Chapter 16: Competition
The message arrived at 11:47 PM, delivered by a vampire I didn't recognize.
He was young—maybe thirty years undead—with the nervous energy of someone delivering bad news to people who might kill him for it. Elena intercepted him at the door, assessed his threat level (minimal), and brought him to my office above the bar.
"Victor Madden sends his regards," the messenger said. His voice trembled slightly. "He wanted you to know that he's opened an establishment in Monroe. The Red Room. Two miles west of here."
I leaned back in my chair, studying the messenger's face for tells. Fear, definitely. But also something else—the particular discomfort of someone forced to deliver an insult they didn't agree with.
"And?"
"And he says..." The messenger swallowed. "He says if you want lessons in running a real vampire bar, you know where to find him."
Elena's hand moved toward her stake. I raised a finger, stopping her.
"Thank you for delivering the message. You can go."
The messenger fled with visible relief. His footsteps thundered down the stairs, and moments later the back door slammed. Elena waited until the sound of his car faded before speaking.
"Victor Madden. I know that name."
"Tell me."
"Baton Rouge vampire. About 150 years old, made his money in oil before the crash. He's been looking for territory outside the capital for years—too much competition there, too many older vampires." She pulled out her phone, scrolling through contacts. "My source in Baton Rouge says he's ambitious but not particularly smart. Likes flash, hates being outshone."
"And he chose Monroe."
"He chose Monroe because you made it attractive. Three months ago, this town had nothing. Now it has a profitable vampire bar, a growing reputation, and a registered owner who pays tribute on time." Elena's smile was thin. "You put Monroe on the map. He wants to take it from you."
I processed the information, fitting it into the strategic picture I'd been building since opening night. Victor Madden represented the first real challenge to my position—not from above (Eric remained indifferent to small-time Monroe politics) but from the side. A rival, not an authority.
"What's his establishment like?"
"I'll find out tonight."
The Red Room was everything The Silver Dollar wasn't.
I observed from across the street, parked in the shadows of an abandoned strip mall. The building had been a nightclub before—gaudy neon, massive parking lot, the architecture of excess. Victor had leaned into the aesthetic: blood-red lighting, fog machines visible through the windows, a line of humans waiting to be admitted by bouncers in leather.
Fangbanger paradise.
The clientele confirmed my assessment. Mostly young humans dressed in black, wearing cheap fangs and temporary tattoos. They'd come to ogle vampires, to flirt with the fantasy of danger. A few actual vampires moved through the crowd—I could spot them by their stillness—but they seemed more interested in the easy feeding than the atmosphere.
"Tourist trap," Elena said through my earpiece. She'd positioned herself inside, playing the role of curious newcomer. "Overpriced drinks, loud music, vampires performing for tips. It's Fangtasia without Eric's taste."
"Competition for our business?"
"Different market entirely. These humans want theater. Our humans want a drink after work. The vampires here are... flashy. Showing off for the crowd." A pause. "I just watched one do a magic trick with a willing donor's blood. The humans are eating it up."
I considered the information. Victor's establishment served a different need than mine—spectacle rather than discretion. In a larger market, we could coexist without friction. But Monroe wasn't a larger market, and Victor's insults suggested he wanted conflict rather than coexistence.
"Any sign of Victor himself?"
"Throne in the back. Literal throne. He's holding court with three women who look like they were chosen for looks rather than conversation." Elena's disgust was audible. "He's everything I hate about vampire culture. All performance, no substance."
"Stay another hour. Learn what you can about his operation—staff, security, feeding arrangements. I want to know his weaknesses before we talk."
"You're going to talk to him?"
"I'm going to make him understand the situation. One way or another."
The invitation went out the following night.
I wrote it myself, on quality paper, using language formal enough to satisfy vampire protocol. Mr. Samuel Huffman requests the pleasure of Mr. Victor Madden's company at The Silver Dollar for a discussion of mutual business interests. The messenger I hired was human—deliberate, signaling that I didn't consider Victor worth sending a vampire.
Victor accepted. Of course he did. Refusing would look weak, and men like Victor couldn't tolerate looking weak.
He arrived at 11 PM with an entourage of three—two vampires who projected menace and a human woman who projected nothing. Elena met them at the door, searched the vampires for silver weapons (they had none, surprisingly), and escorted them to the private room I'd prepared.
The room was the largest of our three—soundproofed, comfortable, designed for negotiations. I'd arranged the furniture to emphasize my position: a single chair for me, facing a couch where Victor and his people would sit slightly lower. Small psychological advantages, but they accumulated.
Victor entered with the swagger of someone convinced of his own importance. He was tall, well-dressed in a flashy way—silk shirt, gold jewelry, the aesthetic of new money. His face was handsome in a generic sense, the kind of looks that probably served him well with the fangbangers at The Red Room.
"Sam Huffman." He made my name sound like an insult. "Finally meeting the competition."
"We're not competition."
Victor's smile showed fang. "Funny. I have a bar, you have a bar. Same town. Sounds like competition to me."
"You serve tourists looking for vampire theater. I serve professionals looking for discretion. Different products, different markets." I gestured for him to sit. "The only reason we're having this conversation is your message. The insults."
"What insults? I just said—"
"You said my operation was 'amateur hour.' You told vampires passing through that I don't know what I'm doing." I kept my voice calm, level. The original Sam's memories provided the patience; my corporate background provided the steel. "Those statements are factually incorrect and professionally damaging. They stop tonight."
Victor's entourage shifted uncomfortably. They'd expected me to be cowed, intimidated by their numbers and their boss's reputation. Instead, they'd walked into a room where I held every advantage.
"You're threatening me?"
"I'm correcting a misunderstanding." I pulled a folder from the table beside my chair—The Silver Dollar's financial records, carefully redacted to hide proprietary details while demonstrating profitability. "Three months of operation. Profitable since week two. Growing vampire clientele seeking exactly what we provide—privacy, discretion, professional service. That's not 'amateur hour.' That's a successful business."
Victor glanced at the records without really reading them. His pride wouldn't let him acknowledge that I might be right.
"A successful business in my territory."
"Eric Northman's territory. You and I are both guests." I closed the folder. "I'm registered with Area 5. Tribute-paying. Compliant. Are you?"
The question hung in the air. Victor's expression flickered—I'd hit a nerve. He hadn't registered yet, probably assumed Monroe was too far from Shreveport for Eric to care.
Leverage.
"I'm getting to it," Victor said.
"Get to it faster. Because if you don't, and if your insults continue, I'll make sure Eric knows exactly who's operating in his territory without permission." I stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "We're not competition, Victor. We're neighbors. Neighbors can coexist peacefully, or they can make each other's lives difficult. Your choice."
Victor rose slowly, his entourage following. The threat assessment in his eyes had shifted—I was no longer a convenient target but a potential problem.
"You're bolder than I expected."
"I'm practical. Bold would be trying to run you out of town. I don't want that. I want you to run your business and leave me to run mine."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we have a different conversation. One you won't enjoy."
I didn't specify what that conversation would involve. The ambiguity was the point—Victor's imagination would fill in worse possibilities than anything I could actually threaten.
He left without agreeing to anything. But when Elena checked her sources the next day, Victor had registered with Area 5, paid his tribute, and stopped badmouthing The Silver Dollar.
Message received.
The domino players in the corner hadn't noticed any of the evening's tension.
They'd occupied their usual table throughout Victor's visit, arguing about the Saints' draft picks with the intensity of men who had nothing more important to worry about. George's old friends, regulars since before I was born (in either life), as permanent as the oak bar itself.
I watched them from the main room, nursing a TruBlood I wouldn't finish. Their obliviousness was comforting in a way I hadn't expected. The vampire world operated on layers of politics and threat assessment, every interaction weighted with potential violence. These men just wanted to play dominoes and argue about football.
This is what I'm protecting. Not just territory—normalcy.
Elena appeared beside me, her approach silent despite the wooden floors.
"Victor's car just left the lot. His entourage looked rattled."
"Good."
"You think he'll stay peaceful?"
"For now. He's ambitious, not stupid. Starting a war he can't win wouldn't serve his interests." I set down the TruBlood. "But watch him anyway. Men like Victor have trouble accepting they're not the biggest predator in the room."
"And if he tries something?"
I thought about the panic room in the basement, the weapons cache in storage, the contingency plans I'd developed over months of paranoid preparation.
"Then he learns what 'amateur hour' really looks like."
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