Lucky

-- .☘︎ ݁˖

  Remmick was always good at calculating how much moonlight he had. He always was. He had been patchy and spotty as a newly-bit, scampering into groves and even fox dens to hide from the sun, sparing the tips of his toes to be burnt. 

  But now, a few centuries old and with more than enough perfectly calculated events and murder sprees under his belt that he conjured up beneath the moon, he still fell into his foolish young vampire ways. He had been sipping on a glass of moonshine. It was stupid and he knew it– being a vampire meant it was hard to get drunk. So when he felt himself getting wobbly just a mile off from the still, he knew he had to snatch up a glass. Blood swirled like a kaleidoscope in the clear liquid, his chin and teeth slick with it after killing the stiller's brother and then the stiller. Stomach full, practically tugging at the buttons of his undershirt, and his head boozy, he hadn’t noticed the sun rising as it swathes purple and orange over the horizon. Not until the first sprig of pine let golden glow filter through and pierce into his skull, leading to him bellowing from his chest, deep beneath his ribs.

  Faster than a hare, he had run, sunlight hot on his heels. Mother nature was a cruel thing, he figured, until he skidded on his knees to hide beneath the shade of a big, ancient tree trunk. It was as wide as a bear’s breadth, and cast a long, wide shadow that smothered the sizzling dead man. He hissed and let out a gargled mewl from his throat, fingers touching the bubbling streak, hot like a whip across his cheek. “Lord above,” Remmick hissed, his Gaeilge slipping from his fangs. He had no need for English now.. “I didn’t figure the shine would get me that good…” and looking around, Remmick felt his shoulders slump and his nose snarl. He had nowhere else to go. Once again, he would be at the fault of himself, stuck beneath a tree to shuffle for hours staying in the shadow of the tree. 

  By hour three, Remmick was ready to smash the jar against the root of the tree and stab himself in the heart. See if glass worked and not just wood– “had someone done that before?” Remmick paused, mouth open, head still boozy and swimming, the jar drunk dry. By hour four, Remmick’s eyes had been locked onto the farm the great tree was by. He noticed it back in hour three, but didn’t figure anything of it. It looked abandoned. 

  But a  man. A man had come out of the house, clad in only an undershirt and overalls. He wore a wide brim hat to keep his face free from the sun, his undershirt’s sleeves rolled up to his elbow to show his lean muscled arms. Veins– lots of them, no doubt from the hot sun already working her cruel work– bulged from the man's forearm and hands. Remmick’s keen eyes could pick it up. Saliva dripped frothy and thick from Remmick’s lip, tongue darting out to taste the sweat dripping from his own cheek. He watched as the man walked to one of the stables, through the gate,  his great hands heaving up the bolt lock and a dozen soft-pelted sheep scampered out. They cried and bellowed with joy, their thick tails waggling as they scampered about to eat at the new growth dandelions and shrubbery. The man bent down to scratch atop a lambs head, the spoiled thing bucking and scrambling off for its mother. The man's hands were gentle as he treated the animals, lips moving hushed like the world didn’t need to know of his words. But Remmick did.  

  And the best of it all— Remmick felt his stomach already lurch and stretch— he was alone. 

  For the entire span of daylight that Remmick sat, following the long shadow as the sun ran its course, nobody had come outside. Nobody had come home. Nobody left. Nobody visited. Often farmers had help, family or friends or paid men to lessen the load. But Remmick watched the whole day through, tongue dry, having drooled his body dry, and nobody else had come to view. He hadn’t even heard any hoofbeats or footsteps or the hissing of car pistons. Nothing. It was perfect. The man had run himself ragged by nine thirty, panting on his porch step with his shirt off. 

  Remmick acted the moment the sun started to creep down. Let himself be ever so lightly pinkened by the dawn light, and dragged his claws lightly over his bottom calf. His flesh splintered and gave way like the soft cap of a mushroom to a blade, no more of a sting to his nerves. Remmick limped out of the shrubs, dragging his ribboned leg behind him like a hurt dog. One hand clutching his thigh for good measure, he started up the trail to the house, shoe dragging in the loose dirt, leaving a winding snake trail. 

  He knocked twice on the door, making his knocks weak. Mousy. It took only four breaths before Remmick heard a creak, something clinking, and heavy footfalls. 

  Remmick played off the breath of air punched from his lungs as him being weak. But really, his lungs wheezed with old breath at the gorgeous slopes and planes of the man's face. The harsh light of the man's lantern sent cuts and cascades of golden to block against deep crevasses of shadow. “Oh, Mister,” Remmick keened out, one hand splaying out. “Mister… please, I-I got caught up with a mean old wolf. Some big old thing. Tore r-right into me,” Remmick stammered out, brows knitted together pitifully. “Please. I just need somewhere to lie the night and patch up. Please, mister… open your heart.” 

  The farmer was silent. His eyes wide, lips opening slightly to gape. Remmick felt a little flutter of hunger in his gullet despite still digesting his last meal of those moonshiners. “Christ, mister,” the man breathed, choking on his words. He opened the door more, beckoning Remmick in. “come in, come on– that thing’ll get infected real fast if we don’t get you patched up. Christ– you’re bleeding like hell,” the man sucked on his teeth as Remmick hobbled in, letting out ooh’s and oh, god!’s to really hammer the nail in his faux pain. But Remmick felt something else, then, as the man hurried across the creaking floor to his top cabinet– when was the last time someone had let Remmick in so quickly? Not even a ‘what happened?’. He had just let Remmick in. he remembered years ago, he had pulled this act and got the muzzle of a shotgun to his nose and two old hound dogs chasing him through the woods. “I didn’t know there were still wolves around these parts, either. Bad luck must be on your side,” the man said, coming back to Remmick with a bottle of whiskey and some needle and thread. 

  “Coulda been someone’s old mutt,” Remmick panted, plopping himself at the man's table, the chair welcoming his bottom comfortably. “Didn’t get a good look at the thing, I didn’t…” 

  “Doesn’t matter. Y’know how to use a needle n’ thread?” the man asked, already uncorking the glass bottle of whiskey. He wet a rag he had gotten with it, before lightly swiping along Remmick’s leg. The vampire made a show of biting his knuckles despite only the light sting. 

  “Yeah. used to have t’ patch up my Da when he’d get a nasty bite out huntin’,” Remmick hissed out, chest heaving as the man finally finished wiping down his wound. “Got a decent hand at it. Y’don’t got a lady to help with it, even?” Remmick asked, picking for details.

  The man stalled. Eyes blinking, before he shook his head. “Naw. no, don’t got a girl of mine,” he said curtly, passing Remmick the needle and thread. 

  “Sorry,” Remmick said lightly, taking the tools graciously. He hooked the thread through the needle's eye, bringing his boot up to the edge of the chair and rolling his pant leg up. He caught the man's eye when the farmer looked at his leg– split flesh by four claws. Remmick also noticed the way the man’s eyes roved over the meat and muscle of his leg, over the hair layering the pale skin, if only for a moment. Remmick didn’t comment on it, knowing if he did, it was a coin toss if he got shot in the head and he had to go find respite before daylight somewhere else or not. “Didn’t mean t’ prod, none. Womanly hands would do a much better job than our’s, ah?” Remmick added lightly. 

  “Sure,” the man replied, voice still holding that curt slide. The man was quiet, watching the thread seam the two sides of flesh together, the thread holding taut. Remmick’s hands were too steady despite the blood loss. “What’re you doing out here, so late?” the man asked, getting bolder. More curious. Remmick’s ear twitched ever so slightly. “It’s not wise to go wandering ‘round these parts alone, so late.” 

  “Man I was with had enough of me, I suppose,” Remmick lied perfectly through his teeth. He placed a solemn look on his face, hands quickening, tying up the suture on the first gash. “Was travellin’ with him, and I suppose he had ‘nough of the trouble I caused him. People aren’t too kindly to Irish folk. They’ll toss you right from the door. They don’t like different folk, opposin’, or with differin’ views. On the jobs we’d get together, I’d get the lesser pay from bein’ Irish. Had ‘nough of it. Big old fight broke out and I went on my way. Here I am now,” Remmick sighed. It wasn't a half lie. How many times had he been looked down upon for his speech? It was an indicator, and he hated that even centuries of life on earth, of finding his nesting grounds in America, he couldn’t rid himself of that accent. He couldn’t blend in just that little bit more. “Don’t know how many jobs I’ve taken on farms and done more work’n anyone else. I worked so hard I sweat pounds offa me. Still paid the peasants salary." By the time Remmick finished speaking, he had stitched up and tied the sutures of his other cuts. The needle and thread lay in his calloused palm. 

  The man was quiet again, nodding. Hands between his knees from where he sat, lips pursed. “I’m… real sorry to hear that. Ain’t no way of treatin’ your fellow man like that. I’m sorry.” 

  “You don’t know how kind it is to hear those words of understandin’,” Remmick sighed, and those words in itself weren't all lies. He leaned against the wood backing of the chair, fingertips on top of his knee, contemplating. Not really, but he made an act of opening and closing his mouth. “I-I don’t mean to say this as encroachin’ and takin’ more of your kindness, not at all… But I see you're lonesome here. That other cabin across the way is dark, too. You got no workers?”

  “No sir.”

  “I’m a good worker. I’ll work anythin’ you want,” Remmick said, making his words lilt with hope. He laced his hands together in a prayer, “anythin’. Just need a few dollars in my pocket and I’ll be on my way. You could use it. Saw your fencin’ on the pastures could need some touchin’ up. Could help with it. Honest, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “How d’you know the fences need fixing?” the man asked, brow furrowed. He sat up straighter now, and Remmick quickly chuckled.

  “Was the only son of a farmer. Guess who got a lot of work put on his shoulders from a young age?” Remmick smiled. “Was a woodworker too when I was just a young man. Made lots’a the furniture and fence posts. I got an eye for it. Could help you with whatever else you think needs fixin’. Once I start somethin’, I need to finish it. You’ll have a strong farm by the time I’m on my way, mister,” Remmick said, lacing his hands again, "I just need the money, mister, and a place to rest my head as I heal up… I won’t be no trouble on your shoulders.” 

  Silence stretched then. The man thought, eyes cast down. When was the last time he had anyone else here? Or regardless, had the help? When was the last time it hadn’t just been him, his animals, and the foliage around him to keep him company? When Remmick gently shook his laced hands, keening a Please, Mister… Did the man finally let up. He always did have too big of a heart. Quietly, he nodded. “Let me go clean the spare bedroom… I’d lay you a pallet, but that wouldn’t be kind on your leg.”

  “I’ll take anything you offer, I’m not one to complain,” Remmick reassured, a smile gracing his face– but it never reached his eyes.“Thank you. Lord, thank you. You're a kind man, I’ll tell you that for free,” he shook a finger in the man's direction. 

  “Don’t need to thank me. I just don’t enjoy seeing someone suffer like that,” the man sighed as he got up, heading to the direction of the hallway. “And I could use the help, regardless.” 

  When the farmer disappeared into the shadow of the cabin, Remmick got up. His footsteps made no sound as he snooped, his limp completely absent. He opened cupboards and cabinets, dead silent, looking for weapons that could be used against him. There was none. Knives in the utensil drawer, and in the measly living room, only a shotgun on a mantle. He took mental note of the garlic hung inside the spice cabinet, wrinkling his nose as it stung and pierced his skull. By the time Remmick could hear footsteps, he whisked silently back to his chair. Slumped his posture, tilted his head back against the wood backing. 

  “Tidied it up. There’s just, ah… boxes, in the closet, but come day I’ll clean them out. You can put your things in there,” the man said, wringing his hands in front of him, standing in the hallway frame. 

  “Don’t got anything on me other than my clothes. Don’t worry,” Remmick smiled tiredly. He got up, one hand braced on the table. Testing  his leg out, his footsteps were heavy as he came over. “I’ll warn you now, mister, I can’t work in the daylight.” 

  The man's brows perked. “Pardon?”   “Can’t work in daylight. Won’t do any good for me– when I was just a boy the village doctor said I had delicate skin. Pah. I know, sounds like a fork of horseshit,” Remmick grinned, all toothy. “Me, delicate. I got mauled by some wolf or mutt or the sort and I’m just wincing! Oh, but the doctor said I had delicate skin. Too fair for the sunlight. I sizzle up like a strip of meat to a pan. But I’ll work anything from dawn till dusk. Sleep through the day and work like that.”

  “You sure your poor pay wasn't from your odd hours?”

  “Maybe. But I still got the work done in the end,” Remmick said, letting himself be led into the cramped spare bedroom. One window lay on the left side, with a fur pelt tossed over the curtain rod. Perfect. It was thick enough to block the sun come morning light. “That won’t be any trouble to you, will it?” Remmick asked, eyes pleading. 

  “No– no, it won't. Don’t worry. I can tell you're an honest man. Got the shoulders to prove it,” the man chuckled and Remmick just nodded with a crooked smile, lowering himself on the small cot. It creaked and groaned beneath his weight. He hadn’t had a proper bed like this in awhile now. “Come… well, come dawn, I can show you the basin. Sometimes I bathe in the creek, but I don’t want that gash of yours to get infected with anything.” 

  Remmick smiled, nodding. “Thank you,” he sighed, hand laced over his unbeaten heart, “this means more than you know. Haven't had someone show me hospitality in what feels like ages. I’ll repay you tenfold.” 

  And Remmick figured the man would leave– men didn’t linger in hallway frames or in bedrooms of other men, Remmick had learnt quickly as a boy. But the man lingered then, eyes taking in Remmick on the cot. Remmick’s big shiny eyes looking back up, blinking. And the man gave him his name– and Remmick latched onto it. Repeated it back dumbly almost, rolling it on his tongue. “Remmick,” the vampire replied. When the man stuck his hand out to shake, Remmick took it with a sturdy, clammy hand. “Pleasure to be workin’ with a man of your kindness.”

  Morning came slowly. You had been staring at your ceiling the entire night, only a hallway separating you and Remmick. Even from that gap, you could hear his breathing almost. Light and airy, murmurs of something in another tongue. Despite it all you didn’t feel threatened. Not when he came up your porch, blood drenching his leg, not when his eyes met yours as you cleaned his calf and saw something glint before it disappeared like an ember beneath a crushing boot. It was an odd thing. 

  Maybe it's because I’ve been so lonesome, you reasoned. Every other hour of the night you told yourself that, lips moving silently. The most human connection you had was when you rode your wagon into town to get your provisions. Herbs and spices and things you didn’t grow at home. A wooden crate of booze. Bullets to protect yourself from those meddlesome coyotes stealing away your sheep. A farmer’s friend of a friend had told you, while you had your arms full of bread loaves to last you the month, that their sheep had two deep, puncture wounds in its neck. It had been left drained of its blood and even when the farmer had sliced its open to hopefully get some meat from it, its bone marrow had been sucked clean from its forelegs. You didn’t refuse when the other farmer had placed a carton of bullets atop your arms, patting the carton like it was a lucky rabbit's foot. You had stored it in your nightstand. 

  You woke up like you always did, with a heaving sigh and swinging your feet over the edge of your bed. You had gone to sleep with your clothing on, just in case something happened with the man across your hallway. Despite your pity for him, still, it was better safe than sorry. All you had to do was pull on your boots at the edge of your single bed, and rub your eyes awake, pulling your curtains open wide. It was a gorgeous summer day. Outside you could hear birds singing and chittering along, gnats buzzing like little sparkles in the sunlight, the trees softly swaying. A perfect day for work. When you opened your door, and saw the spare bedroom–Remmick’s, you reminded yourself now– was closed tight. Silence from within. No doubt sleeping given his nocturnal schedule. You didn’t know how you’d survive like that.

  You went outside, pulling your suspender straps over your shoulders. Today was like any other day, you reminded yourself. Do the chores. Tend the livestock. Go have lunch of some fruits and maybe some bacon, and relax for a while. You’d give Remmick a run-down of the  fence line when the sun crept low enough that long shadows stretched across the purple-pink earth. 

  And you almost did get all those things done. Up until you were hauling the wheelbarrow of sheepshit out of the barn, your sheep baa’ing their thanks to you when you saw the old shack. 

  It hadn’t been maintained in years. Since you were just a small thing. It was only ever a cabin for the farmhands, which you only had one before he passed from some odd disease or another. Your parents hadn’t bothered to fix it up or clean it out before leaving. 

  So you did. You lodged the door open with a big rock, and opened the windows to let the stale air out. Pulled the old curtains back by their ribbons, yanked the bedding off the double bed, and beat the cobwebs from the corners of the shack with a branch full of leaves you found outside. Even swept the floor a bit with it, where squirrels had momentarily dropped their food, or the few mouse droppings. The cabinet doors weren’t very salvageable– years of mice biting at their edges made them threaten to fall from their hinges, along with the cupboards. You couldn’t do much for that, so you had chucked those outside to burn later. 

  But the shack wasn't half bad. It only had one main room while holding the kitchen to the side, and right across to the side, the bed. A small portrait of the Virgin Mary was atop the head of the bed, gazing forlornly down, gently brushing her fingers against her flaming heart. Across from the foot of the bed lay a single roundtable with two chairs. A painting of a pheasant leaping from the underbrush was on the wall there, and two windows directly on the other walls. One overlooking the barns and sprawling field, the other directed at your cabin. Something broiled in your gut– if you let him move in here, he could watch you from that window. Prop the chair up and watch, those keen blue eyes seeing into the direct view of your kitchen window and room window as both faced the shack. You pushed that thought from your mind. Remmick seemed like an honest man, not someone who would spend his daylight hours spying on you. You beat your hat on your head to dim those thoughts and walk out, keeping the windows and door open to let the breeze whistle through, taking the remnants of animal traces with it and far away.  

  By then, the sun was just crawling back behind the treeline. Jesus, you thought. I’ve never cleaned that long in my life…  but your feet carried you back home, up to your cabin. Your arms felt sore with how vigorously you had cleaned that shack. When you crossed the doorframe, you were greeted with the sight of Remmick. Up and out of his room, he was sat at the kitchen table, playing solitaire with your tattered deck of cards. His leg was propped up on the other chair. Where had those cards been, even? You’ve been looking for them for three years. 

  “Oh, Hullo,” Remmick greeted, sparing you a glance as he flipped a card. “Y’got your chores done for the day, did you?” 

  You nodded, wiping your brow with your forearm. The curtains in the window had been drawn, the last filtering light fading. He was perfectly placed where the light didn’t touch as it died out. “Got the shack cleaned up for you and all. Figure you should have some privacy for  yourself when your here,” you said, placing your hat down on the kitchen counter. “That leg of yours any better?”

  “As right as rain as it can be,” Remmick replied.

  “Good. Is it dark enough outside for you?”

  Remmick looked up then, eyes unblinking as he looked from your face to the window. No light was streaming through. “‘Bout so, yeah.”

  “C’mon then. Let me give you a run of the fence. See if you see anythin’ worth fixing.” 

  By the time you had found an old cane in the spare bedroom you had stuffed into the small closet, and had lit your oil lantern, it was dark out. The purples of the sky had flattened to a deep, sorrowful blue. Remmick hobbled along beside you, leaning heavily on the cane, leg wrapped up in an old tea towel you had given him. “You said you fixed a shack for me?” Remmick brought up, as he followed you to the pastures. “Mighty kind of you. Truly. I wouldn’t have minded to stay in that spare room– Hell, you may be the kindest man this side of the country,” he smiled, too wide. The lantern light flickered oddly in his eyes. 

  “Yea– that shack you said looked like nobodys been in it. Pa used to put the farmhand in there when I was a boy, knee-high. Died of some disease. Nobodys been in it in forever– thought you were a good excuse to clean it up. Its not much, but it’ll do for your stay here.” 

  “Thank you. Haven’t had a proper place to myself in awhile now,” Remmick hummed, placing a hand on the pasture fence, giving it a good firm shake. He pursed his lips. “Yup. this is proper molded. If a good ram butts his head well it’ll all crumble. Look, the few are getting corroded,” Remmick hummed, picking a piece of soft splintering wood from a dip in one of the wooden beams.    “This is an old fence, ain’t it?”

  “Been in the family forever.”

  “I can tell. Nobody's taken care of it,” Remmick laughed, before hobbling along before you. He shook and tested the fence like a man determined– something behind his eye glinting. It didn’t seem like he did this for a living, or whatever he had said before. It looked like he was indulging in a long lost passion as he checked the hinge of the gate, even bending to give it a wiggle. “Oh, yeah. This needs some touching up for sure. By the time I’m healed up, this’ll be good as new,” Remmick said, nodding as he stood again now. “It’ll be my repayment for your kindness.”

  “You don’t even need to repay me,” you waved a hand, voice gruff. 

  “Ah, it's the old Irish in me! You give well to who treats you well,” Remmick grinned wide again, and it reached his eyes. Slowly, you let a grin creep on your face too as you nodded.

  “I suppose I can’t refuse it, then.”

  “Yeah— good luck tryin if y’ did!” 

  Remmick had been furious when he heard those words uttered— got that shack cleaned up for you. In any other situation he would have found it kindly—the man even gave him a loaf of bread and butter. and it was kindly— but he had planned to sleep just across the hall from the man for the week or some he spent there. Learn his sleeping patterns— the way he tossed and turned. Did he sleep on his left or right, which side would be easier to puncture? Where was his most vulnerable spot? What time of day would he be easiest at? But now Remmick had brought the pillow and blanket from the spare bedroom to the shack. It was fine, really. It reminded him of his old home back when he was around the mans age, he tried to simmer his anger with those thoughts. They didn’t quite work. 

  Remmick huffed and tossed the pillow and blanket down onto the cot, his cane clattering to the ground with a clack! He sat on the edge of the bed, brows knitted. What the hell would he do now? Actually do work? Put more effort than just making it look like he knows what he's doing, but to actually do it? It was stupid. But he had to do it. Otherwise the man would think he was lazy, or being taken advantage of, and kick Remmick out and the vampire would have to jump him then.

  So Remmick huffed. Picked up the cane. He trudged out with his oil lamp in hand, and off to the barn where the man had shown him where the tools were, and where the wooden poles and panels lay from the time the farmer had considered refurbishing the fence— but had been too tired to do so. It was a hard job, after all. 

  Remmick twitched his ears and listened. Soft, rhythmic snoring. He looked up to the moon, perched high. He had time. Hunting would have to wait until the morning. 

  He left his cane by the barn, hauling some slats of wood over his shoulder, six at a time. He made his way to the pasture gate, wobbled it, tugged on it, checked the hinges. He yanked the gate off whole, before plucking the metal hinges off and settling them neatly in a pile. Taking one glance at the make of the gate, he knelt down with his hammer and nails to make one anew. Before midnight, a new gate was in place, hinges greased and silent as he opened and closed it. “Ha,” Remmick chuffed to himself as he stared at the farmers cabin, “betcha scraggled new folk don’t know a lick about common farmers knowledge like that…” 

Come before dusk, Remmick had fixed the front gate along with greasing the barns hinges, so the roll was easier. The vampire had made quick work of his feeding— scampering off into the night to take his kill on some poor rambler. The car laid upended in the ditch forty miles off, and Remmick laid curled on the small bed of the shack with a full belly, cheek stained copper as dusk light bathed the world outside. 

  You hadn’t seen anything like it. Not even when your dad was around— when you unlocked the barn door, and slid it open, it didn’t fuss. Didn’t squeal or creak or groan. It took you a second to realize it, but when you did, you ran over to the rolling hinge. Wiggled it and rubbed your finger along it— the rust gone and it shone practically. Jesus Christ, is he handy, you thought. 

  Briefly, you thought of him working under the moonlight, sweat soaking his shirt. Cussing in another tongue you very, very briefly heard him speak with. Only hushed whispers to himself. You put away that thought. For now, you rolled the door open once, twice, thrice in excitement before your sheep made themselves noisy with their disdain. Practically taunting them, you were. You murmured a chuckled apology as you opened the back hatch of their stable area, letting them scamper off into the greenery. 

  As you brought their water pail to the water pump, you let your thoughts wander. On the way there, you had to pass the shack Remmick stayed in. you pictured him then– was he sleeping? Was he sitting up, with nothing to do? Was he picking at the bread loaf you had given him? You pushed the lever of the pump up and down as you thought. And when water sloshed over the edge of the pail onto your boots, you came to a conclusion– you’d invite him for supper. It was the godly thing to do. He helped you quite a lot already in just a night– remaking a whole new gate door and greasing the inner workings of the sliding stable door with god knows what. So you did just that.

  Driving into town on your two-horse wagon, you found it pretty sparse like it always was. The trees around the small town wavered and shook with the light summer wind, blowing cool air over your sweat-slick neck. Only a few chuck wagons were in town. But you made it over to the butcher all the same, buying a nice cut of beef wrapped in paper and tied with a string. Beef stew, you told yourself you’d make. A good hearty meal for a farmhand. But he’s not a farm hand, you had to remind yourself curtly. He’s just a fella repaying me. That's all it is. 

  You couldn't help but feel that nag at the back of your head. Even when you had made the soup stock and was letting it broil over the wood stove. Even when you had tossed herbs and such in, even when you had tossed the beef and cut potatoes and carrots and other vegetable bits in. Maybe you shouldn’t have even let him in. the first proper acquaintance you’ve had in awhile and is just a man who happened to stumble on your porch step, bloodied. That's all it was. He was just repaying you for your kindness, you told yourself, once he’s healed he’d be gone and off. Probably five counties over by the next week he’s gone. Working on a bigger farm, using his steady hands. 

  You hadn’t felt this way since you were little. It scared you. You couldn’t be stringing your heart along for a rambling man. You couldn’t be. 

  It was dawn by the time the stew was done cooking. You had busied yourself in the in-betweens of checking it by pulling more wooden slats and poles from the top of the barn. Tossing them over the edge and climbing back down the ladder to lay them up neatly for him. Lessen the load a little. With the stew made, and Remmick’s tools laid out, you made your way up to the shack. Let yourself gather yourself on his porch step, before knocking. A muffled Come on in, could be heard. So you did. 

  Remmick was sat at the little table, leaning back in one of the rickety chairs. A keen hand held onto a blade of a hunting knife, twirling the tip into the already frayed table. Clad in nothing but his trousers, suspender straps hanging at his hips. He looked up at you, giving you a little smile like his whole body wasn't on display. “Hullo. Y’come here to give me hell for makin’ the gate wrong?” he teased.

  “No, of course not,” you assured, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your old work jeans. “It’s a real work of art, though. That gate. Thank you. I think it’d be better than any other woodworker could’ve done.”

  “Yeah… Thank you. It was nice to spruce up my workin’ skills after so long,” Remmick replied softly, and for once he wasn’t lying. It was nice. When he had breathed deep enough, he could still smell the rich soil of Ireland. He leaned his body forward a bit, smiling– the softness of his stomach slightly rolling, stomach hair prominent. “That all you come in here to tell me?”

  “No,” you caught yourself saying rather quickly, “Came in here to tell you I made you some supper. As a thanks,” you said, voice soft. You pointed a thumb over your shoulder, “you can come and get a bowl whenever you like. ‘S beef stew.” 

  “Stew?” he breathed. Like he couldn’t believe it. You furrowed your brow, nodding as you saw his face cycle through a few emotions. Surprise? Horror? Anger? Something softer, before going to confusion. “Y’made me food?” disbelief laced Remmick’s words.

  “Sure. your… Well, least I can do to repay you for making me a whole gate for the pasture.”

  “But that was my repayment to you.”

  “Sure, but you did a better job than you needed to,” you said, and feeling the awkwardness in the room, you put one foot out the door. “Stew’s ready whenever you want it, I’ll be inside. I finished caring for the animals so I'm gonna have my down time. Come in whenever,” you said, quickly, before making your way outside. You left Remmick to sit there, blinking wide and owlishly as he watched you trudge back home through the shacks window. 

  Remmick paced around the room. “Stew,” he breathed to himself as he was tapping his long claws across his collarbones, tangling with his necklace. “The farmer made me stew. Who does that? The last man I did this to had left me to starve. Stew. beef stew. He made me stew” he breathed, Gaelic whispering through his teeth. His ears twitched as he could hear you putting around in your cabin. Ceramic clinking. Remmick pulled his overshirt from his bed, tugging it over his head. It stunk with sweat and iron, but he had washed the blood stain out furiously with a bucket of water and his tough hands. He tugged his pants on properly and pulled his suspender straps over his shoulders. His pants were still ribboned at the calf, and it took everything in Remmick when changing his bandages to not just yank his calf up close to lap and lave at the open wound. It’d heal it quicker– the otherworldly enzymes in his saliva making the wound heal quicker than the average person.

  But he couldn't do that. Instead, he had to grab the cane the farmer had so kindly given him, and trudge up the little path to the cabin. It was the longest walk he had ever taken. Knowing that the farmer had set up a bowl for him to use no doubt. Expecting him. Remmick usually had to coerce himself to be let inside. Now, he was expected. Something broiled beneath his breast bone. He let it simmer there as he knocked twice on the door and the farmer let him in, stepping aside so Remmick could enter. 

  His nose caught spices– thyme and rosemary and the greasy, thick and warm smell of the stew broth. Remmick rested his cane by the table, eyes flicking to where the farmer had placed a bowl out for Remmick to take as much as he wanted. It was ceramic with little blue flowers adorning the rim, from past relatives. Remmick took it with a nod of thanks, the cabin oddly still as they moved in silence. Remmick took his time to sniff over the stew subtly, making sure no garlic had graced it– and somehow, it hadn’t. He settled into the rickety wooden chair, dipping his spoon in to grab a spoonful of broth, carrot and beef– playing the part of a civilized man. 

  “You taking a hares portion?” Remmick asked as the man had only taken two ladlefuls. “Might as well get some more, yeah? Workin’ all day long on that farm,” Remmick coaxed, as if he didn’t just want the man nice and solid for when he eventually sunk his teeth into him come a few days time. Or even tonight. Something in the back of his mind told him this wouldn’t be easy– he might as well abort it. He could tell this man was slowly growing fond of him, if not already. 

  “Made this for you, though. In thanks of making that gate,” the man replied. Remmick hummed. But he let it go when the man took another ladleful before sitting down across from Remmick, blowing on it. Remmick ate it as it was, the heat of it burning down his cold throat, warming him from the inside out. It was a good placebo for blood, he thought. When was the last time he even had stew? Back when his heart was still pumping, and he was little enough to hide beneath his mothers skirt when he hadn’t wanted to do his chores? He let that thought go as he chewed on a piece of beef, brows knitted. “Those pants of yours,” The man began, licking his lips, and Remmick raised his head again. “They won’t hold for long. They’re gonna tear even more from when you got your leg tore… I’ll wash a pair of trousers I don’t wear for you.” 

  Remmick’s pupils rounded from above his bowl of stew. Jesus Christ, he thought quickly. “Your pants?”

  “Yeah– speakin’ of, let me see that leg of yours. Maybe it needs a touch-up,” the man said again, bringing his chair out from the table and boldly patting his knee. Remmick looked at him dumbly. “Come on.” 

  Hesitantly, Remmick raised his leg and let the man pull his shredded pant leg up and peel away the cloth binding his leg. The farmer hadn’t been this straight forward or even touched him, really. Had he put something in the stew? Remmick’s head felt dizzy. He felt the mans hands gently push the stitched wound, testing it to see if it  oozed. Remmick shouldn’t feel his dead gut tighting. He shouldn’t feel his undead heart phantom-thumping at his chest. He shouldn’t feel the thrum of the farmers own heart in his own ears, or feel his hair on his arms prickle. The farmers hands were warm. Alive. One gently held the back of Remmick’s calf, the other tracing his stitched wound just on the raised edges. Remmick had to stifle a mewl as the man rubbed a light, faint circle with his thumb on the back of Remmick’s calf before letting it go. Remmick’s foot went back to the floor, and he felt his cold heart seize with it. 

  “You’re healing fast,” the farmer said, simply. He averted his eyes quickly and continued back on his stew. Remmick sat there, one hand in his lap, the other still holding his spoon. “I’ll get a pair of pants for you tomorrow. I got a few old pairs laying around somewhere.”

  “Mighty kind of you,” Remmick rasped out as he stuffed his face with the last remnants of the stew. He tore off a chunk of bread the farmer had set in a bowl in the center of the table, scooping up the stew bits clinging to the side of his bowl. 

  After that meal, Remmick was over every night for supper. 

  He’d sleep all day or whittle his claws into the old wooden chair at the table of his shack, carving all sorts of knots and details. His cane was a work of celtic knots, come the fifth day of staying there. He’d then have supper, of whatever the farmer cooked, and work on the fence, and come midnight, he’d make his way into the nearby outskirts of town and feed on something to sustain himself. He always shed his shirt and pants then, making sure to not get any blood on them. 

  He wouldn’t dare get blood on the farmers pants. 

 They had smelled like you at first. Of your scrubbing laundry soap and something else you– your sweat, maybe, he had concluded, as he laid curled up in bed, your pants tucked beneath his chin as he rubbed your scent over himself the first few nights. He had missed that. When he was a newly-bit, he had some lovers. They’d curl together and scent each other. across the moors he could smell himself on them. But they had died, and he felt no remorse now for it– it had been centuries past then. He wished you could smell your scent on him– wished you could smell yourself embedded into the sheets of his cot. 

  He knew he was getting attached. He let that fear be squashed as every night when he walked up the trail to the farmers cabin, he would repeat to himself, their blood will be divine tonight. They are comfortable tonight. Their blood will be divine tonight. It was a mantra he tried to repeat throughout the day, even. You were just a meal to him, ripening into something sweet that will fill him for days. He could rest in the farmers cabin, scent himself on your clothes and bask in it before trudging along to the next person. 

  But he couldn't and it angered him. His hands were getting calloused from his hard, honest work on your fence. They rubbed against each other as he held his hand in a fist, his legs making their way to your cabin. It was night. Stars twinkled gayly in the sky as he knocked once on the door, and you had hollered a come in! You had become more cheery lately. And he hated that he looked forward to the nights spent sat together at the little wood table, too rickety for his liking, and ate whatever simple meal you made. He always took one half of the bread loaf, you taking the other, tearing it in two. He always laughed with you. He always smiled, always wide. His laugh actually came from his chest these past nights. He hated it. He was supposed to kill you. Now, he couldn't even think about it. That mantra made him sick. He couldn't kill you. He knew that. 

 And the days were more dreadful than nights, somehow. Soon the old chair at the table was refurbished. A few new quilts adorned his bed– all from you– having insisted upon it, as the colder seasons drew near, where the night turned crisp. They reeked of you. You had found a painting at a market titled Irish Moors and had gifted it to him, studying the way his eyes flashed with something. He hung it above his bed, taking the Mother Mary photo away, tucking it in the cupboard. Your clothes slowly became his. He walked at night, chin held high, smelling of kindness and charity and of being wanted and it made his head swim. He had nailed his hand many a time from it, stifling a yelp. He had quickly lapped at the puncture wound, eyes alight as he could even smell the faint scent of you on the hammers handle. 

  Come the dawn of the first whole month of Remmick staying there, he had stayed past his welcome. He knew that. His leg had healed finally, a gnarled white scar tearing across his calf. He didn’t limp. The carved cane sat by his doorframe. You hadn’t said anything about him leaving, so he didn’t. He stayed right in that shack. The dinner chair with its velvet green  cushion in your home had shaped to his bottom. He had his own bowl, only his, that you always took out for him. He knew his way around your barn with ease. Knew the names of your sheep, and the lambs didn't scare anymore at him– he could gently scratch beneath their chins now. 

  And despite the fact you were telling yourself Remmic had to leave eventually– move on to the next place that would fit him– you found yourself finding him implemented into everything around you. You waited at night, when supper cooked– he always knew when to come now, like he could smell the scent of food being prepared or cooked. In the barn, some of the sheep didn’t care for the scritches you gave their heads– but you saw how they flocked to Remmick, like his fingers were natural combs for them. The new chairs he had made you. Rounding off a knick on the table. His roughly delicate fingers running along the doorframes, checking them after you questioned him on the stability of them. You waited for the touch he gave, a pat on the shoulder when supper was done good. When you went to the market, you even remembered things he briefly mentioned to make food he grew up with and hadn't eaten since then. It was good. You let him come wholly into your life. Feeling lonesome wasn't an occurrence, anymore. 

  Just this morning, you had sucked up the courage to actually get him something. A gift. A whatever– you knew some guys crinkled their nose and called it womanly to give gifts– but you hadn’t cared when you spotted that pristine banjo. You remembered one of Remmick’s musings, cheek full of something or another as he talked of being a musician when he was younger. How young, you didn't know, because he couldn't have been older than thirty-something. But you listened intently. Something called a bouzouki– and you knew you wouldn’t find anything of the sort. Not here in nowhere America. But a banjo was the closest thing to it, you figured. 

  The banjo had been laying untouched in the corner of the country market. Been there for awhile– you remembered it sitting sadly by itself since last October. It was five dollars, expensive for your tastes, but it had been handcrafted or whatnot. You had shilled the coins from your bag, before your attention caught on one of the other farmers. He had cases of bullets piled high in his one arm, all sorts of types. He looked over at you. 

  “Buying a thing of indulgence and not bullets? What, you want those meddlin’ predators to tear your livestock up?” 

  “What?” you asked, brow furrowed. You had  tightened your hand on the coins, the cashier just blinking between you two. 

  “Them coyotes! O-or bears, I don't know nomore. Nobody does,” the farmer gruffed out, but he seemed more worried now. “Whatever it is, it’s goin’ round killin’ everything. Every livestock everyone's got. Old Sally says it got her two boys. So damn young, they were only twenty-two. They got outta the coal mines late. Their clothes were tore up. Like whatever it was played in their damn blood. D’you hear me, boy? Get yourself some goddamn protection! Soon enough you’ll be missin’ too. Even the towns over ain’t safe. Canopies of cars tore open like something jumped right in. tires slashed. You’d think they had red upholstery. Town sheriff said he don’t even think it's an animal anymore.” 

  You listened to the farmers frantic talk, nodding along. “Yeah,” you had said. “Maybe its a cougar.” 

  “It aint no damn cougar, boy!” 

  “Alright, I believe you!” 

  The older man just shook his head, tossing a few coins down for his pay. “God help you,” was all he said before he stumbled out into the muddy street. You watched him go. “Old kook,” you murmured. 

  Now, the stringed gift leaned proud against Remmick’s usual seat. You had tuned it with as much knowledge you knew of them from watching the girls in town play them. You were already sat in place, bowl of  chicken pot pie still steaming as you twisted your fork round the contents to cool it. You let your heart beat from your chest as Remmick’s foot steps sauntered up the steps, slow, not like the quick paces that used to accompany his feet. His rhythmic knock greeted your ears, and you hollered a “come in”, and like always, he did. 

  But he stuck his head in first this time, brows raised, head tilted down a bit. It wasnt from the pie, you knew that, as he’d had it before. Surprise laced his eyes, like he was searching for something before landing on the banjo against his chair. “N’ what’s that?” He asked, voice rasped with something raw. 

  “Got it for you in town. It was a stealin’ price,” you said, wiping your hands with your dish towel that had been laid over your lap. Your hands weren't even dirty– just sweaty from anticipation. “Remembered you talking about playing some stringed thing awhile back… figured this was the closest thing to it.” 

  “F’ me?” Remmick slurred, eyes still big. He came forward, scooping the banjo into his hold. He held it close, touching the strings. You could smell hay and the chilled night air clung to his skin. He passed his fingertips over the strings, experimental, and you both sighed. “Oh, your killin’ me, farmer…” the words slipped from Remmick, no more than a keen. His fingers plucked and picked for a brief few seconds before steadying himself. He didn’t look at you, only staring holes into the banjo before slowly settling into his seat, hands tracing the skin of the instrument, the dry sound making your skin prickle. All you could do was let out a breath as he laid the banjo on his lap, picking up his fork to eat.

  “You’re not gonna play a song?” you had asked, blinking. He briefly looked up to you before taking two quick bites of the pot pie.

 “My pa would’ve tanned my hide if I had done so. No. a good musician’s gotta get some food in him. Food’s the backbone of a man,” Remmick replied simply. You had blinked, and his bowl was clean. Remmick scraped the remnants of the crust and licked the bowl, wiping his hands upon his pant leg and cracking his fingers with ease. “Now,” Remmick started, pushing his chair back to prop his banjo up, “now I'll play. Only for you,” his voice held a lilt you hadn’t heard properly yet. Youthful. He always held this air of respectability of him, but now, his face pulled into a boyish smile, and you could only mirror it as you leaned back in your chair.

  “Well, go on, then,” you coaxed, and he fell into song.

  The storm had rolled in by now, rain pelting the roof, but all you heard was Remmick’s voice. It came from right in the core of him. His accent grew thicker with each word, brow knitting and creasing his forehead more, like the tides upon the Irish beach. His shoulder bounced with each change in tune, his fingertips pressing into the frets with ease, his eyes not even glancing down, eyes closed. His foot bounced upon the floorboards, boot heels hitting right to the tune. It made your skin prickle. You shifted yourself on the chair, palm in your chin, elbow on the chairs arm. 

 “And they say that you're married to the house carpenter, and your heart it will nev’r be mine,” his voice was like silk that spilled from his lips. It made you a little bit ill, if you had to be true, covering your mouth now, looking at him through bewildered eyes. “Will you come with me, my one true love? Oh, come with me, said he. And I’ll take you to where th’ sky is never gray, and the shores of old Amerikay,” his foot grew heavier with its beats, his eyes finally opening to meet yours. He sang and sang till you figured the wood of the floorboards had been beat with his boot, until you wondered if his words could cling to the fabric of your curtains. It was heavenly. It was the first time since such life had been beaten back into the old cabin, since your family had left long ago. 

  When his song came to a close, and his chest heaved with his breaths, brow carrying a sheen, you finally let your breath go. The rain filled in for the silence, Remmick’s fingers ghosting over the hide of the banjo once more before he crossed his arms overtop. Remmick looked sheepish, deep in thought. 

 “You got a gorgeous voice, Remmick,” you finally breathed out. 

  Remmick’s brows raised, briefly. He leaned back in his chair, his dark blue eyes blinking with something beneath. “Yeah?” he asked, incredulous. He was quiet for a moment, thumb plucking a chord, but his eyes never left yours. “I think you’d have a beautiful voice, too,” Remmick said, bolder. He cuffed his boot briefly on the ground. “It jus’ makes sense.”

  “Yeah?” You replied, trying to shoo away the fluster. “Then I reckon I’ll have to play a song for you sometime.” 

  Remmick’s head raised then, eyes widening with surprise. “Oh, that’ll– that’ll make my year. I ain’t had someone to sing with since–” he cut himself off oddly. He swallowed, shaking his head, brows furrowing. “Well, since I was just a boy”

 “You ain’t done a lotta stuff since you were a boy,” you said, crossing your leg over your knee. You were crudely aware of Remmick’s eyes raking over the movement. 

  “Well, the life of a rambler ain’t a kind one to a man who has many follies,” Remmick replied, voice coming from the pit of his chest as he righted his posture. “Jus’ know you’ve given a man a lotta pleasure since a long, long time. This means more than those meals you’ve been makin’ me or the home you’ve let me rest in,” Remmick’s voice was raw now. Like he was fighting something beneath the words, some turmoil. You learnt not to comment on things like that. So you watched his emotions play upon his sculpted face– the crease in his brow and forehead as he thought. He opened his mouth, before closing. He opened it again, "I'm holdin’ that song to you though, farmer. I’ll wanna hear that pretty voice singin’ for me. Or those fingers plucking on the strings, whichever you’d fancy…” his voice trailed off. 

  The oil lamp flickered, making his eyes flick with something. His solid shoulders hunched forward as he leaned his crossed arms on the curve of the banjo. His shirt was unbuttoned enough that the lamplight caught the glint of his gold chain and that old, mottled mound of scar tissue at the juncture of his neck. “You calling me pretty?” you asked. 

  Remmick didn’t reply immediately, instead holding his position. He looked like a wolf peeking its head from the bushes, the way he was leaning so forwards. He seemed to be lost in thought, jaw working. Muscles along his cheek jumped, the cords of his hand and throat twitching. “Would you banish me from your home if I said so?” his words came out thicker, like he was fighting his Gaelic. You wished he hadn’t– everytime he murmured one of those old, old words beneath his breath, your nerves had jumped and turned sluggish in the legs. 

  “Why would I?”

  “Been shunned from a lot of men for stating the obvious,” Remmick replied simply, curtly. His lips barely moved, like he was hiding something. “I’ve been threatened for it, too. Had knives stuck in my gullet for it.”

  “I ain’t gonna do that to you, Remmick. I can promise you that,” you said. Honesty poured from your words, and Remmick held his posture for a few more moments. His fingers brushed the banjo’s strings as he leaned back, his soft chest heaving as he let his jaw relax. You knew the feeling. You knew it too well– anticipating anger and hatred when saying such a loving, raw thing. You had been welcomed with that anger and hatred many a time, and you knew Remmick must have, too, from the way his bones relaxed in the chair. Remmick turned his head from you, looking out the window of your living room. The rain poured down hard, trees whipping their arms in fright when a crack of thunder snapped out somewhere far away. “You can stay in tonight, If you’d like,” your voice rang tender. His jaw jumped again. “I don’t want you gettin’ swept away in the winds. You’ll probably drift off back to Ireland,” you teased lightly. The man across from you let a soft breath from his nose at the mention of Ireland. 

  But he gently shook his head. “I should get to my own quarters,” Remmicks voice rang smooth as he stood. “Thank you for the meal. Thank you for…” he raised the banjo, head nodding. “Would you be so kind as to lend me a coat? So this poor girl doesn’t get washed to the bone?” 

  You stood without a word, moving to the coat rack. Remmick followed, holding the banjo by the neck so gently. The brown leather coat came off the rack with a crinkle, the worn leather catching dust as you handed it to him. Remmick was so close you could feel his breath against your cheek– smelling of the food you had given him, and something metallic. Your fingers brushed his as he took the jacket to wrap the banjo in, settling it against his chest. 

  The two of you didn’t say anything for a while, lingering by the door. His eyes bore into yours before searching your face. “Goodnight… farmer,” Remmick’s voice was like a brand to your heart. Sizzling and searing, twisting the very veins to rewrite his name into the meat. 

  “Goodnight, my Irish rover.” 

  Remmick’s mantra soon had been kicked to the back of his mind. 

  He couldn’t eat you. No, no, he just couldn't, he levelled with himself. Not after that song. Not after he saw the ways your eyes caught his– something deeply rooted in your soul. Whether you heard the song before or hadnt– the way your heart beat faster and your breath hitched sent him flying over the edge. All because of him. Naturally. No sinking his fangs into the tense flesh of your neck, no playing into the way you moved and the things you liked to get on your good side– all he had done is played a kinder part of himself and you had fallen. Hard. 

  The feeling of being wanted and someone looking forward to seeing him sent his nerves ablaze. From his toes to the tips of his ears he felt real. Alive. No, he had to keep you alive now. How could he ever feel like that again? 

  Stolen touches were Remmick’s new favourite thing.

  They surpassed the excitement he got from a kill– they surpassed the feeling of that long, fizzy-veined pull from a person's neck– they surpassed the feeling of seeing someone else's memories, their lies, their loves, their woes, their hardships, their family. 

  And lord, did Remmick steal. He was good at it. He’d been stealing lives away for centuries. This was easier. He remembered it well from when his heart still beat. Lingering touches when you inspected his woodwork on the  gates, the edges of your hand pressing against his cool one. A pat on the back, hand lingering when you said your goodnights. Pressing his body close behind yours when you both had to squeeze into one of the sheep stalls to inspect one of the lambs. 

  And he found that he enjoyed learning about you more than seeing the flashes of people's lives replay behind his eyelids with blood on his chops. He liked seeing the way you’d smile at your livestock, or the way you asked, wholly invested, in Remmick’s life that he lied over and over about. Or when you would stop and smile when you saw your favourite wildlife critter, the way you’d rarely talk of your family, long gone, and the way you’d always answer his questions like they mattered. Indecency soon fueled his days of staying cooped in the shack, hands down his trousers and nose buried in the pillow covers. All he could think of was you. If he wasn't talking to you, looking at you, experiencing you, he had to be thinking of you. 

  And right now, that need was filled to the brim. 

  Remmick’s legs tossed and kicked in a flurry, arms raised and at his sides as he danced. His knees and the pads of his feet burned as your fingers plucked and strummed on the banjo’s strings. The faster the tune picked up, the quicker Remmick’s feet adapted, quicker than a hare. Remmick’s head tossed and flipped in ecstasy, the loud thrums of the tune and the stomps of his feet echoed loud in the house. 

  His shirt was slick to his body. Sweat poured down his brow as he danced, and danced, and danced, and danced…. You found yourself selfishly plucking harder to get him to dance faster. And he did. Perfectly. It was addicting, this man’s ethereal way to pick up the tune before you even adjusted to making it. Your lips sung to the tune, an old Irish thing you learnt from some passerbys in the bar when you were younger. Remmick’s dark curls upon his forehead stuck wet to his brow, nose dripping droplets of sweat as he bent his knee to hop low before bouncing back up, kicking his feet backwards and sideways and jumping. 

  The curve of Remmick’s neck shone in the light, the cord of muscle bouncing and bobbing as he hollered the lyrics among your voice. A fine mottle of scar tissue was at the juncture of shoulder and neck, where his shirt had slipped down from exertion. Your fingers skimmed the strings as you imagined them wisping over Remmick’s sculpted chest.

  Remmick only stumbled, feet catching himself when you closed the song with a pat to the strings. They twanged, the vibrations seeping to the bone as you panted like you had been the one beating the floorboards with your dance. Remmick stood there, head held high as he took deep lungfuls of air. 

  “Jesus,” Remmick heaved, tongue licking along his bottom lip to catch a bead of sweat. His dark blue eyes met yours, shining in the lamplight. “That voice o’ yours, farmer… could charm the devil,” he breathed. 

  “Don’t be a fool,” you only laughed, placing the banjo between your legs as you shook your head. “Your’s has more soul to it.” 

  “No, No,” Remmick said quickly, feet carrying him closer. Drunk off the feeling of your song. Your voice. You. his veins thrummed hot, swallowing drool. “Don’t go speakin’ like that to me, boy, don’t you. D’you hear yourself? Charmed the souls right from the dead and your tellin’ me you ain’t got soul. Ain’t got heart. Like you ain’t more than just a handsome face playin’ this poor old rambler a song of his past.” 

  Remmick’s words sent an electric shock down your spine, making your chest coil tight. Your finger plucked a twinge against the banjo’s string from your white-knuckle grip. Jesus, you thought. What was that? You hadn’t ever felt like that. Like a man's words had such grip over you. “Yeah,” Remmick breathed like he could hear your thoughts in the emptied cabin air. “Sayin’ all that muck like you weren’t just singin’ and playin’ to see me come undone. That’s what you were thinking, farmer, don’t make us both look like fools now.” 

  You sat there, quiet. Because he was right. Tongue running over your teeth, eyes trained on the way his shoes were stood between your wide-legged stance to accommodate the banjo between your knees. “You sure know how to pick at a mans brain, Mickey.” 

  Remmick groaned. A deep, ungodly gravel from his chest. “Don’t go callin’ me that ‘les you want my mind to go blank, now,” Remmick sighed, eyes fluttering slightly. Fighting to roll back to replay old, old memories of tender words spoken from soft lips.

  “What if I want to?” 

  Your words surprised you, even. You blinked, eyes finally meeting his again. The man above you was staring down like you were something precious. Eyes blown wide, jaw slightly hung. “Then I wouldn't be surprised,” Remmick replied, collected and slow before his throat bobbed with a swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before those same fingers took the neck of the banjo from between your legs, leaning it against the leg of the table. “Im a man of many follies, dear farmer, and I think with how many of those you’ve indulged in, it’d be a shame to now not indulge me in this one.” 

  “Yeah,” is all you could get out, licking your bottom lip with a swipe of your tongue that Remmick’s eyes followed. With that affirmation– just that breathy word– Remmick placed his hands upon your shoulders and settled himself down upon your lap. 

  His thighs were warm, thick and solid on either side of your hips as he settled in. moved, eyes forever locked onto yours. Seeing how you’d react, his lips curving up wide, his cheeks dimpling as he saw your breathy sigh. He sat at home, his elbows now on your shoulders, hands laced beind your neck. His blunt fingernails that felt a bit sharper– you reminded yourself to let him borrow your short file tomorrow– played with the soft hairs at your nape. Remmick let out a low hum eventually, leaning forwards agonizingly slow. 

  His nose brushed the meeting of your jaw and neck, over the thick cord of muscle. Remmick took a deep lungful, pulling your scent in close. The freshest he’s ever had of it, straight from the rush of your blood. He groaned low, and your hands came up to hold onto his solid hips. His shirt had come undone during his dance, so you tested the waters and dipped your hands beneath the fabric to clutch at his soft sides, only his undershirt separating flesh from flesh. Your fingers dug in with surprise as you felt him lick a whole stripe with the flat of his tongue, thick saliva coating your neck– he could taste the salt and sweat of a hard days work on you, the scent of hay and foliage from tending the small crops and the taste of your blood, the skin barricading it. Remmick willed himself to keep his teeth in check as he hummed low, pressing his nose back to smell. “Forgive me for bein’ so forwards,” Remmick apologized, but he had no true sorrow in his tone. His lips even curled into a smile against your flesh. “Forgive a man for bein’ so outta the field of lovin’. Haven't had a man to my whims in… oh… lord knows when. And lord knows I’m not a solitary animal.”

  “‘S alright, Remmick,” you murmured low. You let out a pathetic sound as you felt his one hand drag from your neck down to your shoulder, to your collarbone, to your first shirt button… his fingers popped it expertly, before he popped the second and the third. You wore nothing beneath, the sun too hot during the day to even think of wearing a cotton undershirt. Remmick let out a low hum at that like he hadn’t seen you shuck your shirt off a thousand times when the sun bit into your skin too hot. He tugged your shirt open a bit, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones. You stifled a low sound as his tongue laved out to dip into your clavicle, catching dried sweat and dirt as Remmick himself groaned low, deep in his chest as his hips started to move. Your fingers digging into the soft meat of his hips didn’t even will them to stop their slow dance. 

  When Remmick pulled back, it was with a wild look. One that commanded you without words– your hands flung from his hips to yank your shirt over your head instinctively. Bare to him, your eyes wide as you let your shirt fall from your fingers. But Remmick caught it, bundling it up to toss on the table to take with him later. 

  With your upper body bare now, his hands and eyes roved over your skin. His fingers trailed from the fur peeking from the top of your trousers, following the path up your belly button to between your pecs to your lips. You made no move of retaliation as his pointer hooked into your mouth, pulling your lip down to show your gums and bottom teeth. Remmick gave you no notice before his lips crashed to yours, hands clasping the sides of your head as he kissed with fervor. He tasted like copper and his food from earlier and of the pipe he puffed on that you had let him use. You kissed back just as rough– when had you last kissed a man? Anyone for that matter– if ever? You pushed that thought away as you wrapped your arm around his waist, pulling him impossibly close as Remmick let out a keen. Hands scrabbling against your skin, trying to take everything in– from any blemishes or scars, from any moles or freckles or anything more. Over hard muscle or fat, trying to frantically etch it into his memories. He moved like a rushed hare, hips rolling close time and time again. “Get this off’a you,” you said quickly, yanking on his light overshirt. 

  He didn’t say a word as he ripped his shirt off, not caring for the buttons as he yanked it over his head. His curls lay boyish and soft over this forehead, mouth crashing back onto yours with such force the chair teetered. 

  One hand braced yourself on the table, the other dipping below his trousers to grab a palmful of one buttock. Remmick keened again, something you’d never even heard from dirty picture shows or alleyways. Could anyone even make that sound? But you’ve come to know Remmick as being anything but normal. 

  “So good f’me,” you slurred, drunk off the irishman. Remmick kissed along the corners of your lips as you spoke sweet nothings, “so good. Workin’ the farm for me. So damn kind to me.” 

  “All f’you,” Remmick keened pathetically as he kissed beneath your jaw.

  “Helpin’ me so much. Couldn’t imagine anyone else but you livin’ with me. Can’t imagine dinners alone anymore.”

  “Don’ wanna leave,” Remmick cried pathetically. His lip wobbled as he felt your hands beneath his undershirt, feeling along his sides and stomach. How his ribs didn’t stick out funny anymore, how he had soft padding along his muscle. Your right hand took a handful of chest, and Remmick sunk his teeth a little into your shoulder– not enough to pierce– he wouldn’t dare. “Only yours.” 

  That did something to you. Something deep in your chest cracked and twisted. “Yeah. Only mine, Mickey, only mine. My man,” you revelled in the way Remmick cried something tiny into your shoulder at your words alone. They undid him. Peeled back his charisma he hid behind, only a mere mush of pathetic sounds left of the high man. Your hand cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing over the back of his neck, over his gold chain. “My man, my dear rambler,” you cooed as you reached a hand between your bodies to begin unbuttoning his trousers. Drool covered your shoulder at this point, thick and sticky from his odd saliva. You got his first button unclasped when you saw it. 

  Your eyes had been too hazy on indulgence to notice the dark coppery stain on the back of Remmick’s undershirt. You paused your movements, and Remmick voiced his disdain in babbles of his mother tongue against your neck. But you pulled your hand from his trousers to pull his undershirt up to inspect the stain. Your other hand kept Remmick’s head down by the neck, tender enough so he didn’t kick. 

  It was blood. You figured so. Blood, small bits of hay stuck in the mix– soft, fine fur of white tucked into the cotton on the side of the stain. You blinked, letting your brain register it. 

  One of the farmers in town’s sheep had been slaughtered. You had heard Remmick’s footsteps trail off that night. You figured it was just for a nightly walk he did a few times a week– always excusing it as ‘checking for any trespassers’. 

  “Remmick,” your voice came stern. Remmick was too hazy in his head to realize, instead letting out a sigh of his name on your tongue again. You yanked him upright by his chain, his bleary eyes meeting yours with confusion. “You got blood on your undershirt,” you said, brows furrowed like you hoped he’d reason with it. He just blinked at you. 

  “Caught myself on the barbwire,” he replied. 

  “Your shirt ain't ripped, Remmick,” you said. “You’re lying to me. The hell is this?” you plucked the fine sheep wool from his  shirt, rubbing it between your fingers infront his face. He stared at it, eyes widening. 

  “Sheep must've rubbed up on me, honest– it ain’t nothin’, come on,” Remmick reasoned, moving forward to start kissing you again. You pulled back, mouth pulled into a tight frown, “c’mon, Mo charae, don’t be a fool.” 

  “I ain’t bein’ a fool. Remmick, you got wool and blood on your shirt,” your voice grew more stern. “Most of the farmers around have had their sheep slaughtered.” 

  Clearance of the haze that fogged Remmick’s senses was clear on his face. Remmick’s eyes blinked, impossibly wide. “You think of me to do something like that?”   “You’re avoidin’ the question, Remmick. You werent here the night the last herd of sheep went slaughtered. You werent… fuck, you weren’t here when sally’s boys got tore up on the highway,” your voice rasped. You watched as Remmick’s eyes slowly went back to their normal size. It was sickening– without words, you knew it. He had done it. With the way he stared at you, brows furrowed not in anger or hunger, but in something more sorrowful. 

  “Dear farmer, please, it aint– aint like that.”

  “You killed those men? Those livestock?” 

Remmick went to open his mouth when you pushed his hips backwards. He was teetering on your knee, hands clasping in the fabric of your pants. “Please. Jus’ lemme explain–” 

  “If those men know it was you, they’ll shoot your brains out, Remmick.”

  “That ain’t it, that doesn’t matter none to me, but– I had to– livin’ off of animal stock only goes for so long before I get shaky,” Remmick cried out. His chest tugged him to run, to get away– he hadn’t ever told someone so quick of his nature. He knew it was the most foolish thing to do. But now, teetering on a man whom he couldn't see himself without, he couldn't care. He could feel the cold water beneath himself now, ready to plunge the precipice of stupidity. 

  “The hell are you? Can’t go out at night, your killin folk, what– suckin’ their blood, sounds like? Are you some sorta animal or a sicko?” you asked, hands shaking. 

  “I ain’t none of that! I’m Remmick!” Remmick barked out, before shrinking in on himself when he saw your flinch. “Ain’t no monster or a sicko, I ain’t none of that. I’m Remmick. Remmick Ó Cearbhaill– your Remmick, like you said,” His voice came out pathetic. His fingers clutched your pant leg, dark blue eyes searching yours. 

  Silence drenched the cabin as you breathed in those words. Breathed in his pleading stare, mouth hung open slightly. You shifted yourself on the chair, muscles jumping in your clenched jaw. “They got good trackers with them, Remmick…” 

  “I’ll know every trick up their sleeve. I’ve had every strategy of huntin’ and trackin’ put on me,” Remmick deflected. 

  “They might know what you are,” you said, and with that Remmick only let out a breath. 

  “Whole world can know of me, so long as you love me. Everyone can have a spear pointed at me and I'd have my chin up high,” Remmick replied like it was the simplest thing ever. “As long as you didn’t. You’re not looking to your shotgun. You don’t mean it– you don’t mean it, y’love me. I’ve been keeping myself together for you. I woulda been on my way months ago if not for falling into your enchantment. You’ve turned me into a true fool. I’ve never felt my heart beat so fast before. It can’t, that's– that's the joke of it all. Phantom-beatin’,” Remmick murmured. His shoulders were hunched now, looking at the hole he had torn into your pant leg. He looked boyish, if he ever could. “You make me feel like I ain't a monster.” 

  “So you’re admitting your one,” you said, voice soft. You watched Remmick’s throat bob with a thick swallow.

  “I can’t ever lie to you,” Remmick sighed. He worked his jaw. “You won’t ever know the lengths I’d go for you. Haven’t felt this much love in centuries.”

  You let those words settle over you. You couldn’t picture Remmick killing those men, or those sheep, but you knew it to be true now. But still, that bout of anger and surprise dwindled out to a strong, harrowing pull to your heart. You looked around your cabin, and Remmick’s sorrowful eyes followed yours. “Those men will catch you, Remmick. They’ll know what you are, and they’ll catch you.”

  “Well, I’ll kill every last one of them. Long as I can be here with you–”

  “Hell, Remmick, I don’t want you killing them!” you said then, voice curt. “They’re my goddamn friends. I don’t want you killing for me. If you loved me so much, you wouldn't do that. Those men have families. Families who you’ve hurt. You’d be killing a man with everything for a man who’s got nothin’.” 

  “You got me,” Remmick said, quietly. Gentle. You let your head nod softly. “You don’t have nothing.” 

  “And if meaning having you will bring kind men death, I don’t know if I can bear that.” 

  “You wish me to leave, then?” Remmick asked pathetically. You didn’t reply as gently pushed him off into his own chair. He fell onto it, hands clasped between his legs, looking up to you. Remmick watched you leave, into your quarters, and the vampire gently reached for your discarded shirt on the table. He took it, unballing it, slipping his arms inside the holes and buttoning the middle buttons. Your scent enveloped him– and he knew this would be the last he would smell of it. 

  His head raised, just barely, as he saw you come out. A heavy wool coat was under your arm as you came forwards, handing the coat over wordlessly. Remmick took it, hands still as he felt his cold heart seize once again. He bundled the coat up. “Could I at least pack up my things from the shack–” Remmick went to say, before his head whipped around to the front of the cabin. Your eyes widened as he saw his ears twitch impossibly. You remembered when you were little, a bat had made its home in the barn. You’d watch it often, giving it space, but you remembered how its little ears twitched. It was so similar your gut lurched. It was cute in a sense, but not with the fact he obviously heard something you hadn’t picked up yet. 

  “Jesus, Remmick, what’s–”

  “There's dogs. Bloodhounds,” Remmick cut you off, eyes impossibly wide. “Men with them. Shotguns. I can hear bullets rattlin’ in the chambers.” he said, coolly. “They know what I am. They got stakes.”

  “You gotta get out of here,” the words came quick off your lips. You yanked Remmick up by his shirt– your shirt– you noticed. “Get out of here ‘fore those dogs catch your new trail. I’ll wait them off.” 

  “Now– no, come on. Come with me. We can run together– nothin’ holding us down, just you and me. Don’t leave me after giving me a taste of life,” Remmick said, fingers clutching into your flesh, but you pushed him back. Pressing a finger into his chest, you said gravely, "I'm sparing you a chance at real life. Get outta here before they knock you down.” When Remmick didn’t move, his feet plastered to the ground, you fisted your hand in the front of his shirt and smacked your lips onto his. Deep, teeth clicking against his slightly pointed ones, tongue slipping into your mouth oh so briefly before you pushed him away. “Go on, now, Mickey.” 

  “Love you,” Remmick’s words came out. “I’m only– only leavin’ cause you wish me too. Just know that,” Remmick said, clutching the jacket before tugging it over himself, the coat heavy and warm, blocking out the cold, damp air outside as he opened the back door. You watched him go, figure retreating into the woods. When the pounding knocks came upon the door, your hung your head, slowly going to the front door. 

  You hoped the small golden wedding band that your mother had told you to save for your future wife didn’t fall from the pocket of Remmick’s jacket. She would have wrung you out for giving it to a creature of the night– a man, no less, but that was your final act of retaliation against her. Lord knows you didn’t care much when your feet went pounding against the earth when you had steered the hunters off Remmick’s track, following the beaten twigs of his path. It was like he wanted you to follow him. 

 Lion had been doing terribly when his brother had been arrested. He visited him when he could, but between actually finding himself a good job– at some low-paying dry-cleaning place that also acted as a laundromat on one end, he had his arms full. He didn’t quit fighting quickly. It was a gradual thing– a couple bucks to win an illegal alley fight so he could get groceries for the month so he wouldn't starve. He never was good with cooking. 

  That was until he met you. He had been working at the front desk of the dry cleaners. In a plain shirt with an apron covering his lap, tied tight at his waist. He would only admit it later, but he was staring a bit too much. Eyes dragging over you, at your face, your features, the way you held yourself. And the little girl you toted along. It was a sunny day out, nice for once in the springtime, and your girl was wearing a cute little green-and-white polkadot shirt with a fuzzy bunny popping from the bottom. You had explained how you needed her dress ironed for her graduation from kindergarten to grade one. She had insisted on it, even told lion that “it’s gonna be the biggest day of my life!”

He really did wish that he told you to leave and recommended you a better dry cleaners. The one he worked at wasn't the best and he knew it, but it was the only one who had hired him, and when the manager saw him walk in with a black eye one monday, she only said that he had to work in the backrooms and make sure customers didn’t see. It was the only job he could keep. He felt like he was just being a jackass when he sat hunched over the ironing board, meticulously trying his best with the solvents, but they were practically water. He really did try. 

 So thats why when you came back next tuesday to pick up the little pink frilly dress with green and darker pink flowers adorning it in an upwards spiral, he had to tell you upfront. Another day. When Lion did a job, he did it good. There was no arguing, you had just furrowed your brow and told him that you need it by Saturday. Your girl wouldn’t wear anything else but that dress, and he crossed his heart. You left feeling quite silly and something bubbling in your chest from that man's soft doe eyes and easy demeanor– mousey, hiding something beneath. 

 When that dress came out crisp, clean, and perfect for your daughters kindergarten graduation, you had come back the following weeks to do your laundry there. It was cheaper anyways, and practically nobody was in it save for Lion. and you liked it that way. 

Small talk with him when he was standing behind the counter turned into banter come a month into it. Then he came around from the counter, giving you better laundry soap. Sat on a bench parallel to you, would actually laugh and smile and not just look at you blankly with his sad eyes like you saw him do with customers. Half-way into the second month, you brought your girl around with you, sitting on the bench scribbling in her colouring books as she would rapid fire questions at Lion like he knew everything. He tried, he really did, but sometimes he’d have to look at you for some answers. How the hell did he knew if Horseshoe crabs had lips to kiss their horseshoe crab wives with? 

About half a year in, he would call you silly names. Knew the usual time when you two would come in, and a couple times he even let your daughter come around the counter to check out the till, letting her up on a step stool to show her the inner workings. He’d let her in the backroom where the dry cleaning happened, but he didn’t want her to trip and fall and get chemicals on her or something– he always did think of the worst. Living with Stanley still lingered in ways like that. 

 It wasn't much long after that he had asked you out on a date. Subtle. Just asking if you wanted to get some burgers from a fastfood truck he liked a few blocks down once he closed up shop. He even said you could bring your daughter, and you did– none of the other guys you had dated even cared to include your daughter. Sometimes adults needed alone time from kids, truly, but it warmed your heart. So did the laughter and food that came with it as that became a routine. Every Friday, you would come back at closing time and the three of you would walk down to the foodtruck. Get yourselves some greasy burgers, and your daughter a snowcone after as Lion and her played in the basketball court. Those days were always ethereal. Golden strays of light filtering through the leaves of the park, hitting the pavement. Families strolling around, milling about, the neighbourhood peaceful. The sound of your daughter actually getting along with someone you liked ringing soft in your ears. Her squeals and laughter as he took the ball from her, tossing it in the hoop. And when she yelped and giggled that its no fair, he’s bigger, he’d lift her up onto his shoulder and jump so she could score. 

 It was always after that score that Lion would fish a few cents from his pocket to give to her, turning her and patting her back to send her running to the foodtruck to get herself a snowcone or whatever cold treat she wanted. And then he always sat beside you after, letting you eat your burger as you always had to finish your daughters, her stomach too small to have the whole thing. 

“You know,” you’d start one evening on one of the first warm days of summer, Lion’s chest still huffing from exertion, “she really likes you. She never cared for any of the other guys I hung around.”

 “Yeah?” he’d reply, averting his eyes after a moment. Turning her head to watch her as she pointed at the menu, the cook leaning out on his forearms, familiar with her as he smiled warmly down at her. “She’s a good kid. Wonder who she learnt it from.” 

  “Thought you said i was a jackass earlier?” you smiled wide over the burger.

  “Well, thats no fair, thats because you took a bite out of my orangesicle,” Lion huffed out, trying to tamp down his easy smile. 

  “Still called me a jackass though,” you shrugged as you finished the burger, taking a sip of your pop. You swirled the contents around as you let the silence drift between you two. “Could buy you another sometime. Just you and me.”

  Lion looked at you then, eyes blinking owlishly. He rubbed his fingers over his knuckles, like an act of concentration– but he wasn't. His mind was a whirlwind. “That’s a deal,” he said with a smile as your daughter came scampering back, a big snowcone in hand. 

  Lion was always a steady part of your life after that despite at first being a little bit awkward in Lion fashion before moving in with you, quitting his job at the raggedy dry cleaners to open his own. You supported him through it all, even helping design the sign. Late nights in bed spent tucked into his side with his papers strewn about with what money he’d need to have what, where the place should be, everything. 

Kaminski Kleaners soon became a neighborhood name. Everyone came there for special occasions or just wanting to look spiffy on their clothing day-to-day. Above it was you, Lion, and your daughters home. It was everything Lion had dreamt of and more– just his own place. His own sweetheart, and a little girl to raise– the latter not being something he dreamt of much, but now that he had her, he wouldn't change it for the world. 

 Early mornings spent with either you or Lion spooning each other. Your hands gently rubbing on the scars of his knuckles from where they caught on bone, fingers circling old scars. Your lips trailing over his soft freckles dotting his cheeks and shoulders. Caught in the sheets, in each other's arms before you are awakened by your daughter padding in, her own blanket in hand (that Lion loving stitched for her– a patchwork quilt of her favourite colours on one side, with a soft floral design on the other side). Often sleeping with you two if you sleep in for a few minutes, laid between you two, Lion carding his fingers through her hair. Remembering the same hands that used to beat men to pulp, now gently wrapping the quilt higher up on his daughter. It often makes him so giddy his face hurts from smiling. 

 You gently rubbing and massaging his hand idly, while watching tv especially after a long day when the arthritis gets too much to bear, and no pills nor ointments help. Your daughters picked up on this from the times she’s sat in Lion’s lap, eyes half-glued to the tv and half-glued to the way your hands work at Lion’s poor hands. The day she asks why your doing it, she’s gone. Always trying to rub Lion’s hands, saying how she never wants her papa to be hurt. 

Heavily believe in the idea of Lion teaching her to box and fight in self-defence when she gets the age to be able to understand the concept. And when shes younger, i can see him play-boxing– lightly tapping her belly with closed fists as she squeals and giggles before he picks her up and hauls her over his shoulder, jumping around. 

Rip Lion’s rat tail if its not gone by then (which it probably would be) cause ik that things either getting snipped off somehow with safety scissors by their daughter, or she’s bedazzling it with stick-on rhinestones and silly hair ties. 

Heavy on the idea of Lion knowing simple sewing patterns from his time at the factory. Maybe him sewing her a shirt from a fabric pattern she liked once when they went to the thrift store or fabric store for some reason or another. He has to take breaks while working on a clothing item though, due to his hands.