Chapter 11: Tribute
Fangtasia's parking lot smelled like cheap perfume and desperation.
I arrived at 10:45 PM, fifteen minutes before my scheduled registration appointment. The line of human tourists stretched from the entrance halfway around the building—mostly women, mostly young, dressed in black clothing and temporary fang accessories. They'd come to gawk at real vampires, to flirt with danger from the safety of a themed nightclub.
Revelation tourism. Eric Northman had turned prejudice into profit.
The vampire entrance was separate. A discrete door on the building's east side, marked only by a small placard reading "VIP." No line here, just a bouncer who looked like he'd been carved from marble and given fangs.
"Registration appointment," I said. "Sam Huffman. Eleven PM."
The bouncer checked a tablet. His expression didn't change—I doubted it could—but something in his posture shifted slightly toward recognition.
"Inside. Second door on the left. Malcolm handles new business."
I thanked him and entered.
The VIP corridor was quieter than I'd expected. Soundproofing, probably—the bass thump of the main club barely penetrated. The walls were decorated with what might have been medieval weapons, might have been movie props. Eric's theatrical sensibilities, no doubt.
The second door opened onto a cramped office. Filing cabinets lined the walls, stacked with decades of registration documents. Behind a cheap desk sat a vampire I recognized from research: Malcolm, two centuries old, perpetually dissatisfied with his position as Eric's bureaucratic functionary.
"Huffman?" He didn't look up from his paperwork. "Sit."
I sat.
Malcolm flipped through a folder—presumably my application, submitted three days ago through channels Elena had explained. His expression suggested he'd found the contents personally offensive.
"One hundred fifty years old. No maker on record. No lineage. No official position in any territory. No progeny." He finally looked up. "In other words, nobody."
"Correct."
"And you want to operate a business in Area 5."
"I want to register my presence and notify the Sheriff of my commercial intentions. Protocol requires formal acknowledgment before significant vampire activity."
"I know what protocol requires." Malcolm's voice carried the particular contempt of bureaucrats everywhere—the small power of gatekeeping, wielded against those who needed things. "What I don't know is why Sheriff Northman should care about another nobody opening another bar in another backwater town."
"He shouldn't. That's rather the point." I kept my tone neutral, my expression calm. Malcolm was testing me, looking for weakness or arrogance. I'd give him neither. "Monroe is fifty miles from Shreveport. My business won't compete with Fangtasia. I'm not seeking authority or position. I'm simply a registered vampire operating a legitimate commercial enterprise within Area 5's jurisdiction."
"With what capital?"
"Private resources accumulated over a century and a half of existence."
"And your partner? This Elena Vasquez?"
He's done his homework. Or someone has.
"A security consultant. Also registered in Area 5, currently unaffiliated. Our arrangement is professional."
Malcolm made a note in my folder. His pen scratched across paper with unnecessary force.
"Sheriff Northman receives tribute from new businesses. Standard rate is ten percent of gross revenue, paid monthly."
"I'm aware. I've brought the initial tribute—three months estimated revenue, as a gesture of good faith."
I produced the envelope from my jacket. Five thousand dollars in hundreds, carefully counted. More than three months of projected revenue, actually, but the gesture mattered more than the math.
Malcolm's eyes lingered on the envelope slightly longer than professional indifference would suggest. His hand moved toward it, paused, withdrew.
"The Sheriff will review your application personally."
"When should I expect—"
"When the Sheriff decides. You're not the only vampire with business proposals." He finally took the envelope, slipping it into his desk drawer without counting the contents. "Your registration is processed. Area 5 documentation will be mailed to your listed address within the week. Don't contact this office again unless specifically requested."
"And if the Sheriff wishes to meet?"
"Then you'll be summoned." Malcolm's smile had no warmth in it. "I wouldn't hold your breath. He has more important matters than roadhouse bars in Monroe."
I accepted the dismissal without argument. The meeting had accomplished its purpose—I was now officially registered, my tribute paid, my existence documented. Eric Northman might never look at my file personally. That was fine. I didn't need his attention yet.
Visibility comes after strength. Build the foundation before the tower.
Outside, the tourist line had grown longer. A teenage girl near the front caught my eye as I emerged from the VIP entrance. Her face lit up with excitement.
"Are you a vampire? Like, a real one?"
Her friends clustered around, phones raised, hoping for a photo with genuine supernatural presence. Their heartbeats quickened with anticipated thrills.
They have no idea what they're asking.
"Just a businessman," I said. "Boring stuff."
The disappointment on her face was almost comical. I walked past her toward my car, already composing the message I'd send to Elena.
Registration complete. No meeting with Eric. Malcolm is corrupt but manageable. Opening proceeds as planned.
The drive back to Monroe took forty-five minutes. I spent it reviewing contingencies, identifying potential failure points, planning for complications that might never arise.
The Viking doesn't know I exist. Good. Let him stay ignorant until I'm strong enough to matter.
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