There's strange music upstairs at Bill's; he puts his suit over the banister and zooms up to the bathroom, where the sound of dripping and a light under the door alert him to a curious visitor. He opens the door cautiously, sneaking around in his own house. Like Amy, like Tara. Eric lies in the bath, surrounded by candles, listening to something in Old Swedish, arrogant eyes closed to Bill's approach. "I texted you three times. Why didn't you reply?" Bill shrugs. "I hate using the number keys to type," he says honestly. Sometimes I like Bill. "What are you listenin' to?" Eric still hasn't looked up; he's a beast in the bath. "I have a favor to ask of you." A favor? Or an order? Eric finally opens his eyes, because that's the question and never the question: "Depends on how you look at it." Bill crosses his arms, considering him. "Honestly, did you think you could keep her to yourself?" He drops his eyes. No. No, he didn't.
I watch you when you are sleeping, you belong to me
Amy bites her thumbnail in the truck, watching, waiting for something. "Feels a little like stalking, don't it?" Not at all. Feels exactly like it: "It's the most natural thing in the world," she twitches, and fits her need into her philosophy. "The hunt. People used to do this all the time before we got complacent with cloned beef and prepackaged dinners." The way it slides so easily off the tongue, the way brains can take you places your heart knows better than to lead. Jason stares at her, then crouches down as Lafayette gets out of his car and Amy shivers. Jason Stackhouse, stalking Lafayette? You is a stupid bitch. Jason sits back up to start the truck, and her voice rings out. "Headlights off." He wonders how many times she's gone hunting before, and she tells him in other words: "Stay five lengths behind, ten if we get on the Parish Road." It was a flash flood. They were caught on the bridge down by the Parish Road and got swept out in the river. They couldn't save themselves. They'd found salvation.
Eddie the Vampire roams the living room in his cookie-cutter development house, lighting candles in his loneliness. There's a knock at the door, and he goes to it, nervous and in love, fussing with his hair. He's overweight, Stephen Root of the red Swingline stapler, cute but definitely what in my family we call a Third Husband. He breathes, and opens the door casually; his softness and his nervousness belie the strength and hunger in his bones. "Well hey there, sweetness," Lafayette purrs. "You ready to party?" The fangs come out immediately, as Eddie stares. "I'll take that as a yes. Nasty..." Lafayette draws his hand across Eddie's chest; it leaves ripples of hunger. In the living room, while Eddie pours him wine, Lafayette turns down the radio: "Eternal Flame," a song about desire and about the desire for desire to solve every equation. No flame's eternal. No salvation lasts.