Chapter 9: The Offer
Elena called on the second day.
"You said three days."
"I said up to three days. I made my decision." Her voice was flat, professional, the accent suppressed into something almost neutral. "Your warehouse. One hour."
She hung up before I could respond.
The warehouse sat on Monroe's industrial edge—abandoned manufacturing, the victim of economic shifts that had hollowed out a dozen Louisiana towns. Elena had chosen well. No neighbors, no witnesses, multiple exits. The kind of place where vampires settled disputes away from human attention.
I arrived forty-five minutes early and still found her waiting.
She stood in the center of the main floor, illuminated by a single working light that cast harsh shadows across her features. Her jacket hung open, revealing the silver-tipped stakes holstered at her hips. Not hidden. Deliberately visible.
"You're early," she said.
"So are you."
"I like to know the terrain before meetings. Old habit."
I stopped ten feet from her position—close enough for conversation, far enough for reaction time. She noted the distance and something like approval flickered across her face.
"You bought the roadhouse."
"Signed the papers two nights ago."
"George Patterson has been telling everyone who'll listen. 'Nice young man, very generous, going to save The Silver Dollar.' He doesn't know you're vampire."
"He suspects. He doesn't want confirmation."
"Willful ignorance." Elena's tone was neutral, neither approving nor condemning. "Humans are good at that."
"It serves both our purposes."
She began walking a slow circle around me—the territorial behavior of a predator assessing potential threat. I held still, let her look. Above us, something moved in the rafters.
The stray cat. She still feeds it.
"You know about Eric Northman?" she asked.
"Sheriff of Area 5. Thousand years old, give or take. Runs Fangtasia in Shreveport. Has a reputation for pragmatism over passion."
"You've done your homework."
"I've been doing homework for 150 years. It's how I've survived."
Elena completed her circuit and stopped facing me. Her hand rested on her stake—not gripping, just touching. A reminder.
"And you think you can operate in his territory without stepping on toes."
"I think Monroe is far enough from Shreveport to matter. I think a small operation that generates revenue and doesn't cause problems is an asset, not a threat. And I think Eric Northman is smart enough to recognize the difference."
"You've met him?"
"Tomorrow night. Registration."
Her expression shifted—something like respect, maybe. Or calculation.
"He'll test you."
"I expect nothing less."
"You'll need backup for that meeting. I assume that's part of why you want to hire me."
Smart. Very smart.
"Part of it. The larger reason is that I need someone who knows this area, knows the players, knows how vampire politics work at the local level. I've been drifting for decades. I don't have networks."
"And you think I do?"
"I think you've spent ten years hunting the same parking lots and feeding from the same bars. That's either laziness or intelligence. You don't strike me as lazy."
Elena was quiet. The stray cat appeared on a beam above us, watching with luminous eyes. She glanced up at it, and for a moment her expression softened.
"I was turned in Havana in 1928," she said. "My maker was cruel and my first century was surviving his cruelty. When he finally met the true death, I came to America. Drifted, like you said. Found Monroe because nobody cared about Monroe."
"And now?"
"Now you're offering me something I haven't had in ninety years. Structure. Belonging. Territory I don't have to fight for every night." She met my eyes. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. I'm building something, and I need people I can trust. Competent people. People who understand that power comes from organization, not just strength."
"Trust is earned."
"Then let me earn it. Six months. Trial period. You work security for The Silver Dollar—help me renovate, staff, open. At the end of six months, you tell me if you want to continue. No penalties for walking away, no obligations beyond the trial."
"Compensation?"
"Percentage of profits—fifteen percent of net after operating costs. Feeding access to willing donors I'll cultivate through the bar. Territory rights in Monroe, shared with me. If we expand, your percentage expands with us."
Elena's hand left her stake. She crossed her arms instead—still defensive, but less aggressive.
"You've thought this through."
"I spent thirty-four years in corporate planning before I was turned. Old habits."
Lie. Truth. The same thing now.
"Why me?" she asked. "You could hire muscle from anywhere. Shreveport is full of vampires looking for work."
"I don't want muscle. I want a partner. Someone who thinks strategically, acts professionally, and understands that the goal isn't just survival—it's building something that lasts."
"And you think I'm that person."
"I think you could be. I also think you've been waiting for exactly this opportunity, and the only reason you haven't built something yourself is because you didn't have the capital."
The warehouse fell silent. Above us, the stray cat cleaned its paw with the particular intensity of creatures pretending not to pay attention.
"Six months," Elena said finally.
"Six months."
"And if I don't like what I see?"
"Then you walk away with whatever you've earned, no questions asked. But you won't walk away."
"You sound confident."
"I am confident. Not about you—I barely know you. But I'm confident about what I'm building. The Silver Dollar is just the beginning."
Elena uncrossed her arms. Her posture shifted from defensive to something closer to neutral—the body language of someone who'd stopped evaluating threats and started evaluating opportunities.
"One condition."
"Name it."
"The Eric meeting. I go with you. Not as backup—as witness. I want to see how you handle yourself before I commit to anything."
"Done."
She offered her hand. I took it—cold skin against cold skin, the brief contact of predators sealing an agreement.
"Tomorrow night," she said. "I'll pick you up at the motel. We drive to Shreveport together."
"You know where I'm staying?"
"I've known since you arrived. Keeping track of strangers is part of survival." She released my hand and stepped back. "Eight PM. Dress well. Eric appreciates presentation."
"Any other advice?"
Elena paused at the warehouse door, silhouetted against the distant glow of street lights.
"Don't lie to him. He'll know. Don't threaten him—he'll find it amusing for exactly as long as it takes him to remove your head. And don't try to impress him with what you've accomplished. A roadhouse and a dying man's gratitude won't register as achievements to someone who's watched empires rise and fall."
"Then what do I offer him?"
"Usefulness. Potential. The sense that you might become something worth knowing in a century or two." She smiled—the first genuine expression I'd seen from her. "Assuming you survive that long."
She disappeared into the night, leaving me alone with the stray cat and the weight of tomorrow's meeting.
I walked to my car, processing. Elena was in—provisionally, conditionally, but in. The Silver Dollar had a security chief. The organization was taking shape.
One partnership. One property. One dying human who thinks I'm a savior.
The foundation was thin but solid. Everything else would build from here.
My phone showed 11:43 PM. Seventeen hours until I faced Eric Northman and discovered whether my plans survived contact with real power.
I drove back toward the Sunset Motel, mentally rehearsing introductions and answers to questions I hoped I'd anticipated. Tomorrow would determine everything—success or true death, progress or ashes.
The system pulsed quietly at the edge of my consciousness, tracking metrics I barely understood.
Authority: 10. Dominion: 10. Tomorrow we find out if either one means anything.
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