Chapter Text
“The wound is a place where the light enters you.”
- Rumi
The moon was a great, glowing skull in the black velvet sky. Its craterous eyes peered down on the bayou, hollow and all-knowing. Remmick met her gaze readily, as one would an old friend. And indeed, she was something like that to him. Even as the world changed all around him, twisting and morphing and eroding, she always stayed the same. Sometimes growing, sometimes shrinking, sometimes vanishing altogether, but always like clockwork. Always, he knew when he'd see her again. It was a nice bit of stability. Sometimes, if Remmick stared at her and nothing else, ignoring the sounds floating around him, he could pretend he was back in Éirinn. Back among the rolling green hills and gurgling streams. Around the engraved stones and forests filled with will-o-the-wisps. But only for a minute. Illusions are a delicate thing.
Blood, however, was not.
His tongue, long and thick, slithered out from between his lips like a serpent. Lapped up the remaining sweetness. His taste-buds tingled with delight, his undead blood singing within his veins. He then stood up, his stained shirt sticking to his chest, and looked down at the remains of his meal. An old blind man begging for alms by day and sleeping in the cornfields at night. Few would notice he was gone, and even fewer would miss him. Satisfied, Remmick retracted his claws and strolled away. Following the faint pull tugging at his heart like a string.
Leading him forward, to Clarksdale. He hadn't heard much about it, but what little he had heard, he'd found promising. Especially the part about the young preacher's boy with the guitar. Untrained, inexperienced, yet capable of producing music that could make the angels cry. This boy might be a filí; he might not be. But they were so rare already, Remmick couldn't risk letting this lead dry up. If there was anything that the last fourteen hundred years - give or take - had taught Remmick, it was to see every lead through.
The moon followed him as he traversed paved roads and muddy trails alike, cutting across slumbering towns and forests alight with fireflies. She eyed him with weary curiosity, accustomed as she was to his brutality. Remmick let her. Right now, she was the only companion he had. But soon, he'd have more. Many more. And, if he'd really found his filí, Remmick very well might see his loved ones again. Maybe then he might remember their names. Their faces. Their hearts would recognize one another.
Eventually, as the moon began her retreat and the sky subtly went from ebony to navy blue, Remmick reached a crossroads. Two paths breaking apart like split ends, cutting through the bayou. A sign stood, pointing in opposite directions. Ignoring the name of the town that didn't interest him, Remmick instead read the one labeled 'Clarksdale'. Only five miles away. Very nice. Surely, even at the leisurely pace he'd been keeping all night, he'd be there before dawn.
Remmick took a single step towards the left, the one leading him to fellowship and love-
"Hi." A friendly word, said in a not so friendly tone.
Remmick turned towards it with glowing red eyes. There, on a fungi-encrusted tree stump, stood another of his kind. Remmick could tell immediately. The man wasn't pale like him - while many were, on a long enough timeline, not all of them were - and he was tall and buff like a bull. A contrast to Remmick's build: Decently broad shoulders, he supposed, but more wiry than anything else. But the trademarks were all there: The other man's chest didn't move because he wasn't breathing, allowing for unnatural stillness. His eyes gleamed in the darkness of his face like lanterns. His scent was one of rot and death. And rage. Pure, unbridled rage. Enough for twenty lifetimes.
Remmick himself wasn't an especially angry fellow. He had been, once, and was more than capable of feeling it again. But really, eternity was too long to be angry.
Turning to fully face the stranger, Remmick slapped on his friendliest smile. The kind that had led many meals to let him in - or come meet him outside. "Hi yourself, me good sir." He arched a brow. "What can I do for ye on this fine evenin'?"
The man snorted. Bull-like down to the last. "You a mick, eh?"
Once, Remmick had loathed the many slurs this new world had for his people. But now, even though it still sent a bitter twinge racing through him, he was able to mostly shake it off. "Name's Remmick, friend."
"I ain't yo' friend," the vampire snarled, "and you on my land."
"Oh, am I?" Remmick made a show of looking around. "Funny. I don't see any 'private property' signs 'round here."
"Don't need no sign." The vampire's tongue darted out of his mouth, lightning-quick. Tasting the air. "I been 'ere since my momma and daddy got away from they masters. This my land, and you on it."
Old, but Remmick was older. Stronger, too. But the man was filled with hatred. He permeated it. And hatred could make even the weakest mortals as strong as a mountain. Even though he'd just fed, Remmick decided to err on the side of caution. He hadn't lived this long by butting heads with every wannabe alpha male he came across. Clicking his tongue, he said, "Dear oh dear, I'm sorry, sir. Please," he lifted his hands in surrender, "just give me five seconds, no more, and I'll be gone with the wind."
"Too late, paddy."
The next thing Remmick knew, he was knocked off the road and into the tall grass, the ground soft and mucky beneath him. Teeth like broken glass were sinking into his neck. Breaking open the lock of the cage inside him, unleashing the monster beneath his skin.
With a roar that sent a flock of sleeping birds fleeing from a nearby tree, Remmick lunged. Sank his own teeth into the other vampire's shoulder, biting through cloth, flesh, and bone. Cold, brackish blood - like seawater - filled his mouth. Shuddering in revulsion, Remmick grabbed the man in a cruel mockery of a lover's embrace. Flipped them over as he tore his mouth free, taking a generous helping of the man's shoulder along with it. The other vampire howled in agony, dragging his claws into Remmick's torso. Blood flowed freely. Skin parted like paper. Organs came generously close to spilling out. Remmick shoved his thumbs into the vampire's eyes, gouging them out with all the ease a human might have at digging out a peach pit. The vampire screamed, writhed beneath him, and his hands pawed at him once more. This time, they found his ribcage and squeezed. Bones snapped like popsicle sticks. Flashes of pain erupted like fireworks. But Remmick kept going. Moving his hands to the man's head. Cupped it almost lovingly. Then, applied pressure.
Blinded, delirious with pain, feeling his skull splinter, and knowing that dawn was approaching, the other vampire did the only thing he could: He thrust his hand into Remmick's chest. Found his heart amid the snapped twigs that had once been his ribs. Pulled it out, holding it up for the moon to gawk at.
Remmick went cold with panic - he wasn't sure that would kill him, but it might - and finished the job. Clenched his fingers. With a wet crunch, akin to crushing an egg, he pulverized the other vampire's skull. Brain matter, skin, and hair splattered all over his hands, more dribbling into the watery mud. The man's body went limp at last. If he wasn't dead, he was close enough that it made little difference. Especially now that the eastern sky was streaked with salmon-pink and saffron-yellow. The tall grass would hide his body, but not from the sun.
Remmick sat there, straddling the man. Gasping, even as every breath hurt. His body hurt, especially his chest. Even when he gingerly picked his heart out of the man's limp hand and reinserted it in what remained of his ribcage, Remmick still felt like one big bruise.
All he wanted to do was rest. Preferably, for a week. Give himself time to heal. He'd be starving by the end of it, his body in need of fresh blood, but it was an easy fix.
But Remmick couldn't rest. Not now. Not with the early birds beginning to chirp and the stars winking out. The moon was still present, but she was becoming translucent. Ghostly, she lingered. Waiting to see what happened next.
With a groan, Remmick got to his feet. Shambled a few feet, returning to the road. His fried brain tried to think of where to go. Someplace the sun couldn't find him, of course. But as far as he knew, there weren't any caves in a swamp. Maybe, if he'd had more time, he could've found an abandoned fishing hut to hide in. A place with no owner, and therefore no invitation requirements.
Remmick managed a few more steps before his body shut down, his mind quickly following. He landed face-down in the dirt, dead to the world in more ways than one.
***
Jane Townsend had always been a creature of sunlight. Its warmth on her skin had always comforted her, and its light had always chased away even her darkest nightmares. Dawn was one of her favorite times of day, too. The rising birdsong, the timid return of color to the world, the moon like a pale thumbprint in the lightening sky... it'd always felt utterly magical. Like something out of the fairy tale books that'd belonged to Mr. Jackson's heir but which Jane had swiped when no one was looking - and always returned later, if only to avoid another one of Momma's cuffs.
That was why, even though she could do either past nightfall if need be, Jane always preferred to forage and hunt with the sun's comforting rays on her back. It made her feel a little less alone when she was out here checking her crawfish traps, shooting bullfrogs with her arrows, or stashing sassafras and hyssop in her pouch. And if it was dawn, all the better. No matter how grueling the job was, or how long it took her to walk back home, all Jane would have to do was look up at the sky and smile at the colors she saw. Some of those colors, she knew, would've entranced Momma. She would've done everything to recreate them on her canvases, if she could've afforded both the paints and the time. Which she usually couldn't.
This morning's beauty would've made Momma weep. Pink, gold, and periwinkle were bleeding onto the horizon as Jane made it to the road for Clarksdale. Her mule, Ulysses, was waiting for her there. She'd bought him from Derek Freeman, one of the best farmers this side of the Mississippi River. Like everybody else here, he'd treated Jane coldly... until she'd done something for him. In that particular case, whip out the dollars. The mule was kind of cranky, and he hated going into the swamp proper, so he wasn't as much help as he could be, but he was company. Besides, they went well together. Unnatural creatures, the both of them.
Jane patted the mule's pink, velvety nose. "Hey, Ulysses." She plucked a carrot from her saddlebag and handed it to him. A reward for keeping so still. "Ready to go home?"
Ulysses snorted.
"Yeah, me too."
They'd barely passed the crossroads, however, when Ulysses suddenly froze. Snorting and stamping his hooves in obvious terror. For a second, Jane was confused. Then, she smelled it. A foul, brackish scent, like the river in full-blown summer. All still water and rotting vegetation. Searching for the source, aided by the approaching sun, she soon spotted a man lying unconscious in the dirt.
Jane's healer instincts took over then. Bolting towards him, she knelt down - and gasped. The man was covered in both mud and blood, his clothes' original hues impossible to guess. Hesitantly, she examined him. Peeled back the sticky cotton of his shirt so as to get a good look at his chest. The incisions were deep and ragged, made in a frenzy. Bruising suggested that quite a few of his ribs had been broken. The man's breathing was shallow but steady, meaning that his lungs had been spared. Well, there was that, at least.
Jane dug into her satchel. Found her disinfectant - better be safe than sorry - and her suturing needle. At this point, Jane rarely got hurt in her crepuscular expeditions anymore. The bayou was her friend and home, and she respected its rules. Even so, it was better to be prepared.
Jane dipped some cotton strips into the disinfectant and gently cleaned the wounds. The fabric came away crimson, too stained to ever be washed again. Tossing them aside, Jane threaded the needle and began to sew. Once upon a time ago, this work would've made her queasy. But now, she may as well have been darning a sock. Except, of course, socks didn't twitch or tremble. As she worked, Jane worried. The man's skin was cool, like the underside of a pillow. Not a great sign. Better than a fever, she supposed, but it did make her wonder how much blood he'd lost. The dirt being so dark and damp, it was hard to guess.
So focused was she on her task that she didn't notice the man waking up. Not until he grabbed her wrist with a strength that made her cry out.
Jane looked at him then. He was about her age, maybe a handful of years older, with wavy dark hair that fell just over his eyes. Those eyes were wide, chestnut-brown, and completely sightless. "An bhfuil mé marbh?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "An aingeal thú?"
Jane knew that the man was delirious, but she still tried to talk to him - and hoped that he could understand her better than she could understand him. She didn't even know what that language was supposed to be, pretty though it was. "It's all right." Jane carefully pried his fingers, like iron bars, off her wrist. There'd be bruises by tonight. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
The man scrambled to his feet then, swaying like a drunkard. He made it all of five steps before collapsing again. No doubt tearing some of Jane's perfectly good stitches as he did so.
Jane stared at him, then at Ulysses. Sighed. Rolled up her sleeves. "All right, then," she said, "let's get you home."
Jane had deposited heavy things on the old mule's back before. Game, mostly. Boars. Young gators. Pronghorns. But a man? That required a lot of elbow grease and even more patience. By the time the fellow was actually draped across Ulysses' rump, the tops of the trees were painted gold and Venus had winked out of sight. Sweating and panting, Jane tugged on the mule's reins. Guiding him home.
It wasn't a long walk, maybe only about ten or fifteen minutes. The path wound through the last of the swamp before passing by the Jackson plantation, leading directly to the pin-sized town of Fernsville. If one wanted to visit the plantation, they'd be impressed by the private road they'd have to take in order to do so. They'd have to pass through a stone archway and trek down an avenue lined with massive oaks before making it to the house proper. It was indeed a gorgeous mansion, all columned porches and second-floor balconies. The bricks were so clean, they practically sparkled. The gardens were manicured triumphs of horticulture. And inside, the fireplaces had been carved from Italian marble. Behind the giant house was a huge cotton field Jane's ancestors had worked on for generations. Even if the new master of the plantation didn't loathe the sight of her, Jane had never have set foot in it. She half-expected to find their blood seeping out of the soil. Instead, she walked along the outskirts of the property, where a narrow ribbon of dirt would lead to a shed. Home sweet home.
Another reason Jane preferred to do her thing at dawn or dusk? Less chances of running into Bartholomew Jackson. Only a year older than her, he was as mean as a grizzly bear with a hornet in its ear. They'd played together all the time as children, as her mother - Bartholomew's nanny - had brought her along for work. Even been friends, seeing but not seeing their difference in skin tone. But the minute they'd grown up, reality had set in. The lines drawn between them had been as deep as canyons and as poisonous as a rattler's fang. But the worst part had been when Big Daddy Jackson had died and left the hut to Momma - and, by extension, Jane. It was a tiny patch of land, barely big enough for the hut that sat on it, yet Bartholomew had raged. Had tried to attack Momma with a fountain pen, in fact. But in the end, he'd been forced to accept Big Daddy's will. There were few rights for Negroes. For Negro women, even fewer. But the word of a rich white Southern man was law. He'd said that the tiny edge of the property was theirs, and so it was. End of discussion.
Well, it was supposed to be. But, like so many other things in this world, it wasn't how it ought to be.
Speak of the Devil. As she made it home at last, there was another note waiting for her. Nailed to the door, just like the last one, and written in the jerky chicken scratch exclusive to the excessively pissed.
I ain't askin' no more, Jane. I'm TELLIN ya. I'm the owner of this here land, and I don't want you here. Pack your shit and get your yellow bone ass out of my property, or I'm siccin the cops on you. You got one week. After that, you can leave on your feet or dragged out by your hair. Your choice.
It wasn't signed, but it didn't have to be. Bartholomew had always had terrible handwriting.
Jane knew he wasn't joking, either. The boy had been the prince of this land since the moment he was born. Nobody had ever told him 'no'. Now that someone finally had, he'd lost it. But that didn't mean she'd be bowing her head and scuttling away. She'd figure something out... soon. Hopefully. She knew she couldn't ask anybody for help. That wasn't the way things worked for her: People came to her for help, not the other way around.
But that was a problem for Future Jane. Present Jane tore the note free, wadded it up in a ball, and threw it in with the compost she used to grow her tomatoes and green beans.
Then, as she hitched Ulysses, she reverted her attention to the man. Still out like a light. Aided by gravity, she managed to haul him off the mule and towards her front door, which she opened with a kick. She dragged him like a sack of flour, ready to dump him on her couch before getting back to work on those wounds.
But then, something happened.
She passed through her doorway. But the man wouldn't. He just... stayed where he was, even though there was nothing keeping him from entering. Like a fly bumping against glass.
"What the...?" Jane pulled him as one would a rolled-up rug, but no dice. The man remained where he was, right on the entrance of her home. Unable to cross the threshold.
"Come on!" Jane grunted, putting all her strength into it. But no matter how she tried, how much her muscles strained, he simply wouldn't pass.
Jane, who'd been up for several hours already and wanted nothing more than a bath, some food, and a nap, could feel her strength bleeding away. Her arms felt like rubber, and her back ached. Only her frustration remained, growing with every failure.
"Come inside, already!" Jane shouted through gritted teeth.
And just like that, whatever barrier had been keeping the man out of her home vanished. It was like playing tug-of-war, only to have the other team let go of the rope. Jane cried out as she fell backward, hitting the floor with a loud thump. She sat up, panting and sweating, as her eyes found the man again. He was lying at her feet, unmoving.
"What the hell was that?" Jane asked him.
Of course, he gave no reply.
***
Remmick drifted in the dark for what felt like days. Sometimes, he was so close to consciousness, he felt like he could just reach out and grab it. Other times, it may as well have been miles away. He was a fly in amber. A prisoner of his own body.
A prisoner, just as he was of time. In his restless dreams, images that blended inescapably together, he saw centuries pass. He heard The Lord's Prayers, and smelled a million Irish corpses roasting. He saw the ship that would take him away from the land that was no longer his, the slight weight of a small bag on his back. He saw the one who'd bitten him, so long ago, their features smoothed by time. Remmick could no longer remember if they'd been a man or a woman, but he knew they'd been English. One of the invaders, ready to feast on his flesh just as their people fed off his. And yet, when he'd thought the end had come, he'd merely awakened. Lost. Scared. In pain. Terribly thirsty. And, when the sun came up, burning. Oh, the burning!
Remmick saw countless faces come and go, even as he begged them to stay. Friends. Thralls. Lovers. All lost to time, even those he turned and melded his mind with. They all left, sooner or later, and existed only in his memory thereafter.
Remmick cried, more than once. Cried out for them. And sometimes, he got an answer. A hand slipping into his, or a cloth drying his tears. A warm voice whispering to him.
At some point, hunger made itself known. It cut into his core with silver blades, digging its way into his very bones. He was hollowed out, siphoned. Needed food. Needed blood.
Then, one day, he found it. A warm hand. A mortal's hand. So close to his mouth. Unable to resist, he latched on like a baby trying to nurse. Skin broke under his teeth, as soft and sweet as a fruit. Hot blood gushed into his mouth.
He felt the hand's owner stiffen. Sensed them trying to pull away. He simply grabbed their wrist, holding them in place as he sucked at the base of their thumb. Sweet, salty, life. He couldn't get enough. Already, he could feel his power returning. Rising up like the tide.
Then, something heavy hit in on the head. His maw loosened. The hand flew away. And total darkness found him once more.
But who knew? There might be something waiting for him on the other side.