Dali turns The Book around, with her fingers marking each page that needs Eric’s signature. He dips the pen in the well and signs each indicated page in his own blood.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” He asks as he helps turn The Book back around.
She hesitates just a moment, again trying to access something from her memory. She flips to a particular page. He cannot help but see his name listed.
“You have been very helpful. Do you have any living offspring, Mr. Northman?”
“Yes. Pam Swynford De Beaufort. Why?” He hopes he knows, but does not dare mention the possibility. He notes that she does not move the hand now holding the official pen.
“She has been with you some time?”
“Over 100 years.”
Dali takes this in, seeing the pride and devotion in Eric’s eyes.
“She will be Recorded.” Dali states without emotion.
No one knows exactly what criteria the Order of Records uses to determine which vampires get in The Book and which come and go without mention. Certainly age is significant. But there have always been rumors that certain accomplishments might get you an entry in The Book. It is considered a great honor to be mentioned – a coveted distinction, granting a different kind of immortality.
Eric can’t stop himself from smiling, “Thank you.”
Dali nods, “Spell her name for me.” She follows his dictation and then asks for and writes down the date of her turning. At just over 100, Pam would be borderline in terms of inclusion, up to the discretion of the Recorder. But Eric’s line has been marked by longevity and his cooperation tonight inspired Dali to make the call. Once the entry is finished, she turns the book around again and indicates where he should sign. He glances up the page and notes with some sadness the signature of Godric next to his own name. She takes The Book back and begins to stamp each altered page with a seal, damp with fresh blood from her wrist. Eric just watches, quietly, waiting for the moment when he can call Pam and tell her the news. Dali begins packing up her things.
“Please, let me get you some blood. We have a particularly tasty delivery boy.” Eric offers.
She does not acknowledge the offer, but instead says as she adjusts her head scarf and pulls the bag strap over her shoulder,
“She is…well?”
Eric looks confused – Pam? Dali glances at the picture of Peia on the desk and looks back up at Eric.
“Mostly.” He hopes he is not making a mistake by this acknowledgment.
“I only wish to know she is safe.”
He nods affirmatively, still wary of her motive.
Feeling a connection and sensing his protectiveness, she adds, “I wanted to help her. But it was not my place to interfere. There are things going on in that Area…” She shakes her head, letting the sentence dangle. What does a Sheriff in Louisiana care about vampire politics in California?
Neither of them say anything more, and yet both are satisfied with the information given.
*
Later, Eric produces the picture Dali had given him for Peia back at the townhouse.
“Nice chain.”
“I told you, I was a bouncer in a bar frequented by vampires and things. I needed to look badass. Expectations, remember?” She explains.
“A vampire was looking for you tonight at Fangtasia.”
“Male or female?” Peia asks with some concern.
“Female.”
“It’s probably just my stalker,” she responds with relief. “Was her name Dolly?”
“Dali. D-a-l-i”
“Oh, that makes so much more sense.” She always thought Dolly was an odd name for a vampire.
“She is your stalker?” He asks, skeptically.
“Well, a literary stalker. She first showed up at a “meet the authors” event back in Nyack. Then Spike and I would see her every now and again when we were traveling and then she seemed to settle in California. Never spoke more than a few words to me, but she was just there a lot. I was worried for a while that she might pull a Kathy Bates – it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. In the end, she rescued me.”
“Rescued you? From who?” Eric asks, perplexed because of what Dali had told him.
“From what. The hospital.” She explains, “The ones who tased me – once they realized they’d knocked me out, they brought me to the hospital. Well one thing you should know about me if we’re going to….er… if we’re going to be spending time together, never EVER take me to a hospital.” She shudders visibly at the thought of it. “Just the smell of the place will make me lose my shit. Nothing like 20 years in hell to sensitize someone. Anyway, I lost it and they just kept pumping me full of tranquilizers and strapping me down. I still can’t believe Spike let them do it. Maybe he didn’t know.” She shakes her head to brush off the thought before continuing. “So the next time my head was clear enough to think, I found myself with her – she was living in a tricked out crypt in the graveyard. Still, any place was better than the hospital. I owe her.”
“The ones who hurt you – what were they, vampires? Wolves? Witches?” Seems odd for vampires to take someone to the hospital.
“No. I think they called themselves Slayers.”
***
- 8
- 9
- 10
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That's Not My Name