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Chapter Text

The Sticks by Mother Mother



The Veil

There’s no way. There’s no such thing as vampires.

You pace barefoot beneath the dim lantern light, your shadow lurching across warped floorboards. You’re trying—really trying—to make sense of what she’s saying, to pin it down to something logical, something real. But her words are nothing but fiction. Stuff for books and movies. Folklore.

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this.”

Helena pulls her head back from the narrow window, the curtain falling against her shoulder. “He flew,” she says flatly, like she can’t believe she has to spell it out. “And he bit ya.”

Your hand drifts to your shoulder on instinct, fingertips grazing the ragged edges of the wound, blood still tacky on your skin.

“Maybe he’s on something,” you say weakly, clinging to reason. You’ve seen worse back in California—meth and bath-salt stories, men turned feral on street corners. This could be that. It has to be that.

“Maybe we should call the cops—”

Helena whirls so fast you flinch. Her brows pinch, her mouth a sharp, furious line.

“You wanna call them sheriff crackers? Think they gon’ come save us?” The bite in her words is more than anger. It’s history, raw and ugly.

“Why? ’Cause you a mulatto gal? They hate you just the same ’round here. Ain’t nothin’ but damn Klan folk out here—every last one of ’em.”

Your mouth falls open, shuts again. Helena yanks the curtain back, juts her chin toward the yard.

“An’ how you reckon you gon’ do that, huh? Stroll out there with a vampire waitin’? See what else he got in him?”

Moonlight spills across the clearing. He’s stopped thrashing, but his fingers are still clawed deep into the grass, tendons roped and straining, like something inside him refuses to let go.

But your thought is snagged on a single word.

“Klan?” you echo, slow. “Like… the KKK?”

“No.” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Like Jim Crow.”

“Jim… Crow,” you whisper. The words taste heavy and strange, like rust.

The room tilts.

The only thought that pushes through the static in your head is the one you muttered back in the lab—hours ago, or maybe a lifetime: ‘So what does that mean? That this book… somehow jumped from era to era?’

Your stomach knots. You step closer to her.

“Hey Helena,” you murmur, “I know this is gonna sound strange, but… what year is this?”

At that, she stills.

Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies you—like touching the book may have shown her something she can’t explain either. She sets the lantern down on the small table near the door, her gaze sharp, measuring as she looks you over.

“You already know,” she says slowly.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Tell me anyways,” you whisper.

“…It’s March,” she says, watching your face carefully. “1931.”

The floor disappears beneath you.

“Fuck.” The word tears out of you, then again, louder. “Fuck—fuck—fuck!”

Your mind reels. You’re in 1931. Delta Mississippi. You know it—you do. Something deep inside whispers it’s true.

You press your palms over your face, your whole body going rigid as you force air into your lungs.

“Okay,” you mutter through your fingers, “You fell out of the sky. The book did… whatever the hell it did. You got bit by a ‘vampire’—which is still debatable—and now you’ve time-traveled.” Saying it out loud doesn’t make it sound any less insane.

Okay. Think. If you’re here, what do you know about this timeline?

The South in ’31 was still buckling under the weight of the Great Depression. Sharecroppers’ fields dying. Widespread poverty. And over all of it, the brutal reality of segregation and the violence of the Jim Crow era.

“When are you from?” Helena’s voice slices through your spiraling thoughts.

You drop your hands and find her still watching you—calm, but with a weight in her gaze, like she already knows.

“It’s also March,” you begin, your voice trembling, “…2031.”

A muffled sound slips from her—half chuckle, half exhale. Not quite disbelief, not quite acceptance.

“You mean to tell me,” she says slowly, “you’re a hundred years from the future?”

…

That little laugh hits you like a brick—sharp and familiar.

You swallow hard, eyes going wide, suddenly afraid of your own curiosity.

“Wh—what’s your last name?”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“It’s just… uh… my mom was named after her grandmother Helena. But she’s from New Orleans.”

Your great-grandmother was born and raised in New Orleans. There was never any mention of Missi—

“I’m from New Orleans,” she snaps, cutting the thought clean from your lips.

“FUCK!” The word bursts out as you punch the air. Of course. Of course this can get worse.

“What the hell are you doing in Mississippi?!” you demand, your voice bouncing off the walls.

“Don’t you go questionin’ me! Ain’t none o’ your concern, nohow!” Her chin lifts, glare sharp as glass.

You bite down on a scream, drag in a breath like it might hold you together.

“Do you—do you have any kids yet?” you ask, desperate now. Despite the nightgown and dim light, she doesn’t look much older than you.

She folds her arms across her chest. “No.”

“FUCK! Mother—fucking—fuckity fuck!”

“Good Lord, girl! Quit cussin’ like a sailor! Is that how all you future women carry on?!”

You wave her off—you’ve got bigger problems than her offended sensibilities. You pace the narrow room, hand pressed to your forehead like you’re trying to hold the panic in place.

“You don’t get it. I’m nerdy enough to know what this means. Time travel has rules! Ever heard of the Grandfather Paradox? Or the butterfly effect? No, of course not—you’re from 1931!”

She blinks, confused, but you don’t stop.

“You’re my great-grandmother. And you haven’t had kids yet. Do you understand how bad tonight could’ve gone?!

“My presence—and that book—brought that thing here. You could’ve died! Or something could’ve happened to you that stops my grandmother from ever being born! Which means my mom was never born!

Which means…”

Your voice breaks. The air feels thinner.

“...what does that mean for me? Did I ever even come here? Or am I stuck in some—some vortex of time and space paradox?!”

You rake a hand through your hair, chest tight. Your historian’s brain understands the fragile threads that hold the world together—how whole futures can hinge on the love, courage, and survival of just a few people.

“I need this damn book to send me back! This isn’t just about me anymore. Every choice I make here could ripple through time in ways we can’t predict!”

Helena watches you quietly, her expression caught somewhere between patience and pity, like she’s waiting for you to burn yourself out.

Finally she says, “I know good an’ well that’s a heap o’ nonsense. But that ain’t no book. Nor is it damned.”

Your eyes snap to hers. “Oh really? Then what the hell is it?”

Her gaze drops to the book by the lantern, its surface shimmering under the showdown of light. When she looks back at you, her voice is steady.

“It’s a grimoire.”

You blink. “A… grimoire? Like… magic and shit?”

"Yes… like magic. ’Cause that’s just what we are—you an’ I." Her eyes don’t waver. “We’re witches.”

You stare at her, incredulous. “Me? A witch? Have you lost your mind?!”

Helena doesn’t flinch. “You know good an’ well you are.”

“What—no! There is nothing strange, mystical, or magical about me! I go to work, I burn dinner, I fold laundry—I’m as normal as they come!” You throw your hands up, half laughing, half exasperated. “Trust me—nothing out of the ordinary happens to me. Ever. Until tonight decided to lose its mind.”

“The grimoire chose ya—spoke to ya. You leapt through time. You got bit by a vampire and lived to cuss about it. And the part you can’t swallow is the witch part?” She steps closer, lantern light stroking the planes of her face. “Out there, when we touched that book… you felt it wake. You saw ’em. Felt ’em. Heard their voices.”

You shake your head, because the alternative is letting it in. “I don’t know what I saw.”

“Yes, ya do.” Her voice softens, steel underneath. “What’s in you ain’t new—it’s old. Been sleepin’ a long while. I know, ’cause what runs in your blood runs in mine.”

You think of that surge when your hands met the book, the flood of faces you didn’t know but somehow recognized, the heat in your chest like sunrise.

Denial weakens on your tongue.

Helena reaches for your hand, fingers grazing yours. “We ain’t just any witches,” she says, eyes fixed on yours. “We’re Sunwalkers.”

“Sunwalkers?” you echo, the word strange and bright.

“There’s all kinds of witches. Green witches, workin’ root and leaf, coaxin’ magic from the soil. White folk over in Europe, dabblin’ in blood magic for centuries. But even among witches, our kind is rare.”

Her voice deepens, steady and reverent.

"All ‘cross this world, there’ve always been those who walked in the light.
In Egypt, they said we were the daughters of the Eye of Ra—solar spirits wearin’ women’s form. Sometimes goddess, sometimes force.

In the Americas, the Aztec and Inca told of priestesses who served the sun—worshippers of Inti and Tonatiuh, givin’ songs an’ souls to keep the heavens burnin’.

In Europe, the Druids spoke of solar lines—bloodlines marked by the high sun. Flareborn, they called ‘em. Hunted ‘em like beasts come witch-trial time.
Over in Asia, Daoist priests told it diff’rent— children born with a sky pearl in their chest, glowin’ with truth.”

Helena pauses. Her gaze holds yours, weighted with memory.
“And then there’s us. In West Africa, they called us the Daughters of Orun—Orun meanin’ ‘heaven.’ Sun-touched Iyalorisha, descended from spirits who walked with the sun.”

“How… how do you know all this?” you ask, throat tight as you try to keep up with the torrent of names.

Helena’s gaze goes distant. “My granny used to see ‘em. They came in her sleep, braided stories into her hair. She told me… when Sunwalkers were stolen in the slave trade, some buried their power deep in their bones, just to survive. Others whispered their spells into the soil, prayin’ for daughters who’d one day awaken.”

The book sits like an anchor in the room, a witness to a homecoming.

“This grimoire found you… and through you, it found me. That ain’t chance, Ree. That’s blood callin’ blood.”

It’s a lot to take in—too much, really—but if tonight has been anything, it’s strange.

You exhale, shaky.

“Okay… let’s say I accept it. Let’s say I’m a ‘witch’.” The word tastes foreign on your tongue. “Then why am I here?”

Helena shakes her head slowly, eyes narrowing like she’s turning the puzzle over in her mind.
“That there, I don’t rightly know. What’s the last thing you done ‘fore you landed in my garden?”

Your gaze drifts to the book.

“I touched the book… and it—” You search for the word. “It shimmered. Like gold dust.”

“Shimmered?” she repeats, brows knitting.

You nod. “The writing… whatever language it was—it changed. The symbols shifted into letters I recognized. Not English words exactly, but… English letters. So I read it out loud.”

Your hand unconsciously presses to your chest like you still feel the phantom grip. “That’s when something… grabbed me. Pulled me.”

“Grabbed ya?” Helena’s eyes flick to the grimoire, frown deepening. “What exactly was you readin’?”

In two quick steps you’re beside it.

The lantern’s glow spilling over the cover as you flip through its pages. Gone are the curling, inky symbols you saw earlier. Now each page is written in that strange hybrid script—English letters twined with strange syllables—margins crowded with inked pictographs of suns, leaf-spines, spiral paths.

“These weren’t like this before,” you murmur, skimming until your finger lands on the one burned into memory. “It was this one.”

Helena leans in, lantern tilting closer. Her eyes flick up to yours. “Well… read it again. Let’s hear it.”

You hesitate. “What if it sends me somewhere else?”

“Well, I don’t know how to read. So if you don’t—neither of us is findin’ out, are we?” Her tone is plain, no shame in it, just truth. “Come on now, the grimoire answers to the witch, not the other way around,” she adds, motioning you toward the page with a small nod.

You pause, throat tight, and give the smallest nod back, though your stomach twists like it knows better. You make sure not a single other part of you is touching the book as you lean just close enough to sound out the words.

“Aro la’ye…”
“Kine do sun ta—”

“That there,” Helena interrupts, finger pressed to her chin, “sounds like my enchantment. I done said them words come sunset.”

“Enchantment? Like… a spell?” Your head snaps toward her. “You brought me here?!”

Her frown is sharp. “I ain’t brought you nowhere, girl. I do my enchantments all the time.”

“It has to be connected!” you insist, voice climbing. “If we’re witches—if this is real—maybe we both did the same spell. Maybe you started it, and I… finished it. And somehow I ended up here.”

Helena’s brows pinch, but she doesn’t dismiss it outright.

Your thoughts race hard and hot—maybe you are a witch. Maybe this is how you get home.

“Let’s try it again,” you say, almost pleading. “You do your enchantment; I’ll read from the page. Maybe it sends me back.”

She sighs, unconvinced, but lifts the lantern.

“Alright. We can try. Hold this.” She passes you the weight and crosses the room.

You raise the light higher, and the space blooms in flicker and shadow—finally, for the first time, giving you a real look around.

Where the book sits—what you took for a table is more of a work counter—scarred wood, shelves looming above it, every ledge crowded with jars: dried leaves and roots, cloudy liquids, bundles tied in twine. The walls are unpainted pine, their seams stuffed with ragged cloth to keep out cold and mosquitoes.

On the opposite side, pots and pans hang over a narrow, old table leaning against the boards. Two chairs wait beneath it, and Helena is already setting them with stubby candles and small glass jars, her movements practiced—almost tender.

To your left, a thin sleeping mat lies unrolled, a blanket tossed aside like she ran from it to drag you out of the yard.

When she begins whispering in a language you don’t understand, you approach to see what she’s doing.

She’s drawing a pattern—chalk scratching smooth strokes into the table—a pentagram inside a circle. At the center, she places a small, wrapped bundle. When she peels back the covering, your face twists.

“Is that a dead bird?”

“I was gonna bury it at sunrise,” she says, casual, striking a match to light the candles. Their flames sway against the pine walls.

“Get yer grimoire ready.”

You quickly set the lantern beside her and reach for the book, your finger trailing to the same section as before.

Helena closes her eyes and begins her chant.

“Aro la’ye, kiné do sun ta.
M’baya lomi, sa fe o ka—”

You read alongside her.

“Aro la’ye…”
“Kiné do sun ta…”

Your voices weave an offbeat duet. The air thickens. Your skin prickles. For a heartbeat, it feels like magic is real—like you’re both tugging at invisible threads in the air.

Helena sways like a pendulum, eyes half-lidded. You match her cadence, repeating your lines over and over, tasting the syllables bright and strange on your tongue.

Then she stops.

You freeze, body taut, waiting for the invisible hand to seize you again—to lift, to pull, to tear you out of this room.

Nothing happens.
Not a flicker. Not a shift in the ink. Not a goddamn thing.

Hope curdles in your gut.
This is so fucking stupid—for a moment you actually believed this whole fucking thing.

“This goddamn book,” you mutter, shaking it like the magic might rattle loose. Then you toss it. It lands with a dull thud beside the dead bird.

Helena lays a hand on your arm, steady, comforting.

“It’s near sunrise. We can try again come sunset.” she says, moving toward the window.

Oh, the man outside. You’d almost forgotten about him.

You follow, leaning over her shoulder to peek out past the faded curtain. The first hint of sunrise bleeds into the world—a bruised purple smearing across the horizon, clinging stubbornly to the last scraps of night.

“Oh my God! He’s… smoking!”

In the yard, the ‘vampire’ has rolled to his chest. Steam rises from his back in faint wisps, like heat off pavement after rain. His groans are low, fingers clawing the grass as he drags himself inch by inch toward the trees.

“Yep.” Helena’s voice is flat, eyes fixed on him. “Silver bullet, stake to the heart… or sunlight’ll do the trick.”

You whirl to her. “We can’t kill him.”

"Again—I done told ya—he’s a vampire. An’ he bit you," she fires back. “That creature’s dangerous. Best let the sun finish him.”

“Did you not hear what I said about the butterfly effect?” Your voice rises as you push toward the door, urgency knotting in your chest. “He’s here because of me—and that damn book. If I hadn’t come here, he might’ve never crossed your path.”

Helena’s foot slides swiftly between you and the threshold, jamming her leg on the plank just as your hand finds the latch.

“You ain’t goin’ out there.”

“I have to!” Your tone is sharp, final. “Maybe he’s supposed to save someone in the future—or kill someone who shouldn’t exist. If he dies here, now, it could change everything.”

Your thoughts race faster than your words.

If someone meant to die ends up living, they could have children… children who might grow up to change who holds power in the 60s. The civil rights movement could look completely different. By 2031, the political map, the culture—maybe even the country itself—could look completely different.

“He’s gonna hurt ya out there,” Helena warns, low and grim.

Your hand clamps the latch, knuckles white.
“I get you’re my granny, but I’m not a child. He’s not biting me again. Look at him—he can barely crawl.”

For a long moment, Helena holds your gaze, her face unreadable in the gray light. Then she exhales and steps aside.

“Fine,” she mutters. “But don’t go sayin’ I ain’t warned ya."

The door groans open, spilling cool, damp air into the room. You run down the porch, bare feet hitting crooked steps, sinking into the wet earth. The yard reeks of soil and smoke. Insects whir, then hush as you cross the clearing.

You tell yourself—no matter what happened last night—he’s just a man. Just flesh and breath. Here and now, it’s hard to connect the idea that he might be a supernatural creature.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you close in.
“Listen, dude, I’m gonna try to save your life.”

“Please… help me.”
His voice is rough—parched—like every word scrapes past a throat lined with shards of glass.

“If you try to hurt me or bite me again, I swear to God, I’m leavin’ your ass out here. Okay? Cool? Alright.”

You wedge a hand under his shoulder and gently roll him over. He hisses, blistered skin rising beneath your palm. His face is flushed, teeth bared—the thing that really makes you believe he’s a vampire—your dried blood still webbing his chin and collar.

“Goddamn, you’re heavy,” you grunt, hooking your arms under his and dragging backward through the mud. Heat rolls off him in damp waves.

He really is burning, isn’t he?

You’ve barely taken three steps when Helena’s voice cracks across the yard. She’s on the porch, arms folded, frown deep enough to cut.

“Oh, uh-uh! You ain’t bringin’ that white devil in my house!”

“What?!” You whip your head toward her, still braced under his weight. “Where am I supposed to take him, then?!”

The horizon lightens—the slow crawl of dawn sliding over the trees. His cries sharpen, back arching in pain, smoke thickening.

“I don’t know—you the one fixin’ to save him,” Helena snaps.

“Helena, please!” Your throat scorches. “He’s gonna burn!”

“Are you plumb crazy?! I ain’t lettin’ no vampire in my home!” she fires back, rooted firm at the step.

Your pulse hammers in your ears.

“Okay, just—give me something! Anything to cover him!” you shout over his ragged cries, fingers tightening around him like letting go might kill you both.

“Just leave him!” she barks, waving you back.

You shake your head, jaw set, refusing.
“No! I can’t!”

Helena groans in frustration, throwing her hands up before storming down the steps. She motions toward the side of the house.

"There! Out back—there’s a shed. Take him there—if he even makes it!"

You pivot, dragging him toward the new target.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” you’re screaming over his cries, the sound twining together—as the sun bleeds orange and gold into the sky.

Your heels skid in the mud, breath hitching with every step. The heat pouring off him bakes your skin—the kind that makes you believe he might combust at any second.

That’s when the ground betrays you.

Your foot slides on the soft earth, and suddenly you’re slipping backward. Your tailbone smacks onto the ground, pain flashing up your spine. He lurches backward with you, a broken cry tearing from his throat—and for one blinding moment, you see nothing but the burn crawling across his skin.

Panic swallows thought, and Instinct takes the reins.

You lock your arms around his chest from behind, feeling planes of his ribs under your grip. His body thrashes, desperate to escape the light, but you cling tighter, anchoring him with everything you have.

And then—
Something shifts.

Beneath the pounding of your heart, through the shudder of his back against your chest, you hear it: your own pulse, deep and heavy.

Dum-dum.
Dum-dum.

Warmth blooms with each beat, spilling across your skin. The air shimmers, unfurling from your shoulders in a fine, invisible blanket—draping over the both of you like a clear sheet of silk.

He gasps, a raw, startled sound. Coolth settles over you like water on fever. The fight drains from his body; his eyes open wide, no longer squinting. The burning stops.

“What’s happening?!” you shout, looking up at the sunlight still spilling over you both.

Helena’s skirts fly as she runs toward you, eyes wide.

“It’s a veil!” she cries, breathless. “A veil from the sun!” A stunned laugh bursts out of her. “Lord have mercy—you’re doing it! You’re holding the sun at bay!”

What?! Doing what?!

You glance down. His skin… it’s healing.

You don’t know if it’s some vampire trick or if it’s your doing, but under the amber wash, the burns retreat—skin knitting in reverse, red paling back to pale. The hiss of scorching fades into the hush of morning.

He trembles in your arms as he leans back, his head slipping into the hollow beneath your chin, resting against your shoulder. The moment presses close—uncomfortably intimate, his weight heavy against you, his breath brushing your skin.

He’s not looking at you; he’s staring at the sky, and the sight unmoors him. Tears glass his eyes.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, your voice gone soft without your permission. “You’ll be just fine.”

“The sun,” he breathes, reverent. “After all this time… I feel the warmth.”

When he turns his head toward you, the space between you shrinks to nothing.

He’s right there—inches away.

Every detail sharpens: the damp curls of his dark hair, the smear of your blood at his mouth, the steadiness in his gaze. Hunger flickers there, yes, but also awe, and the terrible gratitude of a starving man handed bread.

“What are you?” he whispers.

You don’t answer. But the veil hums against your skin, thinner by the second, tugging at your insides like a tide going out.

“I don’t know how long I can hold this.” You whisper back. “Can you stand?”

He nods. Together, you heave him upright, his weight slung over your shoulders as you stagger toward the back lot. Helena follows, one hand pressed to her chest, watching the impossible unfold.

There—a crooked little shed leans into its own shadow, boards warped, roof sagging, the kind of structure that looks like a good wind might nudge it flat.

When you lift the latch, the hinges groan—and chaos bursts out. Something black and white—a cat—darts between your legs, followed by a flurry of feathers as half a dozen chickens explode through the doorway, ‘bawking’ their outrage.

Helena’s voice carries sharp from behind you.
“Mr. Mittens! What’d I tell you ‘bout goin’ in my shed again? I swear, if you been at my eggs, Lord help me…”

You swat at the air—waving dust and feathers as you drag him inside. Wire cages hang crooked. Hay drifts across packed dirt. Thin light cuts through plank gaps like ghostly fingers. It’s cramped and it stinks, but it’s shade—and for him, it’s enough.

Helena’s voice targets the vampire as you ease him down.
“And you—when that sun goes down, I want you gone, y’hear? If you ain’t, I swear to Almighty it’ll be the last o’ you.”

You nod once to him, pulling your arms free. “Do as she says.”

But his hand chases anyway, fingers brushing yours—light, deliberate.

“What’s your name?” His gaze doesn’t waver; steady, searching.

“Nope. We’re not doing that.” You jab a finger at him like it’s law. “Just take the shade and leave.”

You don’t give him a chance to respond. You step back, and the coop door groans as you slam it shut. The latch clinks into place, muffling him on the other side. You breathe out hard, like you’ve sealed more than a door.

Helena watches you on the walk back, arms folded, but the corner of her mouth quirks.
“You’re right brave for that, you are.” A pause, then: “And you look downright awful.”

You glance down: bare feet, mud caked up to your calves, streaks of blood staining your shirt, hair gone feral.

“Yeah, well.” You drag yourself up the porch steps. “You don’t happen to have indoor plumbing, do you?”

Helena chuckles, a dry, surprised sound.
“And she’s funny.” Her sarcasm hides something else—a spark of wonder, maybe—but she doesn’t linger on it. She waves you toward the door. “Wait here. You can borrow one o’ my dresses. Got a metal basin out back—I collect rainwater. You can wash up proper.”

She slips inside, leaving the door swinging lazily in her wake.

Alone, you breathe in the morning, taking in her world for the first time. The garden stretches in neat rows, dew still clinging. Beyond it, a dark scar in the dirt marks where you hit last night. The trees ring close, hemming the house in, keeping the world at bay. No other homes in sight.

It makes you wonder—why here? Why alone?

Helena returns, holding up a dress.
“Here. This’ll fit well enough.”

You accept the fabric, so worn you can’t tell if it was once blue or black.

“Basin’s stacked by the barrel. Wash up, and I’ll patch that bite of yours.”

*****

The coop smells of dust and damp straw, feathers drifting in the faint light that filters through the slats. Remmick sits with his back pressed to a warped plank, skin cooling from the burn he did not earn. The air tastes of rust, damp wood, and the faint iron-ghost of her blood dried along the corner of his mouth.

He touches it once, the pad of his thumb grazing crusted red, and hunger coils low in his gut. He should not have rushed her last night—instinct had betrayed him. He had felt seen—seen past the portrait he pretended to wear.

And her blood… her blood had been unlike anything he’d ever tasted. A living fire sliding down his throat, searing and soothing at once. Sweet. Terrible. Holy. Like sinking his teeth into the sun itself. It had left him reeling—half-drunk, half-destroyed—as if he’d stolen something sacred. Now the memory gnaws at him, stoking the hunger to something unbearable.

A rib twinges when he breathes too deep, but the pain is small, ordinary—almost human—compared to the blaze that had tried to unmake him moments ago.

Then—movement.

Through the crooked gaps in the coop, he catches her. The girl. Out in the yard.

She comes to him in fragments: a shoulder here, a sweep of hair there, her figure stitched together by shifting cracks of light. He leans forward—and just in time, sees the delicate line of her spine as she lifts her shirt over her head.

He immediately shifts to his knees, pressing his face to the narrow slats, straining for a better glimpse.

She stands at the rain barrel, basin balanced on a crate. Fingers work at the stubborn fastenings of what’s left of her clothes, peeling them away piece by piece.

She bares her back first—the tumble of honey-colored hair catching the morning light, sticking damp against the nape of her neck, shoulder blades shifting beneath it. Her skin is the color of summer, warm and honeyed oak. The smooth curve of her back arches, tapering into the narrow dip of her waist before flaring into the full swell of her hips.

A streak of mud mars one shoulder; she wipes it away with the back of her wrist and bends toward the basin, granting him a fuller view—the rounded rise of her ass.

The water answers her hands in quicksilver arcs, each movement slow, unhurried, baring the lines of her body as if the act of washing were its own unveiling. Droplets string along her spine, sliding from the base of her neck and pooling briefly in the small of her back before vanishing into the shadow between her cheeks.

His mind, so long numbed to pleasure, follows that path greedily. Every sense he owns, honed by centuries of fear and hunger, swings toward her, drawn helplessly, irresistibly—like iron dragged to a magnet. Though the leaves, the morning light finds her and softens at the edges, as if it, too, wants permission to touch.

She lifts her arms to wash her hair, breasts rising subtly with the motion, nipples peaked from the cool air. The sight sends a tightening through him, sharp and insistent, making him shift against the straw. It’s been centuries since a woman’s body stirred him like this—not with the dull edge of feeding, but with the raw pull of wanting.

Oh, what a pull.

But it isn’t just her body he’s watching—it’s the impossible pull of her, the same pull that had wrapped around him out in the yard, holding the sun at bay. He can still feel it: the mercy in daylight, that veil of warmth, that touch that wasn’t just flesh but something older, deeper.

Centuries since the sun last touched his skin without agony. Centuries of shadow, of hunger, of hiding like an animal from the day. And then she—this stranger—had given it to him. Even if only for a moment.

A witch.

He’s sure of it.

No mortal woman could do what she did—bleed fire into his veins, burn him from the inside out, and leave him crawling in the dirt still craving more.

She steps into the basin, slowly sinking, legs glistening as rivulets chase each other down the curves of her calves. She sluices water over her hair, and it darkens, heavy coils springing up against her neck and shoulder. She washes herself with brisk, practical tenderness—neck, collarbone, down over the round weight of her chest.

He imagines the scent of the soap—lard and ash, some crushed leaf from the garden—and beneath it, the bright salt of clean skin.

Chickens cluck and weave around her feet, pecking past the tub. She laughs, sudden and incredulous, and the sound opens a room in him he has not entered in centuries.

She rinses her hair and sighs, leaning back, resting her head on the edge of the basin. He watches the line of her profile tilt up toward the canopy—eyes closed, lashes wet, lips parted, hair slick and clinging to her throat. Water shimmers over her breasts in thin silver sheets before dripping from her nipples.

He wants to taste that water, to see if it carries the same impossible heat that lingers in his mouth from her blood.

It tightens in him like a hand around the sternum. Not hunger. Not exactly. Something narrower and deeper, threaded with awe.

Remmick presses his forehead lightly to the wood, the gaps between the boards narrowing her into moments—a movement of curve and glint of water.

And there, in the dim hollow of the coop, he knows:

He has found it. The holy grail of all vampires.

The sun, packaged so pretty.

Whatever it takes, he will have it. Whatever it costs, this is the beginning of something he will not be able to walk away from.

*****

You sit at the table under the lantern light, watching Helena place two mismatched plates down. She’s made a meatless jambalaya—rice, beans, tomatoes, peppers she grew herself—steam curling fragrant and thin in the cramped room.

You know this dish. In your time the family recipe is heavy with sausage and shrimp, rich and loud; here, it’s lean and honest.

After she patched your shoulder—smearing a doughy poultice that stung like a bitch—she offered you her bed: a sleeping mat, a heap of blankets. Lying there, feeling every rib of the floorboards, you thought about your mattress at home and the stupid luxury of it, how ungrateful you’ve been to be born in the century you were.

“What the hell,” Helena mutters, gaze sliding past you toward the window.

You stand, the chair legs scuffing rough wood, and look out into the yard.

He’s there. The vampire. Standing just beyond the porch.

You thought you’d seen the last of him. At sunset you’d been perched on the porch when the coop door banged open and he took off across the yard into the trees, running like that scene in Get Out, a blur that made your stomach drop.

“He’s probably hungry,” Helena had said, and you chose not to think about what that meant.

But now—he’s back.

“You stay here,” Helena snaps, dropping the pot onto the table with a bang that rattles the plates. The door swings wide and she strides out, hand already lifted, palm open like a loaded gun. You hover at the window, peering through the curtain.

“What’d I say about you comin’ back here?” she calls, voice hard.

He lifts both hands, empty. “Wait… wait. I just wanna talk. I just—”

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” Helena cuts in. “Best you get on outta here.”

“I don’t think you understand… what happened last night.” His voice is low, careful.

Unlike Helena’s southern drawl with a Cajun bite, his carries a different weight—vowels stretched, I softened to Ah, the sound sliding across the porch like oil.

“Oh, I reckon I do,” Helena says, eyes flicking down and up him like a tally. “White man knockin’ at my door, sniffin’ ’round for somethin’. Undead, or the likes of him.”

You lean farther into the windowlight. He’s cleaned up—white collar shirt tucked into work pants, suspenders snug, hair falling gently over his forehead. Ordinary, if you didn’t know better.

He glances up—catches you watching. Your breath catches as you duck back, but when you look again, he’s shifted, angling toward the window and you, but Helena mirrors him step for step, her palm extending, as if ready to send him flying just as she had the night before. (You doubt she even knows how she managed it—but she carries herself like she does, daring him to call her bluff.)

“Ah jus’ wanna see her,” he says, hands still raised.

“Ain’t nothin’ here for you,” she snaps.

You’ve already been seen. And you have the sinking sense he’s not built to give up. He drops his hands slightly, not a threat, more a truce.

“Ah’m not leavin’,” he says, soft but sure.

The porch boards groan beneath your weight when you step out. Helena doesn’t glance at you, her eyes pinned on him, but his shift immediately—head turning, gaze latching onto yours like it’s been waiting. Even in the silver wash of moonlight, the night seems to deepen, the shadows pressing in closer.

“Two minutes,” you say evenly, steady as you can manage. “On the ground. Not one step closer.”

He nods once—slow. Obedience, or the shape of it.

For a breath he says nothing, only lets his hands fall. The eye contact is electric, strange, as he slowly drags it over you—from your bare feet to the loose hem of Helena’s dress brushing your calves, then back up to your hair, lingering on the wild curls springing loose around your face. The air between you hums, alive.

“Hello,” he whispers, a hand pressed lightly to his chest. “Ah’m Remmick.”

So that’s his name.

“You bit me.” The words fall flat, heavy.

“Ah did…” He doesn’t shy from it. “An’ I’m deeply sorry ’bout that.”

“Mhm.” Helena scoffs.

But your eyes don’t leave his. You lean slightly forward.
“Are you really a vampire…” The word feels ridiculous on your tongue, but you can’t stop yourself. “Shouldn’t you be… like… I don’t know, sparkling or something?”

His mouth opens, then shuts. Helena shoots you a baffled look.

But Remmick finds his footing again.
“I wanted to thank you. For savin’ me… for what ya done showed me.”  His words hang heavy in the air.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, rubbing at the back of your neck. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

“Ah won’t.” He takes a tentative half-step closer. “I promise you. What you done—I saw the sunrise. Felt it. Warmth on my skin… an’ Ah didn’t burn.”

“I wasn’t… trying to do anything.” Your voice is quiet, hard to claim credit for a miracle you don’t understand. “It just happened.”

“But if—” His voice cuts off, cautious, almost reverent, like he’s afraid to push too hard. “If ya were to try again—”

“Oh, ah-ah.” Helena steps between you, palm raised. “Be grateful for wha’cha got—an’ you get to walk away with yer life.”

Of course. That’s why he came back.

“Please—” Remmick edges closer.

“No.” Her voice is steel. “Git now. Ain’t nothin’ here for ya.”

He tries to slide a step to catch your eyes past Helena’s shoulder.

“You know how long Ah’ve been walkin’ this life? Stuck in darkness, starvin’ for sunlight…” His voice cuts raw, aching. “I done forgot what warmth feels like without it tryin’ to kill me.”

“No,” Helena spits. “Ain’t nothin’ good comes from no white devil knockin’ at my door.”

“You a hoodoo woman, yeah? Ah got money.” He fumbles in his pocket, pulling coins that clink heavy in his palm. “Ah’ll pay for what you do—”

Rage sharpens across Helena’s face. She snaps her open palm forward like a cocked gun, her foot landing on the top step, fearless.
“Ain’t no amount o’ money in this godforsaken world to make me serve the likes o’ your kind.”

“Please—just look.” He holds the coins up. “Take it. Name what you want, I’ll get it.”

That’s when you see it. The glint. Your breath hitches.

“Oh my God!”

The historian in you shoulders around Helena before you can think, bare feet thudding down a step as you pluck the coins from his outstretched hand.

“Where the hell did you get this?!”

Your eyes are wide as you lift them high into the moonlight, gasping as the markings gleam. You’ve seen the likes of these before—they have them in the Smithsonian’s Numismatic Collection.

“These’re Celtic gold coins,” you whisper in awe, fingers tracing the patterns—one stamped with a horseman rider. “Fourth century—no, fifth century, maybe.”

Unlike the ones you’ve seen before, the lines on these too clean, too crisp, like they’ve been kept safe for centuries.

“Look.” You turn to Helena, excitement rising through your voice. “See the detail? That’s an Aedán on horseback. Roman influence, but these came much later… this is incredible.”

You glance at Helena, but she doesn’t even blink. Then at him—only to find his gaze pinned on you, not the coins. Like he’s watching a mystery unfold. Like he’s the one caught.

“Yeah…” he breathes.

You laugh in disbelief, clinking the weight in your palm. “Where did you get these?”

“They mine,” he says simply.

“Probably stolen,” Helena mummers.

“Ain’t stole nothin’.” A subtle edge slides under his voice. “…Ah earned ’em.”

“Earned them…” you whisper, something darker tugging at your thoughts. You look down at the ancient coin again, then back up at him.

Could it be? Could there be truth buried inside all the fiction?

“Remmick—” his name rolls off your tongue, and he takes a step toward you like it’s a spell.

“How… how old are you?”

His eyes never waver. “Old.”

You look down at the coin, then back to him… and your mind spins.  “As old as this?”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Ya wouldn’t believe me if Ah told ya.”

No. It’s impossible.
But if he is—

You fight the urge to step closer, the question already clawing its way up your throat.
“If you’re as old as I think you are… have you ever heard of someone leaping through ti—”

Helena’s hand clamps over your mouth, swallowing the last syllable. Her other arm hooks your waist and hauls you back up the step.
“Shhh… don’t ya say a word now.”

You wrench her hand away. “He might know things—” you whisper, eyes flicking to him. “Maybe he can help. I need to go home.”

Helena shakes her head vehemently. “This here ain’t like your home. You cain’t trust no white devil ‘round here.”

“Look… whatever it is, Ah’m happy to help.” Remmick presses a hand to his chest. “It’s the least I can do.”

Helena’s face doesn’t shift. She snatches the coin from your palm and flings it down at his boots, the clink ringing sharp in the night. “We don’t need none o’ your help. We’ll figure it out our own selves.”

“Yes… yes ya do.” His voice dips low, sure. “I can give you my knowledge. My protection.”

Helena lets out a sharp laugh. “Protect us? From who—your own self?”

“I felt her,” Remmick says, eyes never leaving you. “Felt the magic. Ain’t like nothin’ Ah’ve known in all my life. And believe me…” His tone shifts, heavy with warning. “I ain’t the only one curious. They’ll come for you.”

Your breath stutters. “Who?”

“Everything in the dark,” he says slowly, each word like a tolling bell, “that wants your light. Havin’ someone like me watchin’ your back… well, that might not be such a bad idea.”

“If you’re fixin’ to scare us, it ain’t workin’.” Helena steps forward, crowding you back toward the house. “We tend to ourselves just fine. Done gave you plenty time to speak your piece—now git on an’ leave us be.”

He doesn’t move. His gaze stays locked on you as Helena urges you through the threshold. “Come on, girl.”

His voice follows, low and coaxing. “Can I at least have your name?”

You pause in the doorway, pulse hammering. “…I’m Ree.”

His lips shape it like a prayer. “Ree.”

Helena slams the door before the sound can fade. She stands with her back braced against it, lantern light painting her face, and lets out a breath that’s half curse.

“I bet ya… this muthafucka ain’t gonna leave.”