Chapter 6: Light-Tight
The Sunset Motel's hot water lasted exactly eighteen minutes. I knew because I timed it, standing under the spray until the temperature dropped from scalding to merely warm to undeniably cold.
Seventeen minutes thirty-two seconds. Three seconds faster than yesterday.
Small data points. The kind of thing I used to track in my old life—quarterly metrics, performance indicators, the endless spreadsheets of corporate existence. Now I tracked hot water duration and blood reserve percentages. The habit of measurement survived death.
I toweled off in the bathroom's fluorescent light, examining my reflection. The original Sam's body had been average in life and remained average in undeath: five-ten, a hundred sixty pounds, the kind of build that disappeared in crowds. His face was equally forgettable—brown hair, gray-blue eyes, features that assembled into competence without distinction.
Invisibility as asset. Work with what you have.
The laptop sat open on the bed, property records glowing on the screen. I'd spent the last two hours researching George Patterson and The Silver Dollar with the thoroughness of a hostile acquisition team. The picture wasn't complicated.
George Patterson had opened The Silver Dollar in 1961 with his wife Betty. Forty-seven years of roadhouse operation—live music on weekends, cold beer every night, the kind of local institution that survived on loyalty and location. Then Betty died in 2004. Ovarian cancer, according to the obituary. George had tried to keep running the place, but grief and age worked against him.
Revenue had dropped 40% in four years. Staff turnover increased. Regulars found other bars. The Silver Dollar was bleeding eight thousand a month, and George was covering the losses from savings that wouldn't last forever.
He'd listed the property seven months ago. No serious offers. The asking price of $180,000 was optimistic—comparable sales suggested $120,000 would be generous. But George wasn't negotiating. He wanted what he wanted or nothing.
Dying man's pride.
I understood it. In my old life, I'd seen executives hold onto failing companies past the point of sanity, unable to accept that their life's work had become worthless. The emotional math never balanced.
But George's situation created opportunity. He needed an exit. I needed an entry. The question was whether our needs could align.
The system interface pulsed softly, reminding me of objectives.
QUEST: ESTABLISH YOUR DOMAIN
Phase 1: Secure Haven — COMPLETE
Phase 2: Register with Sheriff — PENDING
Phase 3: Establish Income Source — PENDING
Rewards: +5 Dominion, +3 Authority, 1000 Blood Points
Registration with Eric should come first. Proper protocol. But I wanted to have something to register—not just a vampire returning to the area, but a vampire with plans. Eric respected ambition as long as it didn't threaten his position.
The Silver Dollar as opening move.
I pulled up satellite imagery of Third Street. The roadhouse occupied a corner lot with parking for fifty vehicles. The building was single-story, maybe 5,000 square feet, brick construction from the early sixties. Not elegant but solid. The lot alone was worth the asking price in a better market.
Adjacent properties: my inherited building to the east (pawn shop below, apartment above), the dead hardware store to the west. If I acquired The Silver Dollar, I'd control a full block of Third Street.
Territory.
The word carried weight I hadn't expected. This wasn't corporate expansion—quarterly growth targets and shareholder returns. This was something older. A predator marking boundaries, establishing dominance. The vampire part of me responded to the concept with primal satisfaction.
Careful. Don't let instinct override strategy.
I mapped out the timeline. Tonight: observe The Silver Dollar, assess George Patterson, identify negotiation angles. Tomorrow night: formal registration with Eric. This week: make George an offer. This month: close the deal and begin renovation.
The plan was clean. The execution would be messy. It always was.
Third Street was dead at 10 PM on a Wednesday. The pawn shop had closed at six. The bail bonds office showed one car in the lot—late-night paperwork, probably. The Silver Dollar's neon sputtered and buzzed, casting red-orange light across empty parking spaces.
I parked in the hardware store's abandoned lot and watched.
Through The Silver Dollar's windows, I could see George Patterson behind the bar. Same position as last night, same careful movements. He had two customers—construction workers, by their clothes and body language—nursing beers at the far end. Nobody else.
Eight thousand a month in losses. This is what that looks like.
I walked across the street, pushed through the door.
The roadhouse smelled like old wood and older beer. Decades of smoke had stained the ceiling tiles yellow-brown. The jukebox in the corner played Hank Williams, the volume turned low enough to qualify as background noise. A dozen tables sat empty. The bar itself stretched thirty feet, backlit by liquor bottles that hadn't changed position in years.
George looked up from his glass-polishing. His eyes were tired, his face mapped with lines that suggested both age and pain. He was seventy-three, according to my research, but he looked older.
"Evening," he said. "What can I get you?"
"Just looking around." I took a stool at the bar, maintaining distance from the construction workers. "Heard this place was for sale."
George's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes shifted. Hope, maybe. Or wariness.
"Been on the market eight months. You a developer?"
"Investor. Looking for opportunities in Monroe."
"Not many opportunities around here." He set down his polishing cloth. "Town's been dying since the mill closed. '94. Hasn't recovered."
"Some people see dying towns as value plays."
"Some people are optimists." George's tone was flat, but not hostile. "What's your interest? Tear down, rebuild? Put in a chain restaurant?"
"Actually, I was thinking of keeping it a roadhouse."
His eyebrows rose. "Roadhouses don't make money anymore. Trust me."
"This one doesn't. But the concept isn't dead. Just needs updating." I gestured at the empty tables. "You're bleeding customers to places with better atmosphere and cheaper beer. The bones here are good. The operation needs work."
"The operation needs a new owner who isn't seventy-three and tired." George's voice carried a weight that had nothing to do with business. "Betty and I built this place. Forty-seven years. After she passed..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Doesn't matter. What matters is the price. $180,000."
"The comparable sales suggest—"
"I know what the comparables suggest. I also know what this place is worth to me. $180,000 or nothing."
Pride. Expected.
I could negotiate. Push him on the financials, point out the bleeding, force a lower price through attrition. It's what corporate me would have done.
But I wasn't corporate me anymore. And George Patterson wasn't a balance sheet.
"I can do $180,000," I said. "Cash."
George blinked. The construction workers looked over, interested.
"Cash," he repeated.
"Full purchase price, as-is. I'll need thirty days to arrange the transfer, but the money's real." I met his eyes—carefully, without glamour. "I'm not trying to steal your life's work, Mr. Patterson. I'm trying to buy it fair."
"Why?" The question was genuine, confused. "This place is a money pit. Anyone with $180,000 could find better investments."
"Because I don't want a better investment. I want this building, on this corner, in this town. I have plans for Monroe."
"What kind of plans?"
"Long-term ones. Starting with The Silver Dollar. Keeping the name, keeping the character. Making it profitable again."
George was quiet for a long moment. Behind him, Hank Williams gave way to Patsy Cline, the jukebox cycling through decades-old heartbreak.
"You're not from around here," he said finally.
"No."
"But you're staying?"
"Yes."
He studied me with the appraising look of a man who'd been evaluating strangers across a bar for half a century. I let him look. Whatever he saw, it wasn't the vampire underneath. Just a businessman making an unusual offer.
"My lawyer's name is Wilson. Downtown office, can't miss it." George picked up his polishing cloth. "Call him tomorrow. If the money's real, we can talk terms."
"Thank you, Mr. Patterson."
"Don't thank me yet. You're buying forty-seven years of my life. I want to know it's going to someone who gives a damn."
I left The Silver Dollar with George's lawyer's name in my phone and a hollow feeling in my chest. The negotiation had been easier than expected. The emotional weight was harder.
He's dying. He knows it. He wants his life's work to survive him.
In my old life, I would have seen George as a target—weak negotiating position, emotional vulnerability, exploitable. Now I saw something else. A man at the end of his road, hoping for legacy.
I'll give him one. It's the least I can do for taking advantage of his situation.
The system chimed as I walked to my car.
QUEST PROGRESS: ESTABLISH YOUR DOMAIN
Phase 3: Establish Income Source — IN PROGRESS
Objective: Acquire legitimate business front
Status: Verbal agreement secured. Awaiting formal offer.
Two objectives down, one pending. Eric Northman waited tomorrow night.
I drove back toward the Sunset Motel, processing. George's trust was a gift I hadn't earned. Elena's card still sat on my dashboard, a potential ally waiting to be cultivated. The hunters who'd killed the original Sam were somewhere in Shreveport, unaware that their victim had risen.
Too many variables. Prioritize.
Tomorrow: Eric. Official registration, formal introduction, establishing myself as a legitimate presence in Area 5. Everything else depended on clearing that hurdle.
Tonight: feed, plan, rest.
I pulled into the Sunset Motel's lot and killed the engine. Room 7's blackout curtains were exactly as I'd left them. The night manager's television flickered through her office window.
Inside, I updated my notes. George Patterson: willing seller, emotional vulnerability, thirty-day window. Elena Vasquez: local vampire, potential asset, price unknown. Hunters: threat level uncertain, avoiding Shreveport optimal.
The Silver Dollar: acquired in principle. The Silver Dollar as renamed: still The Silver Dollar. No reason to change what worked.
A vampire bar that isn't Fangtasia. A neutral ground. A territory.
I stared at the property photos on my laptop screen. The yellowed ceiling tiles. The worn wooden floors. The forty-seven years of history soaked into every surface.
George Patterson was giving me his life's work. The least I could do was make it worthy of the gift.
My blood reserve sat at 118/220. Hunting could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I had plans to refine and a dead man's suit to press.
The coffin arrived from storage at 3 AM, delivered by a moving company that charged triple for night work and asked zero questions. I set it up in the motel room's corner, lined with blankets from the original Sam's cache. Not comfortable, but secure.
Sunrise pressed against my bones at 6:47 AM. I climbed into the coffin, pulled the lid closed, and let the day take me.
Tomorrow night: the Viking.
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