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Chapter Text

Moira Domhnall winced as sharp laughter pierced the dusty floorboards of her cluttered attic apartment, the sound rudely interrupting the buzz of the machine in her hand. The hand in question did not falter. It took more than that to rattle her.

 
“Girl, you fuck my skin up, I’ll clock you so hard you see daylight.” The man at her fingertips grunted in alarm, more startled by the sound than she was. 

Moira smirked softly. Her little makeshift studio rested above what her landlady called a “lounge,” but they all knew what it really was. She was used to the noise. The laughter, the rattle of mahjong tiles, the soft panting of those tipsy couples who found their way onto her stairwell late at night. Chicago was all noise and smoke and poorly kept secrets, but Moira knew how to keep secrets. A fish that swims with its mouth open is a fish that gets caught. 

“You’re forgettin’ who’s holding this thing.” She crooned, reaching back to adjust a dial. The tattoo machine buzzed harder, and her client hissed a curse when she artfully dragged her needle across his skin, right along his ribcage. She placed a strategic elbow in the crook of his waist to keep him still. 

“Good Christ woman.” Jimmy peered up at her beneath a tense bicep, his arm reaching above his head to grasp the edge of her table with white knuckles. Men were always determined to show her they weren’t in pain, and it was always a lie. “Pretty” was the word Moira would use to describe Jimmy. His cheekbones were high, and his full mouth always ready with an easy smile. He smiled at her now, baring his teeth in a way that amused her. “You gotta learn to hide that accent, Moira. Sounds like a mouth full of marbles.” 

“You want a half arsed dragon? Stop movin, you fuck.” She chastised. “And quit teasin’ unless you want yer dragon to have massive titties.” 

“You’re too heavy handed.” He whined. “Should have asked my uncle to do this. He’s gentle as a kitten.” 

Moira snorted. “Your uncle can’t see past his own nose. Next time ask for a gecko.” 

“Just go easier on me. It’s my birthday.” He huffed.

Moira grabbed an amber spray bottle, the kind used to mist plants, and spritzed his reddened skin. He sighed with some relief, then winced when she wiped the access ink away. With Moira the softness always came with a sting. 

“Your mother’s makin’ me do this. She never asked me to be gentle.” 

“Next time pay your rent on time.” 

She dug her elbow in deeper. “I’m always on time, you little shite.” It was true. Moira refused to live a life of debt. It was why she chose to live alone, in a shitty little apartment in Chinatown. Chicago had not been kind to her. Nowhere had been kind to her. Better to sling ink than pussy on these grey streets. 

There they were again like clockwork. The moans of a couple who thought they were being quiet, right in the stairwell outside her door. It happened almost every night. Sometimes she chased them off. Often she let them be, when she was feeling kinder. 

Jimmy chuckled. “Like goddamn bunny rabbits. HEY! GO MAKE BABIES SOMEWHERE ELSE!” He called out it a gruff voice.

Moira chuckled at the little squeak that came from the woman on the stairwell, but it quickly dissolved into drunken giggling, followed by the thud of rapid footsteps. Then she dipped her needle into a pot of black ink, her machine glistening in the lamp light. Polished brass. She’d made it herself after taking apart a cheaper mechanism she’d swiped from a speakeasy on Church street. Hard times. Paintings didn’t sell here. Ink did. 

Moira lost herself in the work. The thrum of the machine. The pull of the needle. It wasn’t that Moira had a heavy hand, but the machine itself was heavier than others, giving her work the perfect depth without any added pressure. It was a relief to be able to turn off her brain for a little while. Without realizing it, she began to hum to herself. 

“That’s pretty.” Jimmy mused. “You bring that from home?” He must have meant the song. It startled her more than the sound from beneath had. 

Moira stopped humming, feeling a small, familiar stab of dread in her belly, which she always did whenever “home” came up. She quickly changed the subject. 

“We’re done for now. Outline’s done.” She set her machine on a tiny desk, next to her ink pots, then began to clean his ribs as best she could. 

“I’ve got a few more hours left in me.” Jimmy complained, but the relief was clear in his voice. 

“Like hell you do.” She scoffed. “One more minute and it’ll stop takin.’” Moira rose to wash the ink and blood from her hands, scrubbing her nails with vigor as Jimmy grunted, and reached for his shirt. 

“Here.” He handed her a pre-rolled cigarette, then lit a match for her when she put it between her lips. She nodded in thanks. 

“If you take a swig now, you’ll feel it tingle in the tattoo.” Moira said rather impishly. 

“You would know.” Jimmy smiled. “You look like the goddamn funny papers.” 

Moira shrugged indifferently. She didn’t care much who saw, or who stared. Her own skin was a painting, full of color and intricacy. A journey she’d began as a child when she’d accidentally pricked herself with a fountain pen. One faded blue dot on the inside of her left knuckle. The tattoos even reached her throat.  

“This’ll be you too someday.” She gestured at herself dramatically. 

“Only until you finally leave this shithole.” He sounded almost sad. It surprised her. “Although I think bà ba would throw a fit if you ran off to join one of those traveling sideshows.” Moira waved this remark aside, though it secretly pleased her. Her landlady was stern, but liked to fuss, always insisting that she drink her water hot, and sending up pots of gingery fruit tea when she had her menses. “Come downstairs Moira.” Jimmy gave her a sharp nudge with his shoulder. She was tired, and she liked to make herself scarce on busy nights, but Jimmy was giving her that brown eyed puppy dog look, and fuck it. She was weak.

 
“Fine. One drink. And by god if you don’t keep that tattoo clean I’ll tell yer mum about your little trips to Stella’s.” 

Jimmy grinned sheepishly. He had a weakness for Italian food that would have sent his mother into a jealous outrage. She could hear her now. “You like it more than my zhang jiang mian? Should have dragged you back Guangzhou.” But that was the beauty of this place, wasn’t it? She could have bao jing for breakfast, pana cotta for desert, and when late night cravings struck, she could sneak down to the kitchen and make masala dosas. No one batted an eye. 

Except of course when they did. People did bat an eye. Frequently. She could hardly walk to the bodega without someone eyeing her strangely, trying to work out what kind of flavor she was. Although, occasionally someone’s Nona would try to speak to her in Italian. Amusing. 

The speakeasy was densely crowded by this hour, its atmosphere cloying with incense to mask the sharp scent of gin, the closest alcohol that Miss Qian could find to her beloved baijiu, which alas could not be replicated properly in Chicago, though not for lack of trying. Miss Qian, or “Jenny” as the locals dubbed her when they could not be bothered to attempt her proper name, gave her a pleasant smile from behind the bar, which only served tea and noodles unless one had the password. Just another layer of security. Moira did not miss the slight furrow of disapproval that appeared between Miss Qian’s brows, or the way her eyes looked pointedly at her outfit. Moira smirked rakishly, her lit cigarette still held between her teeth. 

It’s not that Moira didn’t like dresses. She loved them. As a child she’d been transfixed by her mother’s colorful saris, even though she’d only worn them at home. But in a place like this, it felt safer to dress with some practicality. In this case, practicality meant a men’s hanfu jacket that she’d won in a card game, left open over a dress shirt and black slacks with the suspenders left dangling. It didn’t matter. She already stood out, with her tattooed throat and hands exposed. She often felt out of place here, next to the glamorously slender women in their beaded gowns, the waists fashionably dropped. Those gowns made her feel like a sparkly sack of potatoes anyway. They never seemed to fit right over her thick thighs and wider rib cage. The one feminine concession she refused to give up was the stain of scarlet she always wore on her lips. “A whore’s color,” her father would have said, could he peer up at her through the veil of fire and brimstone he undoubtedly found himself in. Rest in pieces, you old bastard. 

When Miss Qian handed them their drinks, she muttered something to Jimmy in Cantonese. Moira herself couldn’t speak it, or rather was too shy to attempt it herself with her thick brogue, but she understood it well enough. There was a white man outside.  Someone needed to make him go away.

Jimmy obediently turned toward the entrance, ready to deal with it head on, but Moira stopped him, taking a swig of her drink as she pushed him back gently with the other hand. 

“Nah. I got it. Go chat up some pretty young thing.” 

Jimmy actually blushed, or perhaps it was the gin, but Moira ignored his protests. This was Chinatown. She may have stood out like a sore thumb, but this was still her home, and besides, it’d been a long time since she’d started a fight. Her usefulness was what kept her rent so cheap. 
There was a heavy front door beyond the hallway that led to the speakeasy. Multiple hallways, actually. Plenty of opportunity to stop an intruder, should one be stupid enough to break in, and they sometimes were. They were never seen again. At least in one piece. If anything, Moira considered, she was doing them a grand service by turning them away. Practically missionary work. 

The bouncer was frowning down at her. Moira’s mouth quirked to the side, but the frown wasn’t for her. Jun was tall and menacing, but the expression he wore was unusual. Nervous. Her gentle giant, who intimidated grown men with ease, but was absolutely adored by children, was nervous. He didn’t speak much English, but when she asked him quietly to stay within reach, he nodded. Jun may have been large and strong, but he was also deeply superstitious, and something had rattled him. 

Thinking that she knew exactly what to expect, she opened the heavy door, and took a drag of her cigarette, letting it billow into the cold night air. 

“Let me handle this one, Jun.” She muttered. 

What she had expected was a policeman. Stern and uniformed and belligerent like all Chicago policemen. This man looked at her with a pleasant grin that she did not like one bit. His hair was dark, maybe black like hers though it was hard to tell. The lamplight illuminated a surprisingly boyish face. His hands were tucked into pockets, but he quickly withdrew them, eager to show that he had no weapons or papers. 

“Evenin’ Miss. Sorry to bother ya, but if I may have a word?” 

Moira lifted an eyebrow in surprise at the syrupy southern drawl. Unusual for these parts. He was certainly a long way from home. 

“You lookin’ for a tincture? Shop’s closed.” Moira tossed her head back to indicate the store front. Ms. Qian owned a traditional Chinese pharmacy, though she suspected that the landlady had never actually practiced it back home, not that most Americans would know the difference. They came mostly for trinkets and curiosities. The real money was in the  speakeasy anyway. 

The stranger’s head tilted slightly, like a hound catching an interesting scent. The smile widened, far too friendly for her liking. “Whoooo darlin that accent’s thicker than warm molasses. Galway?” There was a singsong quality to his voice that sent a cold shiver up the back of her neck. A bad start.

“Shop’s closed. Come back tomorrow.” She answered in a voice that was warm, but backed with steel. She did not like comments on her accent, which simultaneously embarrassed her and filled her with a stubborn refusal to change it, proof of the mother country that had not wanted her. 

The stranger jerked his chin at the glass in her hand. “Got any more of that?” 

“There’s a hose ye can drink from.” She answered silkily. 

“Oh honey we both know that ain’t water. Unless you been chewin on juniper berries.” He winked, and the gesture made something warm curl in her belly at the audacity. 

She took another drag of her cigarette, leaning against the door frame as she discreetly looked the stranger up down. His shoes had seen better days, but that wasn’t unusual. The work shirt was grey and denim, but the coat was nice. A touch too nice. So perhaps he was police after all. Or worse, a Pinkerton. 

“This is a private business.” 

“You live here though. Right?” He countered smoothly. “I haven’t seen a Galway gal in…” he paused as if counting “…years and years.” His smile widened at her glare. Lord, what color were his eyes? They looked so black. Something tickled the back of Moira’s mind. Some soft warning. A gentle voice she hardly remembered. A reminder. Something that spoke of whispers in forgotten glens, of mushroom circles found by moonlight, of spirits to be spurned at the sight of iron. Her body stiffened. Fuck this Pinkerton bastard. 

Moira shrugged and sipped her gin, but her eyes did not leave the stranger. A steel front. This was her home. The stranger’s stare grew cold. It pierced her to the marrow of her bones as if it could see the beating lump of flesh beneath her ribs.

“I’m lost darlin.’ Just lookin for a place to lay my head.” His eyes flickered over her so rapidly she wasn’t sure he’d done it. “Be nice to share a drink with a nice Irish girl like you.” 

Her lip twitched in a sneer. Nothing about this interaction was nice. “There’s a hostel over on 3rd.”

“Ain’t got time for that babygirl.” His grin showed a flash of teeth. “I have money.” 

Moira snorted with laughter. “This is Chinatown. No one here wants your money.” A lie, but a good one. 

“But you do live here?” He stepped closer. Moira deftly flicked her wrist, inching the knife she kept in her sleeve into her hand. A move she’d practiced and perfected until she was so good at it, it was never ever noticed. 

But he did notice. And the shift in his expression was alarming. In a moment his face became twisted and feral. Predatory. An unearthly glint shown in those dark eyes. Moira blinked, and it was gone. In an instant the man’s face became sheepish, almost boyish again as he held up his hands. 

“You want in?” Moira said almost lazily. “Get yerself a warrant.” 

He threw his head back and laughed, his mop of dark hair falling rakishly across his forehead. Moira saw the glint of a gold tooth. 

“Shiiiit girl I ain’t no fuckin cop. Ain’t one of them prohis neither.” He eyed her up and down again. “I like a good shine as much as you do, although seein you here,” he bit his lower lip, drawing it slowly through his teeth. “Puts me in a mood for a good whiskey.” 

Moira rudely flicked her still lit cigarette butt in his direction, but to her surprise he caught it and placed it in his lips, taking a slow drag and then crushing it beneath his shoe. A sound echoed in the distance, maybe a cat. Just a soft skittering of stones, but the man’s head turned rapidly enough to cause whiplash. His expression was wary. 

“Look, I swear I can pay you.” His voice sounded urgent now. “Just tonight I swear.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few shining coins. Moira’s face twisted at them. The gentle warning in the back of her mind became a flurry of child like panic. She heard a voice in her head, strong and matronly. Never take a fae’s gift, no matter how sweet. She immediately straightened. 

“Get the fuck out of here.” Moira said bluntly, hating the way her voice wavered a bit. 

She turned to leave, to go back inside. Jun would be there, ready to crack this man’s skull if need be. She wasn’t sure if he was a cop anymore, but something twisted inside of her, cold and terrible. What kind of crazy man walked around Chicago at night with gold in his pocket? Let him freeze to death. 

Something spun her around, and pressed her hard against the door, forcing it shut. The glass in her hand shattered on the porch. His fingers were digging into her upper arms, tight enough to bruise. A muffled voice cursed in Cantonese, and the doorknob jiggled. The stranger closed his hand around it, forcing it still. His forearm was at her throat, pressing firmly, a steel bar encased in flesh. His body loomed over her, and the  wave of heat that came off it was dizzying. Perhaps he had a fever. Maybe it was an opium withdrawal. It would explain how enormous his pupils had become. 

“That’s no way to speak to a desperate man, sugar.” His voice was so low. It rumbled in his chest. Moira’s own body was screaming. Move. Do something. A rabbit caught in the stare of a predator. She felt herself tremble. “Don’t be tryin to wiggle away now.” He murmured. “I like a chase, but goddamn I might like this even more.” Why was he looking at her like that? 

Jun was yelling now, pounding at the door. The stranger released the door knob and placed the hand over her head, holding the door closed. He must have been impossibly strong to hold it against Jun. Moira glared up at the stranger, and moved. Her knife was fast as she brought it to his side, and she felt the tear of fabric, but he was a blur, seizing her wrist before it found flesh. How the fuck was he so fast? 

Then she saw it. The glint of red in those dark eyes. The glow of something dark and hulking and terribly, terribly hungry. He grinned, and his mouth was suddenly too close, caressing her cold skin. Horror crawled up her throat with spindly legs, and a scream began to form there, but he leaned in and she could have sworn he took a long sniff of her hair. “Shhhh sh shhh.” He crooned, then lowered his lips to her ear. “I won’t forget this. You’re lucky I don’t have the time.” 
The fear that clenched her heart enraged her.

“I’m not letting you in, you faerie cunt.” She snarled. She wasn’t sure why she said it. But it somehow rang of truth. 

The man actually choked on a laugh. He laughed. Then he pulled back and looked down at her with a faint look of amazement. 

Then, in a language she had not heard since before she’d climbed aboard that wretched ship fifteen years ago and made the voyage with her mother’s sitar strapped to her back, before the day her father had crushed her windpipe, before her brothers had fucked off to die in some stupid foreign war, when the world had been green rolling hills and stone and sky and sea, this stranger, who appeared like a man but was not a man, murmured to her softly. 

“Feicfidh mé arís thú.” 

Perfect Gaelic. No hint of that southern drawl. I’ll be seeing you again. He was staring down at her with something wolfish and indecent. Drool was beginning to dribble down his lip. Moira could hear her breath shaking. Jun’s shouts were louder, and she could feel him throwing his entire weight against the barricade. It rattled her skull. There were more voices, angry and alarmed. The stranger giggled. 

Then she kneed him in the balls. 

****************************************

Jimmy was hungover, his face amusingly splotchy with redness. He kept whining in Cantonese, because he’d lost all his money at mahjong, but she knew he’d enjoyed every minute of it. There was a small bruise on the side of his neck, and he kept tugging at his collar, trying to conceal it. 
Miss Qian was murmuring to herself as she brought out steaming bowls of congee, frowning when Moira doused hers with chili oil. The landlady was angry. She could tell by the way her jaw was tensed. It was the same face she wore whenever she ordered that a finger be removed, or worse. 

“Someone killed Mrs. Chen’s goat last night.” She muttered as she sipped her tea. Moira blinked slowly. “Probably that man last night.” 

As much as she disliked the landlady’s quickness to point fingers, Moira had to agree. She hadn’t given her all the details of the encounter on the doorstep, partially out of embarrassment, but also because she wasn’t certain how much of it was real. 

Jimmy snorted. “That thing was older than me. Smelled like shit anyway.” Miss Qian gave her son a sharp smack to the back of the head for cussing, causing him to whine once more. 

“Should we set up an altar? Light incense for the goat?” Moira asked, her lip quirking. Miss Qian scoffed disapprovingly, but she saw the glimmer of amusement in those dark eyes. Miss Qian was beautiful and elegant, and now those eyes darted to the bar where she kept a shotgun in case of rowdy customers. Moira knew why she was acting wary. The goat hadn’t just been killed. It had been torn apart, its entrails strewn along Mrs. Chen’s windows like garlands and the head placed upon the doorstep. 

Sleep had not come for her last night. Moira had been in plenty of altercations and always slept like a baby afterwards, but not this time. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his pale face, staring down at her with such hunger. She knew that he was death. Only she hadn’t realized that death would smell of cool earth and green growing things. Death smelled like home. She shivered.

At least he’d reacted to being kicked in the groin just like any other man. His eyes had gone wide with surprise and pain and he’d crumpled like an old dollar bill. She’d reached back, seized the doorknob, and Jun, her gentle, fierce giant, had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back in like a child, slamming the door in the stranger’s face. He’d slept with his back pressed to the door all night, and the instant she’d reached her room, she’d peered out the window, expecting to see him prowling the street. Nothing. 

“Are we not opening the pharmacy today?” Moira asked curiously, desperate to change the subject.

 
Miss Qian shook her head and pushed the teapot in Moira’s direction, a clear sign that she looked like shite. “One of the boys can open. We have other business.” 

Moira blinked at that “we” feeling a twinge of foreboding. Moira rarely was asked to accompany her landlady anywhere, except of course…

“Irish again?” She asked carefully. 

Miss Qian nodded. “They’ve been arranging meetings with everyone.” 

“Everyone” meant all the major players. The bootleggers. Their soldiers. Every crime syndicate. Even the volunteers that ran Al Capone’s soup kitchen. Something had happened. Something that the Irish mob wanted to settle quickly before things went very poorly. In these situations, Moira acted as a sort of buffer, although she wasn’t entirely sure why. The Irish had certainly never embraced her. She did miss the music though. God she missed it. 

“Slow down.” Jimmy grinned at her. “The faster you eat, the fatter your ass will get.” 

She glared as she shoveled another spoonful of congee into her mouth and watched as Miss Qian smacked him once more on the back of his head.

There was a sort of ceremony to these types of meetings. Miss Qian transformed herself from stern landlady, to the Empress of Chinatown, which was probably the most polite nickname the local syndicates had for her. Her hair became elegantly coiffed, and her nails painted a deep crimson. She donned her whitest fur coat, and wore sparkling diamond chandelier earrings. Few others would risk these streets in such finery. 
Moira looked far more casual, men’s trousers and a work shirt, her pistol tucked discreetly into her wool coat. She’d tried to tame her wild black curls into a chignon but alas, tendrils still flew wildly around her face as they sat together in the back of the cream Bugatti, a car which was only driven when Qian wanted to make a statement. In the rearview mirror, Jun, ever stoic and calm, glanced up at her, and she thought she saw a flicker of concern. 

She shuddered, thinking once more on the man last night. How he’d been so close. Far too close. His hot breath on her ear and the sound of her mother tongue on his lips. How the fuck had he been so damned fast? Impossible. Perhaps she’d dreamt it. But the goat this morning. She’d heard the whispers of the morning crew, the maids murmuring to each other in rapid Cantonese. Fearful, yet excited for the fresh gossip. A word had been written in blood upon the stoop. But no one knew what it said. 

A sharp sting bloomed across her hand, and she realized she’d been idly scratching at the red patent leather seat. Her boss had smacked her knuckles. 

“Sorry.” She said sheepishly, flexing the hand. 

“When are you going to get married and out of my damned attic Moira?” Her boss asked coolly, turning her kohl rimmed eyes once more to the view outside her window. 

Moira grinned. “Tryin’ to get rid of me?” 

Miss Qian snorted and raised one perfect, razor thin eyebrow. “At your age, and with those hips I’d expect you to have seven or eight babies by now.” Moira gave her landlady a bemused grin, uncertain whether or not she had just received a compliment. Those dark eyes slid to her once again, considering. “No. I think perhaps it’s not in the cards for you. It was the same for me.” Her red lips curled in a feline grin. Moira wondered what it was like to be so effortlessly chic. “This world will take and take and come back for more. Women like us?” She made a faint, graceful gesture at her own face. “The world gives us nothing. And so we too must take.” Miss Qian closed her eyes and tilted her head back, careful not to muss her intricate finger waves. “They are going to intimidate us.” She said smoothly.

Moira smiled. “They are going to try.” 

The car slid to a stop beneath a tin veranda, rusted with smoke and salt. Moira was immediately besieged by the overwhelming scent of brine, and the unmistakeable odor of fish. She watched warily as two men in wool coats far heavier than her own closed the heavy steel doors of the ice truck in front of them. She watched it leave, and turn a corner into a cramped alley. When Qian gave her a nod, she exited the Bugatti and walked briskly around the hood, ignoring the suspicious glances that the oyster mongers gave her, noting the enormous hooks they used to haul blocks of ice. She casually opened the door for her boss, and offered her a hand. 

Qian took it graciously, and stepped from the luxurious car with an elegance Moira could not have replicated in a hundred years. All eyes fell upon Miss Qian, who knew exactly how to command attention. Shrugging her furs closer to her neck, she smiled at Moira and patted her cheek fondly. Jun nodded at them as they passed, then got out himself, leaning against the driver’s side with his arms crossed. He left the car running. 

As she escorted her landlady inside, she briefly locked eyes with a green eyed man, perhaps her age. Wind burnt, but nice enough to look at, though he hunched his shoulders a bit. It surprised her when he sheepishly removed his hat and grinned at her. She had to bite back a smile of her own when his friend smacked him on the shoulder in warning. The smile died when the doors of the refrigerated warehouse creaked open for them. 

They were lead through a narrow corridor flanked by wooden crates, all crusted with ice and reeking of oysters. Moira frowned. This was bad. This was very bad. She wanted to seize Qian by the wrist and lead them back. If this was the only exit, they were fucked. This is why Jimmy had not come with them. He was the only heir that Qian had, should things go poorly.

Six men were sitting languidly on empty crates which towered above them like tiny skyscrapers, but they rose to their feet at the site of them. They were all wearing heavy wool clothing, which certainly concealed weapons, and they were staring them down with a coldness that made Moira finger the knife in her pocket. At least stuffing her hands into her coat did not appear strange. She was fucking freezing. 

The man in the middle smiled at them with a warmth that did not meet his eyes. He was tall, and built like one of those ice trucks they’d seen outside. Moira did not like this. She did not like the way they’d arranged a small table in the center, with only two chairs. She did not like the way these men watched them from all sides, even as their boss took Miss Qian’s gloved hand, and kissed it. 

“Madam, you are a vision, as always. A far site nicer to look upon than this ugly lot.” His accent was far lighter and more crisp than Moira’s. 

“Aiden,” Qian demurred coquettishly. “And you have cleaned up as well. It is far nicer to smell you.” She looked pointedly at their surroundings. Moira snorted. The sound had the desired effect. She felt the others stiffen around her, but Aiden McCarthy’s eyes turned sharply to Moira, looking her up and down with interest. 

“Thought the big fella would be with ye. Who’s this little thing?”

Moira kept her expression neutral and disinterested. “Moira Domhnall.” There were a few soft noises of surprise, and Aiden’s eyebrows lifted. 

“You’re the tattoo artist on Cermak?” There was a note of disapproval in his voice. 

She shrugged. “I do a lot of things.” 

“Another chair for the lady.” McCarthy commanded to no one in particular. 

A chair was brought, and the two ladies seated themselves, albeit somewhat gingerly. The seats were ice cold. Three frothy mugs of dark beer were brought, and Moira cringed inwardly, knowing that Qian hated the stuff, though she sipped it politely, never taking her eyes off of the man in front of them. Moira couldn’t help but close her own eyes as she took several deep gulps. Aiden laughed with surprising warmth, and some of the others joined in. “Well damn if the accent wasn’t enough to prove it, there it is. Where’d you find this one Qian?” He jerked his chin at Moira.

“Bought me for two dollars at Woolworth’s.” Moira quipped. Qian laughed, and but glanced at her sharply. Moira glanced pointedly back. An outcast she may have been, but these were still her people, and they liked a sharp wit. 

Aiden’s smile was genuine. “A steal. You are a couple of rare flowers to be sure.” 

“Thorns and all.” Moira purred. 

“All the better.” Aiden made a show of looking up at the crates, then sighed and folded his hands on the table, looking apologetic. “It fills my heart to see you here, Lady Qian. And I must apologize for our surroundings. It’s unsightly.” Oh he was laying it on thick. 

“No need. It has a brutal sort of honesty.” She replied airily. “The ice truck out front? Not a delivery?” 

“Bad oysters. Making their way to the canal. Always a few rotten ones.” He winced ever so slightly, but Moira saw it. Oysters weren’t the only flesh destined for the river. She thought of the men outside, and how expertly they used those blunt silver knives, flashing in the overcast afternoon. Inwardly she cringed. 

“I hear that these little meetings have become a daily necessity.” Qian tilted her head. “Are we here to renegotiate terms?”

“Surely not. Your people stay on Wentworth and Cermak. No need to fix what ain’t broken. You’ve held steadfast, Lady Qian, and I’ve always respected that.”

Moira felt Qian stiffen beside her. Two streets. They had two bloody streets to conduct their business. But Qian was not stupid. She knew they didn’t have the numbers for expansion, and couldn’t risk stepping on Irish toes. Yet. But new immigrants from San Francisco were arriving every day, forced to live on those two streets, and something would have to change. Moira had to respect them. They knew how to take care of their own. New families struggled, but they were always given jobs, and never complained no matter how shit the work was. If you could cook, you were placed in a chop suey house, and taught to add sugar to your food to appeal to American palettes. If you couldn’t, you washed laundry. Not a lot of options, but your family would be fed. Chinatown was a steel wall, and its citizens knew how to keep their damn mouths shut.

The market was a particular point of pride at least. Always busy, attracting Chicago natives and curious tourists. Their market had become so popular they’d actually begun shipping their excess to other Chinatowns in other cities. Including liquor. There was money in those two paltry streets. 

Miss Qian nodded slowly. “And you have always been welcome in my house.” A lie, and they both knew it. 

Aiden regarded her with interest. “Tell me. What are you slingin’ in that little apothecary you run?” 
Moira’s eyes slid to the woman beside her, but Qian did not flinch. 

“Shaoxing.” She answered truthfully, reaching into her purse and producing a bottle of the rice wine. She politely handed it to Aiden, who uncorked it and gave it a sniff. 

“My thanks.” He did not try it. Moira wasn’t surprised. Many were distrustful of Miss Qian, and her pharmacy. Indeed she heard someone muttering behind her. Likely they thought it poisoned. Indeed, Aiden handed the bottle to a man next to him, who took a swig, and made a face. 

“Good enough for the dogs.” The man grumbled.

 
Qian’s eyes flashed angrily, and Aidan rose suddenly to his feet, dealing him a backhanded slap to the face, his own contorted with rage. 

“You will not insult my guests.” A show. It was all a show. Aiden was letting himself off the hook in the best way he knew how. Through needless violence. “Apologies, Madam. My boys haven’t been blessed with manners.” He gave Miss Qian a long look. “My father was a policeman, you know.”

“I remember.” Qian replied warily. 

“Cranky fucker liked his bottle well enough. Helped your old man through the Tong wars though. “ Moira winced. The Tong wars were a sensitive subject, and clearly Aiden McCarthy knew it. He smiled whistfully. “Your old man patched mine up real good when he needed it. Then they found yer dad…well they found him like he was. God rest his soul.” Aiden made the sign of the cross on his chest. His men followed suit. Moira did not. She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw began to ache. “Now my father knew to look the other way when your people found the fucker that did it. I’d say that’s a mighty big favor, Madam Qian.” 

“A debt that has been repaid.” Qian answered coldly. “Many times over.” 

“Ah well. In these times a man must remember to keep his friends close, eh?” He did not repeat the rest of the proverb. Moira’s lip twitched as she fought to keep the snarl off her face. 

“What do you want, Aiden?” Qian asked in the same voice she used when her son asked her an annoying question.

“Nah Qian, can’t a man have a pretty woman to his place for a drink?” His eyes slid to Moira. “Two pretty girls even? These are modern times.” He grinned. One of his men wolf whistled. 

Moira’s control over her temper slipped. “We’re losin’ daylight, Mr. McCarthy. Answer the question, right quick if ye please.” 

Aiden’s lip curled, and clearly he was fighting the urge to call her something uncouth, but he leaned his elbows on the table. “Had one o’ my oyster trucks knocked over come two weeks ago. Boys found it turned twenty miles south.” 

Moria tilted her head. “How much did they take?” 
“Enough.”

“Come now Mr. McCarthy. Don’t be stingy darlin.’ How many brews went missin’?” Moira heard the ominous clink of a gun brushing against someone’s belt. She turned her eyes instantly to the offender, who held his hands up at a stern look from his boss. 

“None o’ that now. Me and Qian go way back. Waaay way back.” McCarthy winked. To her horror, Qian actually blushed a little. “Fine, fine Moira. Thirty crates. Good black Irish beer. The finest. They left the swill.” He ran a hand over his mouth, his eyes hardening. “I want access, Qian. I want access to yer gin. Your rice wine. I want trade between us in good faith.”

“And what else, Aiden?” Qian said stiffly. “I don’t want your boys in my place.” 

“Not askin’ for that, luv. I want yer word. Your people hear anything, see anything at all, you send pretty Moira runnin’ straight to me, y’hear?” Like a fucking lapdog. Moira’s gut twisted at the veiled insult. 

“Whiskey.” Qian sniffed. “None of that cheap rum you’ve been pushing.”

“Done.” Aiden waved a hand. “We’ll load up that expensive car in the meanwhile. A gesture of good faith.” 

That was their cue to leave. Miss Qian and Moira rose, and her landlady offered Aiden McCarthy her hand. He took it, but before she withdrew, he tightened his grip. Moira’s knife was in her hand, at the ready. “Oh and one more thing.” He leaned closer. “I catch wind that the Chinese know somethin’ they’re not tellin,’ I’ll burn Wentworth and Cermak to the fuckin’ ground. And yer girl here?” He jerked his head in Moira’s direction. “I’ll cut out those lovely eyes and send ‘em to ya. Yer boy’s too.” He let go of her hand with eerie gentleness. 

Qian smiled with a radiant ferocity, then shrugged her furs closer, and turned. Moira followed like the dutiful hound she was. Now all pretense of politeness was gone. McCarthy’s goons wolf whistled and jeered at their departure. One of them went so far as to grab himself. Moira gave him a stare that promised death. 

Outside, Jun was cleaning his fingernails with a wickedly curved knife, watching as a couple of oyster mongers loaded crates into the Bugatti. Some of them actually contained oysters by the smell of them. Moira wrinkled her nose, then whirled when someone cleared his throat beside her. 

The nice looking green eyed man was holding his hat again, glancing shyly at her whenever he felt the courage. 

“Pardon miss,” he said softly. “Ye wouldn’t happen to be feelin’ thirsty later?” 

Moira’s brows shot up, though she was still wary. It helped that he was nervous. She liked men to be nervous. 

“Depends on the company.” 

“Well see, some o’ the lads like to hit the er…cigar shop after hours. O’shaughnessy on Park. It’d be real nice to have a girl on my arm.” 

Moira’s eyes darted around, as though looking for this “girl” he spoke of. The young man fidgeted with his hat. She noticed some of his friends watching. She could feel Miss Qian’s eyes watching her carefully, and she knew what she was supposed to do. Go and keep your ears sharp. 

She gave him the prettiest smile she could manage, and shrugged a shoulder, trying her best to look coy and knowing she was not good at it. When she’d told McCarthy she was good at all sorts of things, she hadn’t meant flirting. 

“I’m Moira.” 

The man’s face brightened and it did wonders for him. He had dimples when he grinned. Fucking dimples. 

“Micheal.”

Moira leaned in conspiratorially. 

“Will there be music, Micheal?” 

Chapter Text

Moira ignored the little flutters of anxiety that appeared in her belly. These always appeared whenever she dared to venture in these little slices of her home country, carved into cement and rebar. She’d walked here, and enjoyed the sliver of sunset that snuck through the city smog, but her feet already ached in the high heeled shoes. The job was hardly the most reckless one that her landlady had sent her on, no drops, no packages, just another night in a different speakeasy. It felt cheap though, to go on a date with the nice man from the docks just for information. Or perhaps she just wanted Moira to go outside. 

Miss Qian had taken a special interest in Moira’s appearance. She had to look nice, but not stand out too much, which Moira already knew was difficult with her inked skin. A simple tweed skirt reached her knees, and she donned her favorite dark green coat. Miss Qian had offered to let her borrow a string of pearls, but she’d opted for a wool scarf to hide the tattoos at her throat, and besides, the pearls cost more than her rent and the landlady would have her hide if something happened to them. She’d tried desperately to tame her curls, but gave up and put on a hat, just a simple beret. Jimmy had snorted with laughter when he saw her. 

“Out fer a roll in the heather, lassie?” He’d said, mocking her accent. She’d elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. 

She found Micheal waiting for her on the stoop of O’Shaughnessy’s cigar emporium, enjoying a cigarette. Grinning shyly, he offered to roll one for her, and for a moment, she felt normal. Just a nice evening out with a handsome man. Maybe she could pretend to be like those American girls in movies, all doe eyed and full of celluloid charm. Smoke drifted over them, not the spiced incense she was used to, but the warm vanilla of cigar tobacco. 

“Yer lookin’ prettier than that sunset, Moira.” Michael said gently, with a blush. He actually blushed. Christ he was looking at her like he’d just survived a scorcher and she was a dish of icecream. 

“So are you.” Damn it. She was terrible at this. 

Micheal chuckled nervously and opened the door for her, briefly placing his hand on her back and then quickly withdrawing it when he felt her tense. 

They nodded at the man selling cigars behind the counter, who eyed her up and down, then winked at Micheal before pointing at a display in the corner. Micheal’s smile widened as he knocked three times, twice quickly, and once slowly. Moira blinked and bit her lip with apprehension when the entire display slid to the side, and another man appeared from behind, to lead them down a stone staircase to what might have been a cellar. Moira fingered her knife, not liking that this was the second time today she’d been led somewhere she’d be trapped, but she could hear the music, and it sent ripples of excitement down her spine. 

This hidden pub was indeed a root cellar, but they’d carved it out and set it with gleaming wood floors and a bar made of planks set upon stacks of cinder blocks. Smart. It could be easily disassembled if the prohis came knocking. There were photographs of famous boxers on the wall, and she wondered if she would have to pretend to know any of them. Warm electric lights glinted off the crates of bottles, and she eyed the selection with interest. All the liquor was varying shades of brown. Rum, whiskey and beer, though she thought she saw a few bottles of Italian red. She made a note of that for Miss Qian, but felt a small amount of relief when she saw nothing clear. This pub at least was not infringing on her landlady’s business. 

“Eyy MOIRA! Micheal ye found ‘er!” Several male voices were calling to them, waving them over to the bar. She recognized a few of them from the oyster market. They seemed happy to see her, and suddenly she felt wary, but she grinned all the same. The allure of fellowship was tempting, though she knew she could not trust any of these strangers. The friendlier they were, the more cautious she would need to be. 

“What’ll ye have, luv?” Micheal had to shout in her ear. She jumped a little, and he laughed. 

It was so loud in here. Louder than her speakeasy, and warmly lit. A man played a bodhrán while a woman fiddled. People were dancing, their shoes making such a clatter. She felt the rhythm in her bones, and her heart swelled to hear it. It had been too long. She could feel herself smiling. They were ushered to the bar by strong hands, drawing them through the crowd, and a man with red hair snatched Micheal by the face and planted an obnoxious kiss on his forehead. 

“Ah Micheal ye finally caught one!” He said with a playful growl. “What’s yer name, pretty girl?” 

Moira knew that she was not pretty. Striking, perhaps. They were simply being nice, but she was nothing compared to the beauties of Chicago or the pale skinned women painted on billboards. Her face could never be used to sell Lucky Strikes. Still, it was nice to be flattered, even if she did feel uncomfortable from the attention. 

“Moira,” she answered, trying to sound coy and failing. It was hard to be coy when you had to bark out every syllable just to be heard. 

“That’s an Irish name!” One of them exclaimed rather dumbly. Barry smacked him over the head. 

“She’s one of us.” Micheal said with a slight edge to his voice. “Don’t be fuckin’ rude.” 

“Prove it.” The dumb one had the audacity to look her up and down with a furrowed brow. Some of the other men were glancing at her strangely too, but she was used to that. Strangers were always trying to guess where she was from. Her grey eyes and olive skin confused them. She smiled at them, a bit too aggressively, and they looked away sheepishly. 

“Gimme a wager then boys.” She smirked, tossing her hair out of her eyes. This game she knew. She’d been playing it since she was 15. She knew it’d involve drinking. 

“McNickel’s!” One challenged. 

“Yer deadass broke Colin.” Another snorted. 

“McPennies!” He corrected. 

They lined up a row of whiskeys, the boys scrambling for change and refusing to let her pay for any of it. Moira took off her coat, with Micheal’s gallant help, and rolled up her sleeves. They started at the sight of her tattooed forearms, but to her amusement, began rolling up their own sleeves to show her theirs.  Poorly executed roses and mermaids, anchors and wonky stars. One even began to pull off his shoes to show her his hog and hen, but they stopped him. 

“No one wants to see yer fuckin’ feet, O’Brien.” 

Colin went first, and bounced a penny off the bar, trying to make it land in a shot glass. It bounced off the rim, and landed somewhere on the floor. 

Micheal leaned into her. “He’s shite at this. He does it so he can get drunk quick on our dime.” 

Moira felt a flush begin to bloom over her cheeks at the soft caress of his breath on her ear. She closed her eyes for a moment, but a face appeared behind her eyelids. A wolfish grin. A deep, rumbling voice. I’ll be seeing you soon. 

A whoop of victory. Colin had landed a shot. Smiling, she picked up the shot glass, and downed the whiskey in one burning gulp, then spat the penny into her hand and slapped it on the bar. Most unladylike. 

“Oi, that’s proof enough! Not even a flinch!” Barry crowed. 

Colin kept going. Two out of six shots. She drank another, giggling when Barry mentioned something about girls who take it in the throat. 

“Fuck off ye twat.” She choked a bit on the after burn of the whiskey, making them all laugh. “Is it my turn?” 

Six more shots were lined up. The men started drumming their hands on the bar top, building her up. Micheal held up a penny, and blew on it with a rakish wink, then handed it to her. 

She landed every single one without pause. Each one a perfect bounce, splashing bits of whiskey onto the planks.

“Drink up Colin.” She purred. 

They stared, dumbfounded for a moment, then exploded with excitement, hooting and hollering and shaking her shoulders. 

“Fuck a duck, that’s good.” Barry was red with laughter, pointing at Colin’s look of horror. “That’s what ye get ye cunt.” 

The camaraderie was getting to her head, even more than the drink. She told herself not to be seduced, but it was so painfully hard. These people were not her friends. She had to remember that. She was only a curiosity for now, an amusing diversion to be thrown to the wolves at the first sign of trouble. But damn, it was nice to be included. She listened to their songs, exchanged bawdy jokes, and carefully navigated their questions, especially whenever Chinatown was mentioned, glossing over her friendship with Miss Qian and her son with ease. Then she saw Barry scowling at the color of his beer and muttering something that could not be repeated in polite company. 

“Not what you’re used to?” Moira asked discreetly.

“Yellow piss water. Can’t find any o’ the good shite right now.”

“Fuckin’ Sean hired that southern boy to drive the truck, remember? Never saw him again.” Someone piped up, and was immediately hushed. 

“Sean.” Barry shook his head morosely. “Rest in peace you dumb fuck.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast, and took a hefty swig. 

Moira tucked that away, but the words felt like icy fingers gripping her heart. Southern boy. She’d only met one southerner in Chicago. She blinked away the fear, remembering hot breath on her skin, and a scent like earth and blood. That stranger last night. Had he stolen the brews from the Irish Mob? Was he some sort of prohi spy after all, trying to instigate a gang war? It would explain why he’d been so desperate to get in to Miss Qian’s speakeasy. Probably wanted visual proof of their dealings. But then why not try to sneak in? Why stand on the porch and ask for permission first? 

They played a few more rounds, and Moira had to take two more shots. The booze had a warming effect, making her open herself up to more laughter. They seemed to be genuinely enjoying her company. Careful now. Moira gleaned a few more details about the robbery. No one had actually seen the new driver, and no bodies had been found, not that it was a surprise. The Chicago River spat up corpses daily. They may very well find him in a week. Micheal ordered a “piss water” beer for both of them, then steered her away discreetly to a more secluded section. Then he leaned in again, his smile wide with admiration. 

“You’re gettin’ popular with the boys, Moira.” He said, smiling. “Sorry about all the language. We can’t help it.”

She grinned, feeling some genuine pleasure. “I’m not fuckin’ sorry.” 

Micheal laughed. “I knew ye were somethin’ else Moira. When I saw ye this mornin’ I thought now that’s a girl I’d let ruin my life.” 

“Pfffft…” she waved a hand dismissively. “Ye can do that all on yer own.” 

Hours passed. She found herself humming to the music, her head spinning. Micheal was funny. Micheal was charming. It was enough. Heat was pooling in her belly. The smoke, the booze, and the music were having an effect. She felt greedy. Every time his hand accidentally touched hers it sent a flutter between her legs. How long had it been since she’d been touched? A year at least. She watched him carefully, liking the way his Adam’s apple bobbed  up and down when he drank. Moira wanted to lick the sweat off his skin. 

“Dance with me.” She said suddenly. 

Micheal looked surprised but delighted, as if he’d been working up the courage to ask her himself. 

He led her to the floor where the other couples were. The band was playing raucously. People were stomping in time to the rhythm. Someone had produced a penny whistle to accompany the drums and the fiddle. Heart pounding, she let Micheal whirl her around, her feet not always knowing what to do. It didn’t matter. She threw her head back in laughter and he drew her close enough to kiss, holding her arm aloft as the other clutched his back. 

Around and around he spun her. She felt joy. She felt like she was home. She already felt the pangs of future heartache. The whiskey was getting to her head, making her lose her caution. She was just a normal woman, dancing with a good Irish man, the type her parents would have liked. The crowd became a blur, a whirlwind of friendly faces and laughter. The lights became spots of glorious color, shimmering like tiny suns. She felt feminine. She felt pretty. Micheal was looking at her, and nothing else, and she did not mind even a little bit. 

Then she saw a glimpse of red, red eyes in the crowd. A feral glare, cold enough to make her feel the whiskey in her blood seep into the floorboards. One more twirl and the face was gone.  Fear gripped her by the spine, and she tensed like she’d been shocked by an electrical current. The sight sobered her up quicker than the espresso she sometimes bought at Stella’s. She stopped suddenly, almost losing her balance, but Micheal held her with strong, warm arms. He gazed down at her with concern. 

“Are you well? Feelin’ sick?” Not knowing what else to do, she nodded. “Come on, luv. Some fresh air will do ye right.” 

He led her to a door behind the bar. A safe exit that rose to an alleyway, in case the cops ever found this place. She could hear Barry calling after them, cheering them on. The sky had darkened, and they were illuminated by lamplight. Her breath billowed from her chest. The chill felt like a kiss on her face, and she laughed nervously, thinking maybe it was the drink making her hallucinate. 

“I’m fine. I only need a minute.” She said when she noticed him staring at her. 

“We can stay here as long as ye like. But I want to know, where did you come from, Moira?” He asked quietly. “I thought I knew every Irish girl in the city.” 

“Same story as everyone else here. Things were shite back home so I left.” She shrugged. 

“All by yourself? No husband or father?” 

She laughed. “Nah. Just me.” 

“Doesn’t it get lonely? Don’t you miss your people?” 

“I found my own people.” She replied somewhat sharply. 

“You mean…you know, the Empress?” He looked slightly abashed. “She’s your people?”

Moira cocked her head at him, smiling with bemusement. “She makes a mean char siu.”

She was not about to tell this man a single meaningful thing. Not about the boat, or how she’d landed in Philadelphia at fifteen, found it wanting and hitchhiked for two years until she’d settled here. She wouldn’t tell him about how Miss Qian had found her digging through her trash, or how Jimmy’s uncle had taught her tattooing, or how she had learned how to keep her thumbs on the outside when she threw a punch. None of this was his to know.

“My god,” Micheal chuckled softly. “You really are somethin,’ else Moira.” Then he tilted his head, staring down into her eyes with pretty green ones. 

Something broke within her. She wanted that feeling of normalcy back, before her head became haunted by visions of red eyes, shining like a wolf’s in the night. She seized his lapels, and drew his mouth to hers, sliding her lips to his with a ferocity that shocked him. He gasped in surprise at first, then chuckled into her lips, grasping her hair as if he’d been dying to touch it. 

“Fuck yes.” He breathed. 

Those breathy little words flooded her with a sudden need. She wanted the distraction of this man she had only met this morning. Who fucking cared? He was nice. But she wasn’t. Fingers digging into his chest, she pushed him roughly against the stone wall, making him grunt in pleasant shock. Her kiss became vicious. Her tongue found his, probing his mouth and tasting the lingering smoke. She didn’t even care that he still sort of smelled like oysters. Heat was pooling between her thighs, angry and throbbing. Her hands found his belt buckle. 

“Oh fuck…right here?” He murmured. Moira snarled against his lips, then nipped the lower one. “Alright. I thought we’d take it slow, but who am I to argue?” He spun her around and pressed her hand to the wall. She felt his fingers at the hem of her skirt, dancing across the back of her thighs, until they found her center, hot and slick with need. “Is this it, Moira? Is this how you want it?” A chaste kiss on her temple, then on the back of her neck. She felt somewhat annoyed by this gentleness. Then she moaned in appreciation when he slid two digits inside of her, testing her wetness. He reach around with the other hand, fumbling to find the hem of her panties, then groaning softly when he found her swollen clit and began rubbing a little too clumsily. Moira fidgeted, trying to angle her hips to help him find the right spot. She whimpered a little, frustrated when he withdrew those fingers, then sighed in anticipation when she felt him fiddling with the fly of his pants. 

Silence. Then a splash of hot liquid hit the back of her neck. Her eyes widened with outrage, and she whirled around dizzily only to see the nightmare behind her. She staggered back, and her back hit the wall. There was an awful crunch of bones and ligaments tearing, wet and sticky. The snap of delicate muscle. The grisly song of a man’s insides becoming his outsides. 

Micheal was sputtering, laying limp in the nightmare’s arms, his throat torn open so deep it had almost decapitated him. Blood bubbled from his mouth , his green eyes wide, staring into her soul, begging her silently to do something. Anything. Begging her for life that she could not give. His mouth kept gaping like a fish, sucking in air that only whistled softly through the open flesh, never reaching his lungs. She stared dumbly, fear clutching her chest, completely frozen, watching his muscles twitch their last. 

The stranger was drinking the blood, she realized. Body hunched like an animal, he gulped it down with such ferocity and greed that it sickened her. She could feel her own blood freezing in her veins, breathless with terror. She was a child again, helpless as she watched. Moira felt tears trickling down her face, but she couldn’t look away, not even as the stranger finally lifted his head, eyes closed in almost religious reverence, sighing with pleasure. He gulped one final time. She watched the way his throat bobbed. Up and down and up again. Then without lowering his head, he opened his eyes, black and shining with pinpricks of red light, and looked at her, amused by her terror. 

“Name’s Remmick. In case you were wonderin.” Then he ripped off Micheal’s head, and tossed it aside as if it were nothing but trash. Moira’s scream was only a short exhale of breath. No sound came out. “Funny we should meet again like this, huh?” He grinned. His mouth was coated in blood. He’d been so greedy. It stained his throat, and the front of his shirt. It clung to his hands, the fingers longer and sharper than they had any right to be. “Lucky for you, I’m full for now. You keep away from my nethers and we’ll be just fine.” 

He rose with strange, lurching steps, maybe a little drunk after drinking the whiskey in Micheal’s blood.  Moira choked on something that may have been terrified laughter, but it siezed up like ice crystals spreading through her chest as she watched him lick those bloody fingers clean, eyes locked on hers, his tongue so very, very red. She could hear it now, the barest hint of an Irish accent beneath his southern drawl. Something about the way he sucked those fingers clean made her stomach clench, and to her dismay, she felt a faint fluttering along her inner walls. Her clit was still throbbing. Shame bloomed within her. 

Remmick paused, and gave her a long, curious look. “Well ain’t that somethin.’” His nostrils twitched. 

“Why’d ye take the head off?” She had no idea why the question spilled from her lips, a little too shrill. 

“I ain’t makin any more children.” He answered. “I’m done with all that.” 

Moira could see Micheal’s body still steaming on the ground. “Why?” She whispered. “Why did you kill him?”

“It’s my nature, babygirl.” Remmick’s smile was terrible. His teeth were long and sharp, like a shark out of water. “Man’s gotta eat.” Panic gripped her by the lungs when he moved closer, his head cocked with alarming intent. 

Moira Domhnall had been afraid plenty of times in her life. She had long learned to quench that fear, and twist it into something useful. She’d watched Jun interrogate trespassers hundred of times, seen plenty of blood, and plenty of death, but this? The sheer brutality and senselessness made her stomach churn, and she thought she might wretch on his shoes if he came any closer. 

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me.” She hissed, wishing she could melt into the stone wall, wishing they had never left the warmth and safety of the pub. 

“And how do you plan on stoppin’ me if I do, Moira Domnhell?” He purred. It shocked her to hear her name on his tongue, pronounced correctly. “You smell fuckin’ delicious. Did you know? Like spiced cider, or maybe oranges. Blood oranges.” A bad pun. Her nose wrinkled. He crept closer, cracking his neck. “Will you miss him, darlin’? Weep more pretty little tears for him?” He reached up, and captured a little moisture from her cheek, drawing it into his mouth with apparent relish. “Shall I tell you his final thoughts? All of his pathetic memories?” He chuckled cruelly. “Micheal Kelly. So happy to find an Irish girl who ain’t a cousin, and so pleased to win three whole dollars from his buddy if he got to stick his cock inside Madam Qian’s little pet .” He tapped a finger on her nose, making her flinch. “That’s you babygirl. And from the look o’ things, he was about to win those three dollars.” He glowered down at her with an intensity she did not understand. 

Moira was infuriated by these words. Granted, it stung just a bit to know she was only a quick fuck, but part of her had already known that, and clearly she was willing. “So fuckin’ what?” 

His lip twitched. “So…what?” He snarled. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, shuddering as he took in her scent. Greedy.

“You deaf?” She tried to sneer, but her voice shook. 

She blinked, and when she did, suddenly his face was mere centimeters away, his long fingers wrapped around her throat. Her brain seemed to flicker off like someone had flipped a goddamned switch. She was fifteen years old. Her father was screaming something in her face, but the ringing in her ears was so loud she couldn’t understand the words. She could see his face plain as day, red and sweating. Remmick was saying something too, but she couldn’t hear him over the sound of her own heartbeat, echoing in her eardrums, faster and louder. A cold sweat broke out over her skin. Panic held her rooted to the spot. She was going to die. She heard a soft murmur in her ear. It made the little hairs on her arms stand at attention. 

“Look at me.” 

Her eyes focused. His hand was so warm she could  feel it through the scarf, almost hot enough to burn. The low rumble in his chest did something to her body that shamed her. She was helpless. Redness bloomed across her cheeks. She felt her inner walls begin to pulse rapidly. He leaned closed and blew a light stream of cool air into her ear, and to her enormous dismay, she came. Not a sweeping orgasm, but the soft kind that sometimes woke her in the middle of the night. 

Remmick was transfixed. Utterly fascinated by whatever he saw in her face. He’d gone quiet. “I ain’t even squeezin,’” he reached up with the other hand, and began to idly twirl a loose tendril of her hair. “I like the way your fear smells, babygirl. But where oh where did that spitfire go?” She was barely listening, and when she squeezed her eyes shut, he released her throat, and raked those painfully sharp nails down her flesh. Tiny beads of blood followed those nails, and his nostrils flared. “Fuuuck babygirl. I wanna eat you so damn bad.” He growled with what seemed like genuine rage. 

Without that hand at her throat, Moira’s eyes snapped open, and in an instant, her blade was out. It slipped between his ribs. Remmick’s eyes went wide as saucers, but his mouth opened in a toothy grin. He gasped in pain, but the gasp choked into a giggle. Fresh blood dribbled over his lips, but this time it was his, so dark it was almost black. 

“I told you not to fuckin’ touch me.” Moira whispered. 

And then she ran. 

Chapter Text

She pounded on Jimmy’s door. It flew open, and there he stood, angry at first, then alarmed by the state of her. Behind him, one of the maids gasped and frantically covered her breasts with a sheet, then sprinted past Moira and into the hallway. She barely even noticed, staring up at her childhood friend, not knowing what to say, until she realized that he was about to push past her to wake Miss Qian. 

She stopped him with a silent plea, and instead he pulled her inside, and sat her down on the plush leather sofa. Jimmy watched in silence as she shook, holding back the tears as best she could, and failing utterly. Her chest rose and fell so quickly the room was spinning. Sheer panic. Nothing was making sense. 

Jimmy was kneeling at her feet, murmuring comforting Cantonese, but she understood. You’re here with me. It’s safe. This is my room, where we used to shoot dice and eat moon cakes. You are safe, Moira. He repeated this again and again, showing a rare glimpse of the calm, level headed man that Miss Qian had raised him to be. The future heir to her empire. 

But she wasn’t safe. She’d stabbed Remmick but somehow she knew that he wasn’t dead. She’d seen how dark his blood was. No bright arterial spray, just slow, black blood. No oxygen in that blood. No heartbeat. Only dead flesh. Vampire. She remembered the stories of the Abhartach and the red blood-sucker. Not a faerie, a fucking vampire. Perhaps she should have listened to those nuns twenty years ago when they’d tried to warn her about her inevitable damnation. Maybe this was punishment for her sins. Nah, fuck em. 

Jimmy waited patiently with her until her breathing slowed into something normal, then made her a cup of strong tea, wrinkling his nose faintly at the whiff of whiskey on her breath. “Tell me what happened, Moira. I haven’t see you cry since we were kids.” 

She shook her head, deeply embarrassed by her behavior, but she told him anyway, knowing there was no way in hell he’d ever believe her. Jimmy had been her only friend for so long, and he listened with furrowed brows. The details were already fuzzy, but she did the best she could. She tried to still the tremor in her hands, but the tea sloshed a little, scalding her fingers.

“Here, let me see.” Jimmy carefully removed her scarf and hissed with an intake of breath. “Shit, he got you good.” 

“He killed him so easily.” She murmured, feeling like her voice was not truly part of her body. “Just broke him like a toy.”

“Strong mother-fucker.” He grunted, and she knew that she was right. Jimmy did not entirely believe her, and that was fine. He knew she’d been attacked, and that a man had been murdered in front of her and that was enough. “Did he follow you here?” 

“I don’t think so. I stuck my knife in him.” 

“That’s my girl.” He smoothed his hands down her arms, and took her hands. His voice hardened. “We’re going to have to tell her. But it can wait. We’ll take care of you Moira. You’re family. We protect what’s ours.” 

She really did cry then, even though she did not quite believe him, either. 

Moira did not sleep a wink that night. Instead she placed garlic and bits of iron on her windowsill. The iron was for faeries but she’d decided it couldn’t hurt. She kept her revolver out on her desk, and placed her wooden baseball bat next to her door. Then when she triple checked that everything was locked and secure, she went to her tiny bathroom to wash her face. At least she knew this. There was no way in hell that Jun would ever let that fucker in, no matter how charming. She’d made him promise not to open that front door for anyone. However, the little smoking porch beneath her window was left unguarded, which meant it was her responsibility. 

She stared at her reflection. Her grey eyes were still wide with terror, but worse than that were the long finger shaped bruises that wrapped around her throat. Then she finally found her anger. Placing a cool damp towel on her neck, she trembled with rage, remembering how he’d bragged that he “wasn’t even squeezin.’” How many times had she sworn that she would never let another man frighten her? She supposed she could forgive herself a bit. It’s not as if she could have foreseen encountering a literal monster. Still, it she ever encountered Remmick again, it would be the last time. She would make him properly dead. 

She did something that night that she hadn’t done in a very long time. Moira pulled out her mother’s sitar from its place beneath her bed, and drew it into her lap, cradling it like a lamb. She hadn’t played in years, but she remembered how to tune it, and still kept it polished. Not giving a shit if it woke anyone, she played. A low, sweet droning filled her room, wrapping her up like a motherly embrace. The soft tinny echoed in her ears, lovely and soothing. She closed her eyes, remembering the colorful silks her mother had worn, remembering how resentful her father had become, jealous of how vibrant and full of life his wife was, afraid her light would attract other men like moths. An old outrage simmered in her belly. She let the music soothe it until she was calm again. 

The sound of something tapping the glass made her eyes open, and she glanced at the window. Slowly, she rose to her feet, and looked. Her heart leaped to her throat when she saw him, standing beneath the street light, staring up at her with his head tilted. Listening. He’d followed her home, his hand still clutching the place where she’d stabbed him. His eyes were so strange. The pupils shifted into perfect spheres of reflected scarlet, like stained glass. They watched her every move, seeming to say “I know where you sleep.”

Moira felt nothing at first. No fear, or rage. But she gazed down at him for a moment, feeling a strange sort of smugness. Not tonight, you crazy bastard. Tonight she had evaded death. Then slowly, she raised her middle finger. 

She returned to her instrument, and the song continued. She had no idea where it was going or how it would end. Her tattooed fingers danced along its slender neck, and she played until her fingers ached, and when she finally fell asleep, the sitar was still clutched in her hand. 

Moira dreamt of terror and flesh, writhing and sweating and pulsing deep inside her as she tasted blood on her tongue. She dreamt that she was being pressed into cool grass, a body enveloped by mist, as she wrapped her legs around his waist and made him suffer. 
In her dream, Moira wanted to fuck death. 

****************************************

She’d slept through an entire day, a rare luxury that  she was grateful for, but her stomach was making whale songs that could no longer be ignored. The household staff stared openly at her, and she wondered how much Jimmy had already spilled. Then she realized that the bruises on her throat were exposed. Knowing she must have looked terrible, she still held her head high, displaying the markings with almost sick pride. Let them take a good long look. 

“Sit with us, Moira.” Qian commanded softly, her elbows resting on the bar. She was smoking with a long elegant cigarette lighter, her perfectly manicured nails painted a lustrous green. Jimmy and Jun were the only ones with her. The rest of the speakeasy was empty. 

Moira ate in silence. A simple meal of fish and rice, but she devoured it in minutes, feeling her landlady’s  cool stare the entire time, listening to the men argue. Whoever did this would need to pay. Moira was one of theirs and the attack was surely a blatant sign of disrespect against them. Miss Qian silenced them, then looked to Moira who nodded. Then finally, she spoke. 

With Jimmy’s gentle encouragement, she told her everything in her own words, though she may have glossed over a few important details. The last thing she needed was for Qian to question her sanity, and she could only imagine how the Empress would react if she started spewing tales of a southern vampire. So she gave them the bare bones. The white man from the other night had attacked her, he was crazy, and he’d killed Micheal Kelly, who was a nobody as far as they knew, but Moira was the last person to see him alive, and unfortunately it had been on Irish territory. The information she’d gathered was a pittance compared to the catastrophe that had followed. She was laying herself at the Empress’ mercy. 

Jun was growing more furious as Jimmy translated for him. They began to argue again. They had to close ranks and protect their streets before anything else.  Warn everyone on Wentworth and Cermak that if a stranger came calling, to lock their doors. She wasn’t sure how much they believed her, but at least they were cautious enough to want to prevent a war. This event could easily be the first sign of rain before a flood and they had to get it under control, quickly and quietly. At least they seemed angry on her behalf. 

“We have to tell Aiden McCarthy what you saw.” The Empress said as simply as if she were commenting on the weather. Jimmy started to protest, wanting to send someone else, even offering to go instead.  

“How do we know the Irish didn’t set this up to begin with?” He demanded. 

“It has to be me.” Moira sighed. “McCarthy won’t want to hear a second hand account, and anyway he asked for me specifically.” 

The two men glanced at each other. Not exactly a promising sign. 

Miss Qian took a puff from her cigarette lighter and fixed her with an inscrutable look. “Sooner would be better. Jun will drive you.” Not much sympathy from the landlady. Moira shivered, knowing this was partially a punishment for being so stupid. Unfortunately she understood. She had to use these markings on her throat to her advantage. They would back up her story. A little drama went a long way, and so much of what they did was theater. 

“I have that delivery to make first, with permission.” Moira steeled her voice into one of calm indifference. Qian nodded, but did not look at her, and she knew why. No matter what Jimmy said, she would always be an outsider, and if the Chinese needed a sacrificial lamb, she was it. They would not risk war over her, and she knew it. 

Fuck it, she thought as Jun pulled up for her in the beat up continental roadster. He’d volunteered to go with her on her errands of course, and she fought the urge to throw her arms around him, so grateful for her gentle giant. She didn’t though. She didn’t think he’d appreciate it. 

Their first stop was the spice stall on Wentworth.  The market was packed, but that was good. It warmed her to see its citizens thriving. The stalls lined the streets, preparing hot meals for the factory workers who walked every day. The other customers eyed her warily, but made way for her as a sign of respect for Miss Qian’s loyal dogs. Moira frowned at the young woman behind the spice stall. 

“Where’s your mum at?” She asked. She had expected to see Mrs. Cheng. 

The girl shrugged. Moira handed the spice monger a brown paper bag, full of tea, and a sizeable bottle of rice wine stuffed near the bottom. In return she loaded up the back of their car with a generous amount of spices, then handed Moira a little satchel containing clove, cinnamon and cardamom. Moira secretly hoped she survived Aiden McCarthy long enough to enjoy her masala chai in peace. 

Something prickled at the back of Moira’s head when she reached for the satchel, and she turned, expecting to see Jun watching, but he was preoccupied, letting two small children hang off his biceps and lifting them up with ease. He towered over everyone, but his chubby face was split into an enormous grin. Moira inhaled slowly through her nose, then blew the breath through pursed lips. Someone was watching her. It would be impossible to pick them out in this crowd. 

“Moira.” A voice cracked. 

Red hair, and a tear stained face. Barry held out his hands, like he was trying to calm a skittish horse. He looked awful. She almost didn’t recognize him, such a far cry from the joyful smiling youth she’d enjoyed drinks with. 

“The fuck you doin’ here Barry?” She sighed. 

“Moira please.” He was already drunk. She could smell it on him. “Please, I mean you no harm, lass.”

She considered him carefully, then nodded. Jun was already at her side, flexing his fingers, ready to throw the Irishman into the street if need be. People were carving a path around them, not eager to be around them if violence erupted. 

“Did you take Michael home with ye?” Barry pleaded, eyes shining. “He didn’t show up this mornin’. Michael never misses a days work. Not one time in ten years. So is he with you?” 

“No.” She replied stiffly. “Guess you’ll get to keep your three dollars.” The wretched look on his face should have brought her some satisfaction. It didn’t. 

“We didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Moira. We just wanted to egg him on a bit, you know? Give the shy boy a fightin’ chance fer once.”

“He already had a fightin’ chance.” She snapped. “I liked him.” 

“ ‘Had?’” He repeated, the color leaving his face until his freckles stood out in stark relief. 

Moira realized her mistake, but was careful not to show it on her face. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I was feelin’ poorly after our dance. He took me outside and I kissed him. Then he confessed about the bet.” She snorted convincingly, feeling her stomach twisting in shame at the lie. “Guilty conscience I guess. I told him I never want to see him again.” Barry’s eyes were wide as he searched her face. 

“Moira please. The man’s a brother to me. His mother is desperate. She’s beside herself, the poor woman.” 

A gut punch. Moira looked away, feeling a sudden wave of grief and self disgust. This was all her fault. Michael was gone. She’d barely known him, but he was a friend, a son, a person, and now he was dead, and oh what a death it had been. Barry’s hand grasped her shoulder painfully hard to spin her around, and the instinct overwhelmed her so quickly and so sharp, she barely felt the sting in her knuckles as her fist collided with his face. 

“Don’t…don’t touch me.” She breathed, eyes wild and shining. 

Barry gaped up at her, completely dumbfounded, and made as if to speak again, but Jun stepped in front of her, and pushed him back with one hand. He staggered and fell in a puddle, cursing. Not a single other person on the street even glanced their way. They all kept their eyes averted, except Moira felt that tingle in the back of her head again. She placed a hand on Jun’s broad shoulder, and when he glanced back at her she smiled grimly. Enough. Leave him. 

She had to speak to Aiden McCarthy. It was what she was supposed to do. Instead she asked Jun to drop her off at Stella’s, her favorite Italian bistro. She needed coffee. Surprisingly, Jun listened, and parked the car out front where it idled. Moira sighed and promised herself that one day she would have enough money to get the fuck out of this city. 

When she made her way to the steps of the little bistro, a weak cough got her attention, and she glanced down at a figure huddling in the alley, a coat pulled over her head. The woman looked pathetic, thin and dirty. She gazed up at her with enormous brown eyes. Moira had long learned to mind her own damned business, but a pale hand reached out to her. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, but d’you think you could spare somethin’?” 

Moira’s brow furrowed and she felt a stab of trepidation, immediately followed by guilt. She shouldn’t be reacting this strongly to the mere sound of a southern accent. The woman was shivering and it was no wonder. Her clothes were so thin and threadbare, her cheeks so hollow. 

“How much d’you need, luv?” Moira answered kindly. 

“Nothin’ much. Just whatever you can spare.” The woman’s eyes were huge like a puppy’s. “They wouldn’t let me in without any money, so…”

Moira’s heart softened. She didn’t think she had it in her to be unkind to another grieving soul today. She reached into her pocket, and gave the stranger three dollars. Exactly what Michael and his friends had decided her body was worth. The woman’s eyes widened, shining with grateful tears. 

“That’s enough for a few day’s meals, if you stay away from the fancy hotels. There are places that’ll take ye for a few cents a night.” She said as she climbed the stairs into the restaurant. 

“God bless you, Moira.” 

Moira staggered, and immediately felt for the knife in her sleeve. But the woman was gone. 

Moira replayed that in her head over and over as she bought her espresso and a cannoli for Jun. As they drove together, she thought she kept seeing pinpricks of red lit eyes in darkened alleyways, so she squeezed her eyes shut and simply let her head rest against the window. Perhaps she was going mad. That seemed likely. Hell, it was probably a family trait. Something inherited from her father. 

To her enormous surprise, Jun did not take her to see Aiden McCarthy. In fact, she had no idea where he had taken her, and if she’d been paying any attention, she would not have even gotten out of the car, so when she realized that they were standing in a dark, musty alleyway next to a reeking dumpster, it was a bit of a shock. 

Moira felt the betrayal in her bones before she could even manage a look at Jun. But he was already back in the car, and watching from behind the windshield with the engine still running as she was approached by three impeccably dressed men. Two of them were smoking. The third held out a gleaming cigarette case to her. She sighed in annoyance and took one. Goddamn it. 

“No need for fear, bella.” He said, flicking a silver lighter for her. 

“Fear?”Moira laughed a little, shaking her head at the lunacy of this remark. “What would I possibly be afraid of? Only a dark shitty alley way with three strange men. What could go wrong?” 

“I only wish to talk.” 

Moira jerked her chin at the tallest one. “Is that a garrote in yer pocket or are you just happy to see me?” She winked. The tall man frowned quizzically. 

“He doesn’t speak much English.” The first one explained. 

Moira took a long drag of the cigarette, and for a moment became concerned that the leader would ruin his beautiful leather shoes standing in this filthy place. Ah well. 

“And what would the Italians possibly want to talk to me about?” 

“Your boss-lady arranged this little meeting. She did not tell you?” 

“She did not.” Another sharp jab of betrayal. 

“A test maybe? Maybe your loyalty is in question? Hmm?” He was beautiful, this man. Lean and swarthy with the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. Suddenly she was embarrassed by her appearance. 

Moira shook her head. “More like a reminder.”

A reminder of how expendable she truly was, that she was only an errand girl, a funny distraction who could get away with saying the things that her landlady could not, because the Empress of Chinatown would never stoop so low, and her mannerisms were still so foreign to these Americans, even to other immigrants. Moira was crass. She was impolite. She could take the blame. Expendable. Qian was playing games, and Moira was not high ranking enough to know them. Only a pawn. One things was abundantly clear, however. She’d never intended for Moira to speak to McCarthy today. Perhaps she did not wish for her to speak to him at all. 

“Who did this to you?” The gentleman gestured at her throat with impeccably graceful fingers. He was making a face of distaste and maybe pity. Fuck. Him. 

“Run in with a stray.” She said truthfully. No need for details. 

“Ah.” He frowned. “My name is Nico Farino. And you are Moira Domhnall.” He pronounced it wrong. She was used to that. 

“That’s me. You own the bakery on Queen?” She’d heard the name before, though she hadn’t cared much for their biscotti. 

“Si. Though my father is the real businessman.” 

“Ah.” She exhaled a plume of smoke. So he was a different sort of errand boy. Nico was either the third or fourth son, she couldn’t remember. Less important perhaps, but still special enough to inherit a business. The Farinos had their fingers in a lot of pies. Hotels, stock market investments, money laundering, and of course booze, though so far they’d been discreet enough to avoid drawing attention from the biggest players. She looked at his expensive suit, and the rings on his fingers. That was probably going to change soon. 

“Your Boss-lady has made a deal with the Irish.” It was not a question. So she did not answer. “Yet it is Italians who are disappearing.” She blinked, startled by that. “You did not know?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Your boss-lady wishes to expand her business, but goes to those thugs for help in this.” His jaw was set, far too tense. She liked the way his accent rolled gently off his tongue, but there was a sharpness underneath his charm.

“Not exactly.” She confessed. “I won’t pretend to know what her plans are. You’ll have to take it up with her. As far as I know, we’re perfectly comfortable where we are.” A lie. Moira was good at lying. 

He nodded with understanding. “I am not here to make threats. Only to impart wisdom. Those fucks have been stealing from us for years, and now my people are turning up dead. Torn to pieces. Fucking animals.” 

She paled considerably. She opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t. Moira didn’t know why, but she did not tell him what she knew about Remmick. She could have given this man something valuable, information about the monster terrorizing their city. She had the key that might be crucial in stopping a fucking gang war. She could have given up his name, hell she could have drawn him a goddamn picture. But she didn’t.  

“Here is what I propose, Moira. If you want to keep the best interests of Lady Qian, hide behind your walls, and cease all trade with Aiden McCarthy. Do not see him again. When we move, do not interfere.  That is all I ask of you. This would be in your best interest as well, bella.” 

Her eyes narrowed. She knew a goddamned threat when she heard one. So she said the only Italian word she knew. 

“Vaffanculo.” 

She took the cigarette with her. 

***************************************

“Drop me off here.” She muttered darkly. Jun kept glancing at her apologetically and it was getting on her last nerve. Moira was furious with him and wanted to walk home, not giving a single shit if it was getting dark. He wanted to argue but she snapped at him in Cantonese, not even feeling embarrassed when she stumbled over the words. Moira knew that he was only following orders, but she didn’t care. Fuck him and fuck his feelings. Actually, fuck everyone. 

The wind was vicious. It scraped through her coat and sliced through bone as she huffed angrily down the sidewalk with her arms folded in. Now she was more upset with herself than with Jun. Stupid. There was a fucking vampire out here somewhere and he wanted her dead. She should have been at home cowering beneath a blanket, but she was so angry that she didn’t even care about that. Madam Qian had set her up for a meeting with no warning that she could very well be marching to her death. At least her Remmick problem was simple, she’d give him that. Everything else was damned complicated. 

It didn’t take long to hear footsteps. Moira actually rolled her eyes, in spite of the cold sweat that broke across her brow. Her heart was already racing. 

“Come out you dead fucker. I know that’s you.” 

“He chose you, huh?” 

Moira’s nostrils twitched at the smell coming off the woman who crept from the darkness like a frightened child. The same woman she’d given three dollars to, only now the entire front of her linen dress was soaked black with blood. Her feminine movements were made so eerie by whatever unnatural power she possessed. Those eyes shone golden in the lamplight like a predator’s. 

“Stay the fuck back.” Moira snarled, backing up a step. Her revolver was out. She cocked it and aimed it squarely in the woman’s face to no effect. She was still inching closer. 

“We took turns, you know. Feedin’ him. Bringin’ him back after he crawled out of that lake. After they let him burn.” Her voice was so frail, and delicate. “They killed my husband too. My sweet Bertie.” She blinked owlishly, and Moira thought she might actually cry. “You are kind, I’ll give you that. They saw that money you gave me and they let me right in.” The woman smiled. There were chunks of flesh in her teeth. The sight sent fear spiraling down Moira’s throat, turning into bile that threatened to come right back up, but she was also tired, and that made her aggressive.

“What the fuck do you cunts want from me?” She demanded. 

“Where is he? Please tell me. We all wanna know. We miss him. We gave him all that love and he just disappeared.” The woman giggled strangely, and tilted her head. “Bet he’d come back if you were one of us.” 

Moira pulled the trigger. She didn’t wait for an attack. She fired into the woman’s face, and heard her inhuman shrieks of pain and fury as she ran, thanking all the saints in heaven that she wasn’t wearing high healed shoes this time. 

A car pulled up, tires squealing, spitting out dust and gravel. Jun. He hadn’t gone home after she’d cussed at him, thank god. In fact he must have known that she was just being childish. Moira had never leapt into the back seat so quickly. Jun began driving, but not fast enough for her liking, which she told him. Loudly.  She turned her head and watched the vampire woman scrabbling after them, but she’d been blinded, and Jun was not only a bodyguard and confidante. He was the best damn getaway driver she’d ever met, and he knew what he was doing. 

He made a sudden swerve, cutting across two lanes to pull onto a back street. Horns honked at them aggressively but he ignored them. Jun knew every inch of this city. The vampire was still gaining on them though Moira had no idea how, with half her face blown off and the one good eye weeping blood. There were bullet fragments lodged there. They glimmered silver in the street lights.

Jun quickly became sick of the chase, and decided to end it. He veered the car sharply back onto a main road, and slammed his foot on the breaks. The assailant screamed as she hit the back of the car, the momentum throwing her body onto the roof where she landed heavily, creating an indent. 

Jun threw the car into reverse, and backed up with a jerk so that the woman rolled off the roof and down the windshield onto the pavement. Then he ran her over with a sickening crunch, not even a hesitating. They paused only for a moment, taking it all in, then Jun’s foot hit the gas.

Moira felt something build up inside her, a sudden  rush, a delirious, giddy feeling. She whooped and threw her head back, laughing so hard that Jun looked back at her in alarm. Rolling down the window, she stuck her head out and made a very rude gesture at the bloody, curled up vampire, thinking maybe she wouldn’t bother saving up to leave after all. 

Chapter Text

She wanted to throw herself on her bed and sleep for days and days. Exhaustion was in her bones but she’d already slept too much and it wouldn’t come, so she drew instead. The adrenaline had still not worn off, and it made her pulse race. So she worked off the excess energy the best way she knew how. Charcoal in hand, she drew the face that had plagued her every waking moment since the night  she’d seen it on her doorstep. 

It wasn’t a peaceful session. She scratched at the paper with feverish animosity, making harsh broad strokes until his likeness appeared with alarming accuracy. Her terror of him made her feel weak, and foolish. It also made her feel alive, made her blood thrum. Some part of her liked the danger. It was why she lived like this, pushing liquor and ink in a country that did not even want her. Fuck Remmick. Moira hated him. She hated him. She hated him. 

She especially hated the way she kept thinking about that slow, lazy smile, and the way he’d sucked those fingers clean. She hated the way her body clenched at the thought of that tongue. She hated the way she relived those moments in her nightmares, then woke to find herself slick. She hated that low, rumbling accent. In fact she could practically hear him now, and that rich, penetrating voice. Then she blinked. She could hear that voice. 

“On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew . 

That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue.”

Fucking saints. He was outside. And he was singing. Fire exploded in her veins. She’d always had a short temper, and now it flooded her with murderous intent. How dare he interrupt her peace like this? If peace was what it was. 

“I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,

And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day” 

She stormed to the window, and threw it open, scattering old garlic and bits of iron, ready to scream at him like he was a raccoon rummaging through the garbage bins. Remmick had his back turned to her, and was leaning against the fence, singing softly into the sky. She grabbed a tiny hunk of the iron she’d naively placed on the windowsill and chucked it at him, missing by a long shot. She thought she saw his head turn a bit to the side. He clearly knew she was there, but he kept singing. 

“On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge

Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge” 

Moira clenched her teeth so hard she felt her jaw snap. She was tired of being hunted and mocked and frightened. 

“Oi! Piss off!” She snarled. 

He ignored her, and took a deep breath, intending to sing again. 

Then Moira did something that shocked even herself. Placing a hand on her hip, she opened her mouth, and changed the song. 

“When he came to the gallows at last he was tucked up so neat and so pretty

The rumblers jogged him off his feet and he died with his face to the city

He kicked too but that was all pride for soon you could see ’twas all over

Soon after the rope was untied and at dark we waked him in clover

And sent him to take his ground sweat”

She sang the grisly ballad loudly and clearly, her voice surprisingly strong and lilting in spite of the fact that she had not sung properly in front of another person in years and years. The night went eerily still, as if Chicago itself needed to take a breath before a scream. Remmick looked surprised, perhaps at the gruesome song itself. He stared up at her, breathing heavily. She could see it billowing in soft spirals. Surprising that a dead man still breathed. His lip curled. Then he leapt for her window with horrifying grace. 

She staggered back, and fell hard on her tailbone,  cursing at the sharp pain, her eyes round as dinner plates. Remmick was crouched on the veranda beneath her window sill, the cold wind tossing his hair carelessly as he glared down into her little room. His elbows rested on his bent knees as he considered her. 

Suddenly she was painfully aware of how little she was actually wearing. A thin strappy nightgown of black silk beneath a long, floral robe. She often enjoyed an extra touch of femininity when she was alone, liking the way it made her feel like she was in one of those movies where a wealthy husband has died under mysterious circumstances. Except now she wasn’t alone, and a demon’s eyes were raking hot coals along her very soul, assuming she still had one of those. 

Remmick glanced down at her desk, and his eyes flicked back to her with horrifying intensity. His eyes. Fuck they were blue. How unlikely that they’d be blue. It was the first time she’d seen him in decent lighting, and his face was so normal. So goddamned human. Moira might have considered him handsome, had they met by chance like two regular people. Then she realized he was staring at her bare legs, sprawled in front of her, eyeing the tattooed flesh. Thank god she was wearing underwear. 

“Is that me?” He asked almost playfully, pointing at her drawing. She glared daggers at him. “No one’s ever drawn my portrait before. Can I have it?” She shivered, waiting for him to leap down and tear her throat out. “Who’s that pretty fella yer always with?” His voice darkened. Quite the subject change. 

Moira laughed savagely. She would not let him see that she was afraid. “Jun? You’ve met him.” 

“Nah. Not that one. The other one. The one you ran to.” There was blackness in his tone. How the hell did he know that? The Irish accent had come out to play. God he was terrifying. She felt like a rat in a cage. His blue eyes were becoming fierce again, the pupils bleeding into the surrounding iris like ink. 

Moira remembered then, with overwhelming, dizzying relief, that he could not enter without permission. She allowed herself a moment, laying back onto the floor boards to rest her head, listening to the way his breath hitched. Maybe if she just ignored him he would go away. 

“Who is he, Moira?” He sounded dangerous. 

She chuckled. “Fuck off.” 

“A lover? Or just a puppy that follows you around?” 

“Is this an interrogation? You often talk to your food?” 

“Invite me in, Moira.” 

She sat up again at that, tilting her head. “Pardon?” 

“Go on lass. Invite. Me. In.” He growled softly. “I’ll interrogate ye for as long as it takes.”

“Feelin’ peckish?” She lifted an eyebrow. 

“Fuckin’ starved, girl.” Remmick snapped. He was irritable. “I’m gettin’ tired of waitin.’”

“For what?” She lifted a brow. “There are plenty of people in Chicago to choose from. Go eat one of them. Leave me alone.” 

“You didn’t see my note?” He frowned. 

“What note, you crazy fuck?” 

Remmick bleated at her. Like a goat. Then grinned savagely at her look of dismay. “No? Must’ve gotten the wrong house.” She remembered when they’d found Mrs. Cheng’s goat dismembered, there had been a word written in blood. A word that no one had understood. She refused to ask even though he was clearly dying to tell her. “Let me inside, Moira.” 

“Nah. You can kill me later.” She let her head drop back down with a light thunk. 

He chuckled. “Oh believe me darlin’ I’ve thought about doing that very thing. Every hour of every day. Tearing into that sweet flesh until you beg me to stop. But I’ll never stop, babygirl. I can make you die a thousand little deaths.” 

“You know what I think? I think you’re all talk.” Moira rose to her feet and shook out her hair. He watched the hair with insidious interest. “If you’ve been followin’ me around so much, why haven’t ye done it yet?” 

His boyish face twisted with a wider range of emotions than she’d ever seen on it. Sore subject. Then he reached into his coat. She grabbed her pistol from the desk, and pointed it at a vampire for the second time that night. At that, his eyes widened with delight.

“Sugar, I love that spitfire.” He growled, and placed her knife on the windowsill. The same one she’d stabbed him with. Her father’s knife, with the sleek ivory handle. He’d cleaned it until it shone even brighter than it had before. Her hand wavered just a touch. “Come and get it babygirl.” 

She raised her gun higher, holding it the way Jun had taught her when she was a teenager, properly to keep it steady. Moira knew that as soon as she touched the knife, he would grab her. She knew that, yet she still inched closer. 

“That’s it, Moira. Come here.” He breathed, anticipation making his eyes glow. Then he stopped, head tilting. Something stirred within his chest. An animal sound, like a low growl. “Who did that?” He pointed at her shoulder. The robe had slipped down her arms, and she realized he was staring at the faint finger marks on her upper arm, where Barry had grabbed her a little too hard in his desperation for answers. 

“Plenty o’ fellas trying to fuck with me these days” She snapped, gesturing at her throat where Remmick’s mark still painted her. 

Remmick’s gaze darkened with strange fury. “Only I get to do that.”  

“Tell that to yer lady friend.” She snarled. “Fuckin’ bloodsuckers.” It was impossible to interpret the look on his face. Rage and grief and maybe even a little hint of guilt. 

“You saw Joan.”

“Hit her with the car. She yer wife?” She lifted an eyebrow. 

“No.” He spat. “And no child o’ mine, no matter what she fuckin’ says.” His accent was all Irish now. It seemed to slip out when he was upset. Moira wrinkled her nose at this. Remmick laughed at her. “Nah darlin.’ That’s all yer gettin’ from me. You have to give me somethin’ too.” He looked pointedly at the window. “Unless of course…” 

“You think I’m curious enough about you to have my head torn off?” She almost smiled. 

“Oh so you are curious.”He purred. 

She was, but Moira shrugged indifferently. 

Then she lunged for the knife. 

And he lunged for her. 

She didn’t try to be faster. Instead she whacked him hard with the butt of her revolver. The sudden pain distracted him before he could grab her, but she still felt the warm touch of his fingers on her wrist and she shivered. Moira jerked back, staggering a step as Remmick frowned at her, rubbing his head where she’d hit him. 

“Well, this is a might awkward.” He grumbled, looking humorously petulant. 

Moira put her gun down and twirled the knife absentmindedly, feeling pleased to heft the weight of it once more. She held it up to the light, then tested the sharpness gently with a finger. It had felt like part of her was missing, and she hadn’t even realized it until now. When she saw the way he flinched as she did this, it sparked something in her mind, a curiosity igniting as if she’d blown gently on a dying ember. A strange reaction from a man who drank from the living. 

“You’re bein’ hunted, aren’t ye?” She asked with mock indifference. The ember grew in her mind as the evidence clicked into place. He was behaving just like any man on the run. Erratic. Paranoid. Desperately seeking shelter. “Those are your people out there lookin’ for ye.” He didn’t answer, only stared coldly. “So what did you do to piss ‘em off?” When he still wouldn’t answer, she tossed her mane of black curls out of her eyes and shook the silky robe off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. Remmick’s pupils dilated. “You don’t feel like talkin’ now? That’s fine.” 

“What are you doin’ girl?” He whispered. 

Something very stupid, Moira thought. Cocking her head ever so slightly, she raised the knife and dragged it gently, whistfully over her skin, running the sharp edge up her tattooed arm, and then slowly along the slope of her neck, watching his eyes follow the path of her blade. He’d gone so very still. 

“Is this what ye came for?” She purred. “Isn’t this why you keep comin’ back?” 

“Stop.” He commanded, surprising her. 

“Why? You said it yourself. You’ve thought about killin’ me every day. Be a shame wouldn’t it, to watch me bleed out while you’re trapped out there?” Moira chuckled at the look of outrage that twisted his handsome face. 

“You wouldn’t fucking dare.” His lips were pulled back. Oh he was mad. 

Moira laughed with genuine pleasure, just as she had in the car when they’d run that bitch down. Oh it felt good to taunt death. The knife twirled skillfully in her hand. She’d been playing with it for years. It danced in her fingers, and when she drew the edge slowly up her thigh, she thought he might tear a hole in the window pane, he was gripping it so hard.  Still smiling, she pressed the tip of her knife to a finger, and drank in every tiny emotion that he was trying so hard to suppress.

“Moira, don’t.” There was pleading in that growl. That surprised her. 

She pressed, just a light touch, until a bead of dark blood welled on her fingertip, glimmering like a ruby.  Remmick’s nostrils flared, his eyes turning black. She watched the transformation with interest, his teeth elongating into the only weapons he needed. 

“Don’t fuss.” Moira crooned. “This is why you’ve been followin’ me? Right?”

“Stop it, Moira.” He spat, glaring at her with such heat that she hesitated for a moment.

But her lips quirked into a feline smirk. He’d made her feel so powerless, and now it was time to take it back. Her hips swayed gently as she approached the window, and delicately held out her bleeding hand, a hair’s width away. Remmick shuddered violently, his eyes rolling back into his head. A touch too close. He snapped at her like a savage dog, but she drew back, drinking his torment the way he’d drunk Michael. Greedy. 

“You want a taste?” She murmured cruelly. His eyes snapped back to hers, swirling with rage and hunger, but he nodded slowly. 

“Why do you smell so fucking good?” He whispered. “Moira…” he was about to beg. 

Moira lifted the injured hand to her lips, and drew the finger into her mouth, watching the way he stared, utterly outraged but transfixed. He made a sound that she did not expect, a soft whimper. The sound thrilled her and she felt the heat of it throb between her legs. 

His lips pulled back into a fearsome grin. “Teasin’ me ain’t very smart, sugar.” Moira shuddered, just a little, and there it was again. The low, pulsing heat in her womanly parts. Remmick’s black eyes lowered. She could feel them roaming down her body, like claws gently raking her flesh. “I can smell that too, you know. Tell me one thing, babygirl. You gonna come when I kill you?” 

Snorting, she reached out, pressed her palm to his chest, and pushed, watching his eyes grow comically wide as he fell. 

****************************************

Somehow she wasn’t surprised when he returned the following night, sitting on her windowsill, legs stretched over the veranda. She’d have to ask Miss Qian if she could take a blowtorch to it. This time at least she had made sure not to be so exposed, and wore a men’s wife beater and trousers with the suspenders left dangling. It didn’t seem to matter though. She could still feel eyes on her, studying her tattooed arms and throat. 

“What is that?” He asked languidly, watching her from the corner of his eye, jerking his chin at the bottle in her hand. 

“Almond oil.” She wasn’t sure why she answered as she scrubbed the oil into her scalp, then ran her hands through her curls, one section at a time. This process always made her hair seem longer, and it now reached the tops of her breasts instead of brushing her collarbone. He watched her every move. 

“Seems like a lot of effort for just hair.” He grunted. 

“So go watch somethin’ else.” She snapped. 

He smirked at her, bemused. “I could help.” 

“Don’t you have any stray cats to slaughter?”

“Only stray cat I want is in there.” 

Moira scowled. “Why don’t you fuck off?” 

“You’re entertaining.” 

“And you’re getting on my nerves. I have half a mind to step out there just to shut you up.”

“Ohhh would you darlin?” He crooned at her sneer. “How come you don’t cut it short like these other modern women?” 

“I tried that. It looked like I stuck my finger in a light socket.”

“How do you know that, unless you try it now?” He pointed at the wall where her only lamp was plugged in. “I could watch and take notes.” 

She was about to say something snarky in reply, but there were footsteps in her stairwell, and the heavy pounding of a fist on her door. Her eyes flicked to the window, but Remmick was gone, like smoke on the wind. Fucker. She quickly stuffed her gun in the back of her pants. When she opened the door, baseball bat in hand, Jimmy was staring down at her with wide eyes. 

“They hit Stella’s.” There was rage, and sadness in his voice. 

Moira stilled, feeling the blood drain from her face. “Who did?” But she already knew. Moira had seen the blood on the female vampire’s teeth, and she knew. “Joan,” Remmick had called her. Her chest felt tight. It was her fault. Innocent people were dead and it was entirely her fault. 

“The Irish, we think. They’re all gone, Moira. Everyone who worked there. Customers too. Put a coat on. We need you downstairs.” 

She obeyed. There was nothing else she could do. Except let that numbness take control. This was not a place in which she could afford to show weakness no matter how much the guilt gnawed at her gut.  She had put money in that vampire’s hands, and because of it, they’d let her inside. When she reached the speakeasy she realized she still had the baseball bat in her hands, so she rested it against the stairs. 

Miss Qian was arguing with someone, or rather, trying to maintain calm while a beautiful man in a crisp maroon suit was running his fingers through his hair, his voice elevated. They turned to look at her, and Moira stared down at Nico Farino, the same man who had spoken terms with her just the other day. She felt her stomach lurch as what she’d already suspected was confirmed. Miss Qian was working with the Italians, betraying Aiden McCarthy. 

Nico lunged at her, rage and grief twisting his face. He was pointing at her and screaming something in Italian that she didn’t understand, but she pushed him away. Why did so many men think they could touch her whenever they had feelings they weren’t used to? 

“He says you were seen, Moira. You went into Stella’s the day that it happened.” Qian’s voice was ice. 

“Right.” Moira could feel her world spinning out of control. “I bought an espresso and a cannoli for Jun.” She glanced up at Jun now, and the big man nodded in solidarity. “I go there all the time. Nothin’ unusual.” 

The expression on her landlady’s face made her heart sink. She wasn’t buying it for one minute. “This is the second time, girl. You were seen in a place you didn’t belong, and then people were butchered. Coincidence is a concept I cannot afford to believe in.” Jimmy started to say something, but Qian held up a hand to silence him. Moira looked at him with pleading in her eyes, but he just looked at her with desperate remorse. 

“Give her to us.” Nico said blackly, staring down at her with murder in his face. Suddenly he looked ugly. Ah shit. She was going to die tonight. “You have a rat in your house. Hand her over, Qian, and we’ll consider this done.” 

“No.” Qian stiffened. “Not until she explains.” 

Moira felt strong hands on her shoulders. Jun was pushing her into a chair. Dread was making her limbs feel heavy. What the fuck was she going to say? That vampires were real and they were terrorizing the city? That one of them kept showing up at her window to frighten her? That they were all going to kill eachother, over a few paltry cases of beer that had gone missing? 

It was more than that. It wasn’t about beer or shaoxing or Italian wine. It was about expansion. Qian had been lusting over it for years, desperate to make room for the Chinese that had been trickling in, ever since California had passed those damned laws. She wanted a better life for her people here. She wanted better for her family, and when push came to shove, Moira was not family. No matter what Jimmy said. 

“Mama this is a mistake.” Jimmy finally found the balls to say. 

Jun had his knife out, and Moira knew she was about to lose a finger. Her gentle giant was looking anywhere but her, and she had seen him do this enough times that she knew any pleading or bargaining would fall on deaf ears. She gritted her teeth and placed a trembling hand on the table, raising her eyes to look Nico Farino in the face. Fuck him. 

“Not that one.” Qian said softly. Moira nodded, and replaced the dominant hand with her left one, feeling a small amount of gratitude. This was theater.  Her boss was playing a painful hand, hurting her so that maybe, just maybe, the sacrifice would appease them and perhaps they’d spare her, all the while maintaing a fearsome reputation as a woman who would not tolerate mistakes. Yet for  now Qian would not harm the hand that Moira tattooed with, the hand she played her mother’s sitar with. “You’ve been keeping secrets, girl.” 

“So have you.” Moira jerked her chin at Nico. 

Qian smiled coldly. “Aiden McCarthy has had his boot on our necks for too long, and you know it. It was time to find a new path.” Her eyes settled on Nico. “I’ve raised this girl since she was fifteen. She is like a daughter to me. A good soldier. Loyal to a fault. I am going to hear what she has to say before you take her from me.” Then she looked hard at her. “Go on, girl.” 

Tears began to prick Moira’s eyes, but she did not cry. She looked at her landlady, her adopted mother, her boss, her friend, the woman she’d admired more than any other, and opened her mouth to speak, still uncertain how she would ever begin to talk her way out. The truth then. Fuck it. 

A door burst open, and Moira felt sweet, selfish relief. At least she’d keep her limbs a bit longer. A man in a charcoal suit was yelling in Italian, dragging a pale, bedraggled boy with him. Moira reached for the revolver in the back of her pants, and heard the others do the same, but Nico let out a cry, and rushed to him. He was perhaps seventeen. He looked terrible, weak and shaking like an opium addict. Moira recognized him. He was one of the busboys at Stella’s, always shy and sweet. She liked to tip him a little extra when she could. 

“They…they killed everyone, Nico.” The boy sobbed, his thin shoulders shaking. 

“Who did?” Qian asked coldly. 

“It’s alright cugino,” Niko was holding onto the crying boy. “I know. I know they did. We’ll get them, you hear?” Nico raised his head to scream at them. “For fuck’s sake get him some water figlio di puttano!” He spat at the bodyguard. 

“Get away from him.” Moira stood suddenly, pointing her gun at the quivering young man. “You shouldn’t have let him in!” Jun tried to grab her and force her back in her seat but she backed away, flicking her knife into her other hand and gesturing at him with it. He paused, knowing that she was brutal with it, even in her left hand. He knew this because he was the one who had taught her. Nico’s gun was also out and he pointed it right back, aiming between Moira’s eyes, but her aim was steady, and she doubted he would risk it with his young cousin so close. 

“Moira are you fucking crazy?” Jimmy hissed. 

“Jimmy, shut the fuck up.”

“I hid. I hid like a coward, Nico.” The boy was weeping. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t know what to do. They killed everyone.” 

“It’s alright, Matteo. We’re gonna get you somewhere safe.” Nico was smoothing the hair back from his face, but he still looked at Moira with such a punishing expression she actually winced. “Alright. Alright I’m putting the gun away. You are so goddamned lucky.” 

“Please…I’m so hungry.” Matteo wailed. Then he looked up, at Nico, at all of them. Moira saw it as if it were playing in slow motion. His eyes glimmered with golden light. Two shining discs, as brilliant as the golden coins Remmick had once offered to her. Nico stepped away with a curse, jerking his hands back as if he’d been burned. Smart man. 

“What the fuck…” Jimmy breathed. 

And then Matteo flew. That scrawny, pathetic boy flew, latched onto Nico’s muscular bodyguard, and  in one savage moment, ripped his face clean off. 

“HOLY FUCK!” Jimmy bellowed. 

They fired. All of them fired, hitting Matteo again and again, making him lurch backwards across the screaming bodyguard who clawed at a face that was no longer there. Nico’s mouth was slack with horror. Still Matteo came, his eyes huge and bright, his lips curling into a smile. Those teeth were far too long and sharp for his mouth. 

“Everyone knows about you, Nico.” He purred. “Everyone knows about you.” 

Nico was the only one who hadn’t fired his gun. He had been staring at his little cousin, frozen like a jackrabbit, but now he cocked back the hammer and fired it into Matteo’s brain. It split the back of his skull like a damned pumpkin, the gore spilling onto Madam Qian’s clean floor, but still he came. His fingers had become so long, the nails curved and brutal. He just kept coming, his unnatural grace at odds with his teenaged gawkiness. 

Behind him, the bodyguard twitched in what Moira thought were his final death throes, but instead he sat up, and turned his head to stare at them, eyes huge and shimmering gold in a bloody skull. She felt sick as she watched him reach for his detached face, like an old scrap of leather, and place it back on. She did not know how vampire healing worked. The skin held…sort of. He blinked, and the eyelids did not quite work properly, one of them sticking horribly to his brow. 

Nico was begging, pleading with his god and all the saints he knew. Moira may not have understood the words, but she still knew the sentiment. Please god forgive me. I know I’ve fucked up but please make this stop.  The enormous new vampire did not stop. He leapt to his feet and moved with a speed a man of his size should not have possessed. Matteo leapt for his cousin, who fired again, this time hitting him in the chest. The boy shrieked, and scurried past them on all fours. 

The bodyguard went for a new target. Jimmy’s gun was rattling, his hands shaking with violent fear. This was hell, Moira decided. She had died and gone to hell, just like those nuns had always said she would. A shot rang out, and a blast the size of a fist hit the vampire in the chest, blowing him off his feet so hard he left his smoking shoes behind. Madam Qian hefted the shotgun, her hair coming undone from its impeccable finger waves. She blew it out of her face. 

“Fucking jiangshi.” She snarled. Moira felt a surge of pride. She had never seen Miss Qian look so terrified, but so unhinged with rage. “Not in my goddamn house.” She cocked the shot gun again, and fired upon him again and again until he simply became meat. 

Something hit Moira with the weight of a freight truck. Her back lurched in alarm and she cried out. They’d forgotten about Matteo. He had scrambled onto the ceiling like a scuttling insect, and launched himself upon her. Claws sank into her back, her shoulder, tearing through flesh like it was nothing at all. Pain lanced through her, hot and sickening, piercing her skeleton. No mercy.  A scream tore from her throat, ragged and harsh. 

Then the weight was lifted from her, and she heard it. The crunch of teeth on bone. She screamed, again, expecting to feel those teeth on her own throat, but then a body fell so heavily next to hers. Jun’s face was surprisingly serene as he watched her, the life leaving his sweet, brown eyes. There was an apology there, something he longed to say to her, but couldn’t. 

She stared for only a moment, and then she wailed, long and hard like an animal. 

“Moira!” A voice was calling to her. She barely heard it over her own voice. A fist was banging the door outside, so loud it echoed in the hallway. The others were dumbfounded as they watched Matteo drinking her gentle giant. “Moira let me in!” 

Remmick was outside. He sounded upset, furious perhaps that his prize was about to be taken by another. Fuck him. 

Moira moved. She didn’t remember leaping up, or grabbing the baseball bat she’d left on the stairs. She only remembered the fear and rage and grief that blurred her vision as she swung the bat as hard as she could. It connected with Matteo’s back, and splintered. Not enough to truly hurt him, but enough to make him pause, and look at her with interest. 

He was so fast. She felt the back of her skull collide with the floor, and suddenly she was staring into crazed, bloodshot eyes and gnashing fangs that drooled onto her face, mingling with the tears. Those fangs crunched the bat, shattering it until it broke into a long splinter. She heard Nico trying to wrestle the shotgun from Qian’s hands. 

“The heart, Moira! Get his fuckin’ heart!” Remmick howled from outside. 

Her body obeyed. She held the vampire by the throat and sunk the splintered bat deep into his chest, feeling the resistance of his breast bone. Some instinct told her to angle it, and so she did, until she felt the lump of flesh. Then she pushed. God how she pushed, with both hands and all the strength in her weakened arms. She was losing blood. It was soaking the back of her ruined coat. Matteo wailed piteously. Then she watched him crumple. He landed on her with a last, awful cry. She felt long, ropey threads of drool splash on her throat. 

Silence. For a long time they all froze in shock. Moira shoved the dead body off of her. 

“MOIRA LET ME IN YOU STUBBORN BITCH.” Remmick growled outside. 

“Who is that?” Jimmy asked shakily. 

She pointed what was left of the bat at the door. “Do not let him in,” was all she said as she gazed down at Jun. When she saw his big hand twitch, she acted, pushing down her grief until it settled somewhere in her belly. She slammed her broken bat deep into his chest, using her foot to press the rest of the way. Madam Qian cried out in horror, unable at last to quell it. 

Moira stared down at Jun’s lifeless body, feeling so numb and empty, unable to process everything that had just happened, everything that she had just done. Pure instinct. Jun would have turned. Jun would have killed them all, and not a damned one of them could have stopped him. 

Nico had turned a pale green. He looked at Jimmy, of all people. “You alright?” Jimmy nodded, his face the portrait of cold shock. Then suddenly Nico cocked his gun and pointed it at Moira. “Did it bite you?” 

Moira frowned, as Jimmy placed himself between them, holding his hands up. 

“I don’t think so.” She swayed on her feet. The pain in her back was excruciating. “Fucked me up pretty good though.” 

Nico gestured at Jimmy with the gun. “Move.” 

“She wasn’t bitten. He only got her with his claws.” Jimmy spat angrily. Three different cultures stood in that room, eyeing each other with the same question. What do we know about vampires? The shock and confusion was palpable. 

Nico’s mouth twitched. “How do we know that won’t make her…” he glanced down at Matteo’s corpse. “Like that?” 

The door pounded again, the door bowing inwards, wood splintering. Remmick was howling something, cursing them in a language she did not know. 

“Do not let him in.” Moira breathed, and then the world went black. 

Chapter Text

She did not remember the night that followed, or the one after. There must have been a conversation, surely. Somehow Miss Qian must have convinced Nico Farino to leave her be for now. The evidence had been right in front of them after all. The evidence had ripped someone’s face off as easily as dropping a dishrag. Someone had given her opium, to dull the pain. Not good. She needed her wits about her. When she managed to open her eyes, she thought she recognized the back room of the apothecary. Also not good. The pharmacy was ironically the least secure part of their business. 

Grief tore through her body in strange ways. One moment she was weeping so hard it made her ribs ache, the next she was giggling hysterically at a memory of Jun eating something so spicy it made his whole head turn pink. Of course he’d pretend that it didn’t. Big strong man. Then she’d remember how he’d chase the little ones, pretending to be a monster while they shrieked with laughter and she’d start to cry again. He’d been about to cut off her finger. Strangely enough, she didn’t care. 

She was laying on something soft and close to the floor, face down and topless. They’d put so much opium in her she hadn’t even felt the needle that stitched her up. Someone was standing over her, breathing heavily. A light touch on the angry wounds in her back and shoulder.  A low growl that made her want to sit up, but she couldn’t. The drugs made her feel so sluggish that the jars and boxes of herbs and dried mushrooms looked freakish. At one point she thought she could see Jimmy, his body outlined in warm amber light, but her vision was so blurry and she was so, so dizzy. 

“Hey, dumbass.” She slurred fondly. 

“You’re bleedin’, Moira.” The voice was rough. 

“Shouldn’t be.”

“You are though.” His face was close to hers. “You have no idea how good that blood smells, darlin’. I don’t think you really appreciate how hard it is for me to not tear you wide open.”

“Make it quick. I’m tired.” She grunted

“Death ain’t as pretty on you as I thought it’d be.”

Moira smiled. “I’m not dyin.’ You dumb fuck.” 

“No.” He muttered, mostly to himself. “You’re not.” 

“You’re not Jimmy.” She observed, giggling softly. 

“I sure as hell ain’t Jimmy.’”

She tried to open her eyes at that, but her pupils were so dilated that even the dim light hurt them. Which moron had let Remmick inside? 

“You did, babygirl.” He chuckled, reading the expression on her face. “You said my name and here I am.” She felt another feather light touch along her spine and shivered. “Callin’ out to me so sweetly, too.” He was tracing the outline of the tiger on her back, the one Jimmy’s uncle had carved into her  skin years and years ago. His fingertips were calloused like a farmer’s. 

“Don’t.” She jerked. 

“Don’t what?” He asked with mock surprise. “Lemme tell you somethin’ darlin’.” His voice was so close, a soft growl in her ear. “I don’t normally play with my food. For you I might make an exception.” She felt a weight settle on the backs of her thighs. A pang of fear. A whimper escaped her lips. “Sshhh hush now.” Long fingers seized her hair, close to the scalp. For a moment those fingers clenched, as if he were considering turning his grasp into a fist, but he steadied himself. 

“What are you going to do?” She murmured sluggishly. 

“Just a taste. That’s all I need. It’s no fun without that spitfire.” His voice so low and husky. “I’ll try not to lose control. Just this one time.” She felt breath on the back of her neck. Then a gasp left her body as a warm, wet tongue glided across the worst of her injuries, the place where Matteo had sunk his claws into the meat of her shoulder blade. Remmick made a sound, like a dying man. “Ohhh fuuuck.” He sighed. “Goddamn. Like fuckin honey.” Oh god, he was tasting her, the blood that still seeped from her wounds. She felt his lips on her flesh, and saints above, it hurt, but her body was a traitor, and she had no way to conceal the shudder of pleasure that rippled down her spine.  “Hold still,” he breathed. 

That tongue carved a path along the back of her neck, so hot it licked fire into her flesh. Soft lazy strokes, until they weren’t. Remmick seemed to be enjoying himself, grunting with immense satisfaction, almost whimpering. His mouth traveled along her shoulder blades, the pressure of his lips making her bite back a gasp. Somehow that mouth found its way to the slope of her neck. His sharpening teeth grazed her here, teasing and terrifying, but never piercing skin. She knew he was tempted. 

Then she felt it. A moment of sobriety pierced her addled brain, and her eyes opened again at the sensation of his jeans, tightening against her. Holy fuck. He was hard. She could feel it pressing against her like steel. Panic and confusion rose inside her, bubbling to the surface. Even more alarming, her body reacted to that too, and she felt a flush between her thighs. 

“Hush. None of that, now. If you scream I’ll have to do somethin’ about it.” 

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words were so slurred, so awkward feeling in her mouth. 

“Tastin’ your memories. Only a few.” He murmured. 

Jesus Christ no. 

They flashed behind her eyes. There was nothing she could do to stop them. She was twelve years old, a skinned knee in a catholic skirt. A boy called her something vile and threw a rock, so she pushed him off his bike and pummeled him into the dirt with her fists. Her father had walloped her good for that.  Her mother was weeping. She wept a lot, but this time was different. This time she was clutching a letter, and covering her mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound. Then she was a young woman, flirting with one of Jimmy’s older friends. He was tall and handsome and she’d let him play with her tits, and he’d fucked her right there, bent over the railing at the train station, right before he’d left for college. Fuck, what was his name again? 

“Who was that?” Remmick growled ferociously, pulling her hair, yanking her head back. She hissed in pain. His fingers bit into her cheek, turning her face and his mouth was suddenly so close. 

“The hell do you care?” She giggled. God she was high as a kite. 

“You figure it out.” He grunted. She shifted against him, purely by accident, but he hissed in an intake of breath. “I should just drink you and be done with it.” 

Moira’s mind was so muddled. Ah, she thought. This is a hallucination, maybe. His fingers relaxed, and suddenly he was no longer on top of her, but kneeling next to her, staring into her eyes with his red ones, the fangs receding slowly into his gums. Not a hallucination, then. Moira smiled, the same little smile she wore when she drank too much. And then lazily, she reached up and dragged a knuckle down his cheek. She didn’t know why she did it. Some strange little impulse that she had no way of suppressing. Remmick fell back, so startled by the soft touch, that his eyes were suddenly blue again. 

“You would’ve done it by now, you crazy fuck.”

Had she not passed out at that moment, she would have seen Remmick backing slowly out of the tiny room, and sprinting into the night. 

It was impossible to know how much time passed.  She had so much opium in her system, or maybe it was some sort of toxin from Matteo’s claws. Who cared? Might as well enjoy it. Everything was shifting and somewhat blurry around the edges. She vaguely remembered struggling to her feet, realizing she was still topless, and reaching for the sheet. At first she was simply going to wear it like a cloak, then she had a better idea. 

She took one end, and used it to wrap her entire body as tightly as she could stand, which eased the pain in her back a little, then draped the rest over her shoulder, the way she remembered her mother doing a thousand times when they were alone at home. Her arms were still bare and she glistened with sweat. The storeroom was far too hot for her liking and suddenly way too small. Fresh air. She needed fresh air. 

Gliding into the night like a ghost, she watched with interest as the street lamps pulsed in various colors, creating funny shapes that floated behind her eyelids. Had they always looked like that? She smiled lazily, not noticing the onlookers who crossed the street to avoid the crazy lady. Aimlessly she wandered over the little patch of lawn that lay just beneath her bedroom window. 

There was music in her head. Maybe she’d had a dream about it. Her mother’s record player. She wondered if she could remember the movements they’d practiced when they were alone together in the living room, then decided to try. Why the hell not? Raising her hands, she performed the only ones she could recall, dances that represented forms of dying. She’d always been fascinated by those. A morbid child. Death by poisoning, shot by an arrow, asphyxiation. Traditional dances, used to tell stories, not the trendy, jittery ones she’d seen in dancehalls. Then she remembered how to dance the goddesses. Saraswati, Lakshmi, Parvati. She was giggling as she did them, practicing the hand motions and knowing she was fucking them up. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Remmick asked with clear annoyance, but also intrigue. 

“My mudras.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder. 

“Your what?” 

“My mudras,” she repeated. “This one’s my favorite.” She gave him the middle finger. 

Then he was towering over her, glaring down into her face with simmering fury. “You’re not as funny as you think.” 

“Fuck you. I’m delightful.” Her head was spinning, pupils dilating. 

“You’re tearin’ your stitches open.” His breathing was heavy again. 

“Ah. That I have.” She winced. 

“Why aren’t you frightened, babygirl?” He was frowning. 

“Dunno.” She shrugged, wincing at the sharp pain in her back. Shrugging was a bad idea. “Guess you’ll have to kill me now, eh?” 

Remmick stared at her blankly. Then his lip twitched. “I could, you know. It’d be so easy. “ He muttered something in Gaelic, then released a puff of air, clearly frustrated. “That whole damn speakeasy smells like blood. But I can find yours no problem.” His head lowered, and he bared his teeth. “Why the fuck is that?” She felt so groggy. Remmick seemed to glow in the dim lamplight. The red lights in his eyes looked like little ruby fireflies. None of this felt real to her. He seemed to be struggling with something, then he was scowling. “You’re ice cold.  I can see your breath. Where’s your damn coat?” Moira laughed, a slovenly drunken sound. “Stop lookin’ at me like that.” Remmick snarled. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to get eaten.” He snapped. Then she really laughed, the sound sputtering out of her. “You know what? I’m done fuckin’ playing with you.” 

He seized her face, the other hand fisting her hair,  twisting her head to the side to expose her throat. Then a long, shuddering breath. He was ready to sink his teeth into her. Her pupils dilated, and she was gazing up at him through her lashes, finally feeling that flutter of fear and something else. Moira was not stupid. She knew what the “something else” was. How was his skin so hot? Moira found herself moaning, leaning into that fire. His mouth was so damn close. She wanted to taste the murder on his lips and breathe in his torment. 

Had she been sober she might have been horrified by the way her face flushed, the way she leaned into him, feeling her breasts pressing against him through the thin sheet. Her nipples were hard, and god she wanted everything in that moment. Her blood pounded in her ears and it seemed he could hear it too. His eyes were boring into hers, half crazed. With hunger, she assumed, judging by the scowl he wore. The hand that gripped her face was raking its sharp nails down her bare arm, just hard enough to sting and without even realizing what she was doing, she placed her hands on his hips, and pulled him close. The ache was so strong between her thighs that suddenly she was desperate for any kind of pressure. Remmick gripped her shoulders, making her hiss in pain, and wrenched away from her, so angry as if she had made him do this. 

“Fuck.” He whispered with a shudder, disgusted with himself. 

“Fuck.” She repeated drowsily, placing her thumb on his lower lip, then pressing past them, feeling his teeth beginning to elongate, razor sharp. “Fuck, meri jaan.” Her nose wrinkled a bit, suddenly annoyed with herself. “You’re such a twat.” 

Dizziness overwhelmed her. Moira’s eyes rolled back, and she collapsed. 

Daylight. Someone was poking her. Blearily she opened one eye and grunted at the overbearing sunlight then realized the laundresses were standing over her, gaping. She winced, and slowly raised herself on her elbows. They were speaking to her in Cantonese. Something about a fever. Oh fuck, she did have a fever. She could feel it pulsing from her in waves. Moira rested back onto the grass, and  the memories cracked her open like a walnut. 

Jun. Grief barreled through her, making her gasp. Her gentle giant. Her sweet friend. She had so few and now he was gone. Yes he’d been ready to remove her finger, but how many times had he protected her? Too many to count. And god she had pushed that splinter through his heart. Her muscles tensed. She did not want to cry. She would not cry. Fuck. 

She allowed the laundresses to help her to her feet, ignoring the way they stared at her makeshift sari. How had she ended up on the ground? Vague swirls of memory from last night swirled in her head, so clouded. Had Remmick just left her there? What an arse. She let them bring her inside. 

The pharmacy was busier than usual. Then she remembered. October was quickly approaching and the Autumn Moon festival would be soon. Fuck, she hadn’t even thought about it until now. Were they really going to continue with it, knowing that there were vampires in the city? She saw Miss Qian smiling at a customer and knew that no, of course they weren’t going to cancel. The festival was their biggest opportunity to sell shiaoxing or cassia wine to whoever could afford it. 

“Moira you crazy bitch,” Jimmy was working the pharmacy counter, but he was customer side in an instant, feeling her forehead, her cheeks, her lymph nodes. She swatted his hands away. “You’re burning up.” 

Qian was looking at her strangely over the rims of the glasses she only wore when she was counting money. Without saying a word, she pushed something toward her. Some sort of hot mushroom tea, with ginger and garlic. A lot of garlic. Moira locked eyes with her landlady, and swallowed it down, watching the tension leave Qian’s narrow shoulders. 

“We weren’t sure.” Jimmy sounded apologetic. “You were acting strange. We’ve been making everyone drink it.” 

“Jun’s family came yesterday to retrieve him. They’ve sent his body home.” Qian said carefully. Moira felt a sharp sting behind her eyes. “They’ve been properly compensated.” A slight furrow between her boss’ eyebrows was the only indication of how she truly felt about their loss. Moira couldn’t help but wonder if her own death would have been accepted so readily, had Nico Farino had his way. Just a number, and no family to compensate. “There is joss paper in your room.” Spirit money for Moira to burn. In private of course. She could feel the grief roiling in her belly, welling into her throat. “Not here.” Qian intoned quietly, not without gentleness. Moira nodded. Not here. Not in front of people. Grieve, but do so in private. It was one of the many ways her landlady had risen to her status. There was a time and place to show one’s emotions, so do so carefully, and only if it benefits you. “There is something else, as well.” Moira winced. More bad news? She didn’t think she could handle more. 

Jimmy looked at her and sighed. “Better to just show her, mama.” They were staring at her like she might sprout a second head at any moment. Not a good sign. 

When they led her back through the apothecary store room, to the hidden exit of the speakeasy that lay behind her makeshift cot, she heard it. The light, twinkling music of a pipa, played with skill, but with a distinctive twang. She felt the breath leave her body, and thought she might puke when she recognized the song. Fucking Raglan Road, played on a Chinese instrument. She stormed past them, feeling hot fury and a nasty shrill of fear replacing the grief. 

“No. No no no no.” Moira kept repeating. “You did not…Qian tell me you didn’t.” 

But there he was. Remmick was sitting at a table, playing the pipa, holding the pear shaped instrument like a banjo, and he was smirking at her. The laundresses were watching him from behind the bar, with girlish delight, their pretty faces flushed pink. 

“Oh good.” He changed the song to something lilting and complicated, mocking her. “Moira’s awake.” She didn’t have her gun. She lunged for him, but Jimmy was faster and had all of his mental faculties intact, unlike her. “Ahh let her go, James. She’s always such a delight.” Remmick was teasing. Jimmy’s cheeks flushed beet red. 

“Get the FUCK OUT OF MY HOME.” She roared. 

Remmick simply laughed. “Oof look at those eyes. She is mad.” 

“You’re lucky to be alive girl.” Qian snapped. “You understand? Nico Farino wanted to take you, injured or not. It took everything to convince him not to, but he had conditions.” 

“Oh I’ve been looking forward to this.” Remmick mused. 

“WHAT conditions?” Moira snarled. 

Qian pressed her lips together. “That you be monitored. Shadowed. And with Jun’s passing, and the distrust they already have for us, a third party was needed.” 

“Find someone else. Find anyone else.” She pleaded. 

“There was no time, Moira” Jimmy tried to reason. “They gave us no time. He was the only one and at least we can keep an eye on him.” 

“HE’LL KILL US ALL.” Moira was desperate. She needed them to understand. This was not a man. They couldn’t simply hold him like a rabid dog and expect him to be trained. They hadn’t seen the way he could tear off a man’s head with those same hands that now skillfully played a mocking, mournful tune. 

“No. He won’t.” Jimmy insisted. “We made a bargain.” He sounded remorseful. 

“He’s a manipulative cunt. What fuckin’ bargain?” Her eyes narrowed banefully. “How is he even out in broad daylight?” 

“No daylight in here, sugar.” Remmick was smiling so widely. She wanted to claw it off his face. The  laundresses were now watching her warily as they unloaded freshly washed napkins, but he winked at them, and began plucking something low and sultry. They giggled, pressing their hands to their mouths. 

Moira’s eye twitched. “What. Fuckin’. Bargain.” She said between clenched teeth. 

“Blood.” Qian said with alarming calm. “You can imagine our surprise when we found him lying in your sick bed instead of you.” Guilt, for accidentally letting him in. She squashed it. Qian wore a look of profound distaste. “Enjoying himself, by the look of things.” She didn’t even want to know what that meant. 

“Qian you can’t do this.” Panic made her voice crack. “He won’t just settle for pig’s blood. He’s a goddamn jiangshi. Call a meeting with the Feranos. We can sort this out.” 

“‘Jiangshi’?” Remmick stopped playing and set the instrument on the table, amusement shining in his eyes. “Hopping vampires ain’t real, missy. Well,” he considered for a moment, then leapt up, and to Moira’s great annoyance, danced a little jig, laughing. The laundry maids giggled again. “Maybe they are.” He reached out and twanged the pipa obnoxiously, looking far too pleased with himself. 

“Not pig’s blood.” Qian corrected. “Mine.” At seeing the shocked expression on Moira’s face, she added “Only a little each day.” 

“Over my fuckin’ corpse.” Moira’s eyes were huge with horror and rage. “Qian you cannot let him do this.” 

Remmick snorted. “Ha! ‘Let me.’ You say the funniest things when you’re upset.” Turning his head, he gave the laundresses the most dazzling smile, tossing his hair out of his eyes. They blushed and began tittering again. 

“Shut the FUCK up.” Moira snapped at them, and they immediately did, lowering their eyes to the task at hand. It wasn’t fair of her really, as neither of them spoke a lick of English. Then she whirled on Jimmy, who seemed eager to look anywhere but at her. “HOW could you let this happen? Yer own mother for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s already done.” Qian said stiffly. “I do not go back on my word. You know that.” Her brown eyes were so sharp and imperious. “You will be accommodating to our guest. You will only do night time work. Jimmy can handle your daytime deliveries. You will only go out if he is with you.”

“Qian.” Moira wanted to seize her by the shoulders, then thought better of it. Her breathing had become so hard and ragged, the panic rising in her breast. It was suffocating. In an act of pure desperation, Moira did something that she had never done before in her life. Slowly, she lowered her eyes, and dropped to her knees in an act of supplication, and very carefully attempted to speak in Cantonese. “I beg you not to do this. Please. I will face whatever wrath is due.” She could feel Remmick’s gaze burning a hole into her as she place her hands on the floor in prostration.

“Be silent, and still my girl.” Qian replied softly. There was a sheen to her eyes. 

“He will know your memories. Your secrets. I beg you . You must break this promise.” Her eyes flicked to Remmick. He was frowning at her with obvious irritation, head tilted as if he were trying to understand what was being said, and only capturing a little of it. 

And like the empress she was, Qian reached down a hand and tilted her chin. “Look at me, daughter. I was never going to let them take you. Do you understand? Now there is this new threat and I need you now more than ever.” Qian looked at Remmick with disgust, and suddenly Moira did understand. This wasn’t simply a punishment or a pact with the Italians. It was a job, left unspoken. She would watch Remmick and learn as much as she possibly could about vampires. Qian straightened and fixed the intruder with her coldest glare. “Do your job, jiangshi. Step out of line, and I’ll put your head in a box and display it in the fucking window.” 

Remmick’s smirk was infuriating as he looked the landlady up and down then gave her a mocking little bow. Moira rose unsteadily and felt the blood rushing from her head. Remmick’s fingers twitched, but Jimmy got there first, and held her carefully, helping her stand. He placed a hand on her forehead. 

“You’re sick as a dog, Moira.” Jimmy’s pretty face was furrowed with concern. “You’re taking the week off and I’m calling the doctor back after you eat.” He felt her lymph nodes again, and she batted him away. 

“Quit fussin.’” She said grumpily. 

“Well somebody fucking has to.” He smiled, then scowled when his mother smacked him on the back of the head for cussing. 

Remmick watched this interaction with a strange expression, his gaze icy and his jaw set. She could feel his eyes grazing her skin, raising goosebumps on her exposed shoulder and throat, but she ignored him and looked at Qian. 

“I have conditions too.” Moira said wearily.

“I’ll hear them.” No promises. 

“Use a lancet for the blood. His teeth go nowhere near you. Once a day. No more than that.”

“That ain’t nearly enough!” Remmick growled. 

“Then fuckin’ starve.” Moira was sneering. “Jimmy can get pig blood from the butcher. Take it out of my pay if you want. And if Qian feels sick, or weak or simply doesn’t goddamn feel like it, you’re not gettin’ it that day.”

“We had a deal Qian.” Remmick sounded murderous. 

“And ye forgot the fine print you dumb fuck.” Moira bared her teeth. “Where are we puttin’ him? He’s not sleepin’ on my floor.”

“Cellar.” Jimmy answered coolly, lifting an eyebrow at the vampire’s face, which had gone red with rage. 

“Then he’s already gettin’ room and board and one free meal a day out of us. That’s a deal we wouldn’t give anyone and he needs us more than we need him. Have stakes made. Every single person in this building gets one. They don’t need to know why. And the moment someone goes missing, we throw him into the goddamn sunlight.” 

Qian considered her with a glimmer of pride. “I agree to those terms.”

Moira turned to Remmick and glowered at him. “Your turn.” There was a lot left unspoken in that glare. I know you’re being hunted by your own kind. I know you need our protection. 

Oh he was furious. Moira did not know if the vampire was bound by fae logic, like the stories she’d been fed as a child, but guessing by the way he could not enter without an invitation, she thought it likely that to at least some degree, the agreement would be binding. Judging by the expression he wore, he was already trying to sniff out loopholes. Then finally he nodded, and slumped back in the chair, fiddling with the instrument in his hands more quietly, feigning indifference.

Then, mostly because it seemed to irritate him, she asked Jimmy to help her to her room, which he did, although he continued to fuss over her the entire time. Remmick’s cold stare followed her

****************************************

She spent four whole days in her room. Nobody bothered her except the maids, who made sure she was fed, and glared at her until she ate everything. The pain in her back and shoulder didn’t bother her as much as the damn itching, but the doctor had assured her that it was a good sign, and prescribed her more opium to help her sleep. She’d poured it down the sink. 

The fourth night she heard bickering outside her door on the stairwell and threw the door open, blinking bleary eyed at her best friend, and her most despised enemy, fighting over what appeared to be a teapot. They looked at her, Jimmy’s face flushed with anger, and Remmick glaring with an animosity that should have alarmed her but she was too sick to care. Her brows furrowed, and she pointed at the teapot. 
“That for me?” She asked Jimmy, ignoring the vampire entirely. He nodded. 

“Red date. To help replenish your blood. Ma’s orders.” Jimmy jerked his chin at Remmick who didn’t react. Only stared at her. “He wants me to let him in.” 

Her brow lifted at this, and she felt a slow, wicked smirk of satisfaction spread across her lips. “He still can’t get in my room? Explains all this peace I’ve been enjoying.” 

Remmick’s nostrils flared. He only glowered in response. 

“Guess not.” Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe because it’s technically a separate apartment?” 

Remmick was eyeing her up and down like a starved man. She was wearing only a silk robe but she didn’t care.

“Good. I need a favor.” She sighed. “Doctor said I need to keep my wounds clean but I can’t do it myself. Help me?” 

“You got it.” Jimmy sounded gentle, like he was appeasing someone on their death bed. “Need anything else? I can grab something from the kitchen.”

She scoffed. “Don’t start, you fuckin’ nursemaid.”

“Hey let me enjoy this. You never ask for help.” 

Remmick’s eyes were huge with fury and something else she couldn’t quite place. Clearly he did not like being ignored. Good. Fuck him. She’d keep it up then. She looked at Jimmy and gave him the most dazzling smile she could manage. 

“Jimmy would you, and only you, please come in and help me bathe?” She held out a hand to him. A mistake. Remmick lunged for her wrist, about to pull her into the hallway, but in a blink, Jimmy was holding something long and pointed, directly aimed at Remmick’s heart. One of Miss Qian’s wooden hair pins. Clever. 

Remmick snorted with disdain, glancing down at the hairpin with amusement, but Jimmy was unwavering, ready to plunge the hairpin deep into Remmick’s chest. It remained in that position until Jimmy had backed himself into Moira’s room, and did not lower until he’d closed the door with a foot. Then he looked at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised. 

“Moira I think that vampire wants to fuck you.” 

There was a snarl of rage behind the door, and the sound of angry retreating footsteps.

Moira scoffed. “He’s a goddamn psychopath and he killed Mrs. Chen’s goat.” 

Jimmy was giving her an odd, sidelong look, but shrugged, clearly not interested in starting an argument. 

Together they lit incense, and burned the joss paper for Jun. She didn’t know if she truly believed that the paper would ensure him a prosperous afterlife, but it made her feel better to think that wherever he was, he’d be able to afford as much zaotang and cannoli as he wanted, with no fear of indigestion. God she missed him.
Jimmy did help to clean her injuries, then agreed to assist her with something else. With her careful instruction, Jimmy set up her tattoo machine, poured out her inks, and watched her work on herself. A peony on her thigh, for Jun. 

She didn’t know if his family in Shang Hai would bury him or have him cremated, didn’t know if she’d ever visit China to see his final resting place. Hell, she didn’t even know what she’d say if she did. But she could have this, and remember how gentle he’d been when he’d first found her, shivering and hungry at fifteen. She hadn’t understood a word he’d said, but his smile had been infectious, and he’d bought her a hot dog. Later he would take her to the Art Institute for the first time. He liked Picasso. She thought Françoise Gilot was better. 

It stung. Tattoos always hurt her, though this one made her eyes burn in a different way. She blinked the tears away, and her hands did not waver. Odd, perhaps that she’d chosen something so feminine and traditional for a man who could easily crush a windpipe, yet somehow it didn’t seem strange at all. 

“Make it pink.” Jimmy said. “Jun liked it when you wore pink.” 

Moira smiled, and hiccuped a bit, still holding back tears. That he did. Fine. Pink for Jun then. Her hands moved, steadily and skillfully even as her breath trembled, hidden beneath the buzz of her beloved machine. Its drone was soothing to her, and when she heard soft murmuring she realized that Jimmy was praying, a gentle Buddhist mantra. Be still. Be whole. Your suffering is at an end. 

When she finished, Jimmy helped clean her up, then smiled. 

“You know, I hear if you take a shot of liquor right after, you’ll feel it in the tattoo.” Before she could turn it down, he grabbed the hair brush from her nightstand. “Let’s clean you up, girl.” 

“I’m still sick.” 

“You’re not dead though.” He was rifling through her closet. “And I’m getting you the fuck out of this room. Even if it is only downstairs. 

“The hell are you doin’ Jimmy?” 

“Wear this one.” He tossed a dress at her, laughing at her scowl. “Do your makeup, too. We’re gonna drink and gamble tonight. You’re gonna get gorgeous, and we’re gonna misbehave. It’s what Jun would have wanted.” 
She lifted an eyebrow. It was most certainly not what Jun would have wanted, but she felt herself smiling nonetheless. 

Moira couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn this quipao. It was a touch too tight and she didn’t love the way it clasped around her throat, though she supposed with so many undead running around, it was a small comfort. The skirt reached the floor, and Jimmy insisted on high heels, which she wanted to fight, but the dress was a nice one and Qian would have had her head if she got it dirty. She did appreciate the way it hugged her wounded back though, like an extra bandage. 

“Stop scowling, you’ll ruin this” Jimmy teased. He was doing her makeup for her, which was nice, applying dark pigment to her eyes and far more mascara than Moira felt was necessary. When she looked in the mirror, she laughed and blotted away some of the excess blush until it was to her liking. Jimmy looked mildly offended. “Hey, I’ve never done this before!”

“Do I look pretty now, mummy?” She affected a simpering tone. 

“Goddamn hideous.” He teased. “Now throw that lipstick on, and let’s get that fat ass downstairs.” 

She eyed herself in the mirror, supposing she cleaned up alright. Jimmy had swept her hair up with the hairpin the way his mother did sometimes. The dress was black, because black was her color, and embroidered with red peonies. It brought out the flush of red she painted on her lips. Not pretty, she thought, but striking. 

Jimmy helped her downstairs into the speakeasy, and surprisingly she let him. It was crowded tonight. There was music, which helped lift her spirits immediately. No one was playing, but they’d brought out the radio and it played spirited jazz with the occasional Chinese opera. The clack of mahjong tiles, the shuffling of cards. This felt normal. 

Except she felt Remmick’s eyes on her immediately and couldn’t suppress a shiver. Furious and cold. 

“Jesus Christ Moira, what did you do to piss him off?” Jimmy leaned in to mutter in her ear. 

“Honestly? I’m not sure. I did kick him in the stones once.” She said

“Sure, that might do it.” 

People were looking at her strangely. She was used to that, but this felt different. These were people she knew well. Eyes were traveling up her body,  and her curves were impossible to hide in the tight dress. She felt self conscious, but crushed the feeling. It must have shown on her face though because Jimmy laughed. 

“They’re just used to seeing you in boy’s clothes. Forgot you have a body under there.” He guided her to the bar, and pulled out a seat for her, ordering a double gin for them both. 

“She’ll have whiskey. It’s her favorite.” A voice interrupted darkly behind them. Remmick’s eyes were staring at Jimmy, his lip twitching with contempt. “Get lost, pup.” 

“Gin is fine, Jia.” Moira said to the pretty girl behind the bar who nodded, looking nervously at Remmick. 

“Fuck off, jiangshi.” Jimmy spat, placing a hand on Moira’s shoulder. 

Remmick stared at the hand, as if tempted to rip it clean off. 

Jia returned with the gin, uncertainly, and Moira smiled at her. “Thank you, luv.” She shot back the double in one go, then made a face. “Fuck that’s worse than usual.” 

Someone murmured something in Cantonese to Jimmy, who glanced down at Moira. “There’s a cop outside. Irish.” 

Moira ordered another gin, and shot it back. “Leave the bottle please, Jian.” She rose to stand with a sigh. So much for time off. 

“Sit yer arse back down.” Remmick growled, ferocious like a demon. God, he must have been so hungry. That accent was pure Irish now. “The pup can deal with it.” 

“So can you.” Jimmy answered coolly. 

“I go out there and I’m leavin’ a dead cop on yer doorstep, boy. Think yer mam wants that?” Remmick snapped. 

Moira rolled her eyes and made to stand again. Jimmy pushed her back in her seat and for a moment, she saw Remmick’s eyes flash a dangerous shade of red. Then he cracked his neck and seemed to calm himself. 

“There’s a situation outside. If you boys won’t handle it then I will.” She snarled, irritated by both of them. 

“Fine. I’ll deal with it.” Jimmy muttered, adjusting the sleeves of his smart jacket as he did. 
Moira considered leaving. Simply getting up and returning to her room to nurse her bottle of bad gin in peace. Of course she didn’t. Remmick leaned an elbow against the bar, and was looking down at her through half lidded eyes. 

“Are ye finally done avoidin’ me, lass?” He said with a strained sort of attempt at geniality. 

“I have a fever you twat.” 

“Thrall fever, darlin.” He corrected. She blinked, and tried not to look alarmed but failed. “Nasty stuff. Like a flu. Won’t turn ye or nothin.’ Still, I’d keep yer meat on the rare side for a time.” He tilted his head, considering her, then cleared his throat. “Might want to go easy on that.” Remmick remarked as she took another sip. She wrinkled her nose. She was getting really sick of being told what to do. “Wouldn’t want you to hole up for another four days.” 

Moira sighed, and finally looked at him. “So what if I did?” 

He shrugged, and the gesture was so normal that it surprised her. “It’s boring without you to annoy.”The southern accent had returned in full force. “And no one here speaks Taishanese.”

“And you do?” She snorted. Remmick smiled. Actually smiled down at her, not with hunger or mockery or cruelty. Then he said something in an accent so thick it was impossible to understand. She felt she could almost make it out, but while it sounded like Cantonese, it certainly wasn’t. “Who’d you eat to learn that?” She asked simply. The smile fell, and she almost felt bad for him, so she smirked at him. “It’ll take time for them to get used to you.”

“Because I might eat them, too?” His smile returned. 

She felt some amusement at that. “Because you’re a white man with a temper.” 

“And you’re…”he began. 

Moira laughed. “Some sort of mongrel? Go on. Do your worst. I’ve heard it all.” She rested her chin on her hand expectantly. 

Remmick’s nostrils flared a bit. He leaned down , tilting his face so close to hers, and crooned in a soft voice that made her grateful her knife was strapped to her garter. “Did one of these fellas call you that?” 

Moira stared at him incredulously. There was actual rage behind those words, anger on her behalf., and he was looking at her as if all she had to do was point at someone, and they’d be dead. She didn’t understand why he was looking at her like that, like she was the only person in this room and everyone else was cattle. No one had ever looked at her like that, not one time in her thirty years of life. 

Then suddenly Jimmy was at her side again, drawing her attention away. When she glanced back, Remmick was gone. 

“All good?” She inquired. 

“Sure. Nothing serious, just some cop asking about an Irish guy.”

“Irish?” She stiffened, thinking about Remmick again. Were the cops looking for him too?

As if reading her mind Jimmy said “Different guy. Red hair. Don’t worry about it. I cleared him off.” 

Jimmy delivered his promise to show her a good time. They stayed up all night, drinking and gambling, telling dirty jokes and generally making asses of themselves. She felt like a teenager again. She felt like crying. She felt like a goddamn queen, overly confident and powerful and everything she wanted to be. Moira didn’t even notice the vampire entertaining a group of businessmen, smoking a cigar and speaking in whatever broken Cantonese they’d taught him. Seemed she was wrong. Remmick made friends easily when he wanted to. 

Jimmy got so drunk he began to whine, his words barely legible. Moira laughed so hard she snorted, making her laugh harder. Finally a couple of friends had to drag him off to bed. When the last of the guests finally staggered into the night, she rose on steady feet, and helped the staff close up, wiping down the bar and tables, clearing off the glasses and emptying the cigarette trays. When they were done,  she sent the staff on their way and finally locked the door. 

“You’re not as drunk as I’d thought.” Remmick said inquisitively, making her jump. His legs were stretched out, ankles crossed on the table. Without thinking, she smacked the back of his head sharply, and pointed. 

“Boots off, you fuckin’ savage.” 

Startled, but amused, he obeyed, surprising them both. He continued to watch her, unashamed. She wanted to snap at him but thought better of it. 
“That bottle you were drinking from was watered down.” He observed. “I could barely smell it.” 

She shrugged. “There are tricks to out drinking Jimmy.” 

Suddenly he was out of seat, the chair clattering to the floor, and she was being shoved against the bar, trapped by his arms, his hands gripping the counter. It happened in less than a blink. He’d cleared half the room. The breath whooshed out of her lungs, and she was staring into red, red eyes. 

“Gettin’ real tired of hearin’ his name on your lips, babygirl.” He said in a voice so low she barely heard it. 

She shoved him back furiously. “You touch him, I’ll kill you. You touch any of them, and I’ll cut yer head off myself.”

“What is he to you?” He growled. “Hm?”

“He’s my fuckin’ brother.” She raged. “He’s family.” Something cracked inside her, and suddenly she was holding back angry tears. It made him step back a bit. “The only one I’ve got now.” 

Remmick’s eyes widened with something like shock and perhaps curiosity. “I thought you’d run out of tears.” 

“How long have you been alive, Remmick?” She snapped.

“I don’t know.” He replied, brow furrowed. 

“Old enough to know better, then.” 

“Darlin’ I’ve known more grief than you could feel in a lifetime.” He sounded like he meant it. “Just didn’t realize you had it in you.”

“Fuck. You.” She said through gritted teeth. 

“Ah there she goes, threatening me with a good time.” 

A wave of dizziness struck her like she had actually had drunk an entire bottle of gin. She slipped against the barstool, and felt strong arms around her, but not before she’d slammed her hand upon the bar top, and felt something sharp against her palm, some tiny shard of glass the staff had neglected to sweep up. “Ah shit.” 

A violent shudder rippled through Remmick’s entire body and then he stiffened around her, something like a whine escaping his throat. Moira could feel the slightest trickle of blood sliding down her palm. Terror seized her heart. She tried to reach for the wooden hairpin but not quickly enough. Long fingers wrapped around her wrists, pinning them to the bar. His body was pressed so firmly against hers that she gasped. 

“That fuckin’ scent Moira.” He growled so softly. “God I can’t even think right because of that fuckin’ scent.” His eyes were so black she could see her own mirrored reflection in them. “This is what you wanted. To starve me on pig’s blood while you refuse to even look at me? Do you know what your queen tastes like? She tastes like somethin’ rotten. But you? Fuck, Moira.” He was reaching for her face, an oddly intimate gesture that made her belly flutter with either fear or longing. Maybe both. His expression was so strange to her. Hunger and yearning, then anger. “You knelt before her. You fucking fell to your knees for her.” 

A line appeared between Moira’s brows. “What?”

“I saw you beg like a goddamn slave.” He snarled in her face. “You do it again and I’ll tear her throat out, Moira so help me god.” Then his lip curled into something like a smile. Vicious. “You’ll fall to your knees for no one but me, darlin.’” 

And then he kissed her. Hard. Like a starving man, his lips crashed into hers, desperate and feverish with such need that it overwhelmed her. Panic gripped her chest, filling her head with confusion, but oh the heat of it left her breathless. Her body twitched, and suddenly she was encased in his arms, so warm and stronger than any mortal man’s, keeping her firmly in place, unable to move from his death grip. Fuck. He was tasting her, tangling that tongue with hers, and oh what a talented tongue it was. She could feel his teeth elongating. Shocking how much she enjoyed that. 

Her mind was flooded with so many opposing signals, clashing against her nervous system, muddling her thoughts. Fear of his strength, rage at his audacity, and shame at the undeniable response of her body, pulsing and thrumming with desire so fierce that it rang in her eardrums. She was kissing him back, arms pinned at her sides, unable to reach her knife, unable to stop her mouth from opening to him, accepting it so eagerly. The lingering vanilla taste of the cigar he’d been enjoying was still on his tongue. 

A sound in his throat, so soft like a whimper, deepening into a growl. She tried to squirm free but he pressed deeper, his grip faltering just a little. Moira could feel the length of his body, rippling against her. She couldn’t breathe, and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to. Finally he released her from the kiss with a gasp. He was panting, his face almost pained as he glowered down at her. 

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he snarled briefly before capturing her lips again, briefly. “Being a man, seeing you dressed like this.” He grabbed her wrist, and in one shivering stroke, lifted it to his mouth and licked the trickle of blood from her injured hand, shuddering like an addict. “And your memories, darlin’ are so bittersweet. I want more of them. I want to eat your goddamned soul.” She tried to snatch her hand back, but his grip was a vice, his eyes penetrating her with that predator’s glare. 

She saw the tiny flash of memory behind her eyes as he tasted it. An Irishman with pretty green eyes, toying nervously with his cap. The memory made Remmick stiffen with irritation. 

“Do you know why I killed pathetic little Micheal Kelly, Moira?” His tongue flicked over her finger tip, and oh god he was drawing that finger into his mouth, groaning like the mere taste of her skin was enough to finish him. His teeth were so sharp. 

“Because yer a monster.” She whispered, knowing that her face was flushed, her lips swollen. Her body was alight, trembling with want. Too much. Far too much. 

His laughter was malicious and sour. “Because he had his fucking hands on you. His mouth on you. And you let him, Moira.” His voice cracked, dark and murderous. “After I’d already made it clear. After I killed that ugly goat and painted my wrath upon the doorstep.” He scoffed. “Wrong house. Doesn’t matter. You should have known it was for you, Galway girl.”

“What did it say, Remmick?” Her voice trembled.

“Oh Moira, I love the way you say my name. Such hatred.” He crooned. 

“You want to tell me, so I’m askin’.” She whispered. 

He leaned close and trailed his tongue delicately over the rapid pulse on her throat, just beneath her ear. 

“Mianach.”

Mine. 

Her eyes went wide with rage and she pushed him off her, surprised that he let her. In fact, it made him chuckle. 

“Go on, run girl. I know where to find you.”

Chapter Text

Moira stabbed viciously at her congee with the spoon. It clattered on the porcelain, so that everyone could hear how irritable she was. 

“Ugh Moira knock it off.” Jimmy groaned, nursing his head. 

“What’s on the menu?” Remmick was there. Why the fuck was Remmick there? Jimmy stared at him but Moira just glared down at her porridge. Qian looked pale, glancing at the Vampire strangely before sliding a glass jar down the bar to him. He caught it. “Ah. Of course.” He flicked it open and drank deeply. Moira felt her stomach churn at the sight of him swallowing so much pig’s blood. 

“Christ, shouldn’t we warm it up first?” Jimmy asked absentmindedly. Moira scowled at him. 

Remmick smiled, his teeth stained red. “Now that’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me, Jimmy.” 

Moira let the spoon fall into her congee, and pushed the bowl away, appetite lost. 

Jimmy snorted. “Good for you, Moira. Everything goes straight to your thighs.” 

“Bi zui, bai chi.” Remmick muttered before finishing up the last of the blood. 

Jimmy gaped at him for a moment, then cracked a smile. “Not bad.” 

Remmick was watching her from the corner of his eye, smiling rakishly. It irritated her, like ants under her skin. His eyes kept flickering down to her mouth, then back up again. Twat. 

“What?” She snapped. He held out his hands in mock defeat.

“Nothin’”

“Spit it out then, ye cunt.” 

His eyes darkened a bit as he considered her. “Tá meas ag cuid againn ar do chosa.” Moira choked on her tea, and had to clear her throat. Some of us appreciate your thighs. 

“What was that?” Jimmy quirked a brow.

“Irish.” He gave Moira a long look, but to her relief, did not translate. 

Qian sighed and rubbed her temples. There was a bandage wrapped around her elbow. Remmick had been fed last night, and it infuriated Moira to see how much it had weakened her. Curiously, she did not seem eager to even look at Remmick, though to Moira it made perfect sense. He could see things through the blood. Things that were not his to witness, and Madam Qian had led a difficult life. 

“I need you on a job. It’s in a week.” She said to Moira. 

“Ma we promised her time off.” Jimmy protested. 

“Fine. What is it?” Moira interjected, throwing him a dirty look. She desperately needed to get out of this house.

Qian pressed her lips together and slid her something. A tiny booklet with a print of a slender feminine silhouette. 

Jimmy sputtered with laughter. “Is that a goddamn dance card?” 

Moira felt ill as she read the address on it. “This is the Farino house.” Her eyes lifted to Qian. “They invited us to a soirée?”

“Not ‘us.’ You.” Her eyes flicked to Remmick. “And him. They’ll want a report from him.”

“And whatever shall I tell them, neoi wong?” There was an edge to his voice that Moira did not like one bit. Qian stiffened, but said nothing. 

Moira answered for her. “As little as possible. Otherwise I doubt I’ll be comin’ back.” Remmick’s nostrils flared at that, but it was the only card she could play. Nothing was stopping Remmick from exposing their secrets, what he’d learned of their operations or worse, what he’d gleaned from drinking Qian. Except maybe one thing. “If you have any thoughts on killin’ me, sellin’ us out would be a sure fire way to get it done.” No response, except for a light feathering in his jaw. 

“You’ll need a dress.” Qian said softly. “The Italians won’t take you seriously like that.” She eyed her critically, at the oversized men’s hanfu jacket left open over a white wife beater. Jimmy snorted with amusement. “I’ve arranged for the seamstress on Market to fit something to you. I took the liberty of making a few selections, and they agreed to stay open late so you can take him with you. Make sure he gets a suit.” 

Moira nodded. Remmick watched this interaction with incredulity, then he was staring at her so strangely. Eyes wide. Brows furrowed. The look on his face annoyed her so much, she abandoned her tea, and pushed off the bar. To her annoyance, he followed her. To make it worse, nobody stopped him. 

“Is this what you do, Moira? Let that bitch make orders and then you just follow them?” Remmick’s voice was not teasing, or cruel, just aggravated. They were standing in a hallway that led back to the kitchen. 

“Good thing it’s not yer business then isn’t it?” She snapped. 

“Oh but it is my business.” He was behind her, burying his nose in her hair. Moira flinched. He was getting bolder. “What you do. Who you see. It’s all my business now. You’ve made it my business.” 

“And what about you?” She placed her hands on her hips, noting the way his eyes dropped to them. “Nobody forced you to show up at my fuckin’ doorstep, did they?”

“You’re angry with me.” Remmick’s smile was slow like syrup as it spread across his lips. “But not in the usual way.” His head tilted, and he licked his  lips. “Is it because I kissed you?” 

“It’s because I can’t fuckin’ stand you.” 

“Keep tellin’ yourself that darlin.’” He smirked. 
Her cheeks flushed with anger. “Why don’t you tell me somethin’? Since I can’t drink your blood and get all the fuckin’ answers.” 

“Anything for you, sugar.” He replied with infuriating sarcasm. 

“Why are they after you? Your people?” She was remembering golden eyes, and a sad sweet voice in a southern drawl, a linen dress caked with innocent blood. 

His eyes flicked to hers and she could tell he was considering not telling her. “Ah. My wayward children.” 

“How is that even possible?” She was genuinely curious. 

“I made them. And they made others.”

“Are they…like you?” She cringed. 

“Ain’t nobody like me but me.” He muttered. “Thralls. Weak. Easy to control.” She frowned at this. To her, a simple human, they’d been anything but weak. “Dumber than dogs, most of ‘em. Easy to fill those empty heads. They can spread their curse through a bite, sure. Ain’t like me though.”

“What makes you so fuckin’ special?” She sneered. 

“I’m older. Stronger.” His smile showed far too many teeth. “Much stronger.”

“Why’d you leave ‘em?” She asked, not knowing why he was even answering but she wasn’t about to make him stop. 

“Bad job down in the Delta. Fucked me up real good.” 

She remembered Joan’s words to her. “They burnt him.”

“They saved you.” Her brow furrowed incredulously. 

“They didn’t fuckin’ save me.” He growled. She blinked and thought perhaps he was done giving out answers.

“Ohhh I see now.” Moira’s eyes narrowed. “You thought you could just make a load of…what did ye call ‘em? Thralls. And then fuck off to Chicago like a bloody coward? Just another man shirkin’ his responsibilities.” 

“Tell me, darlin,’” Lord she’d made him angry. “What was it like to stick that knife in your father’s belly?” Moira felt the blood drain from her face. Surely he hadn’t tasted enough of her to see that? She would have known. “You’re hidin’ up in this shithole just like I am. So call me a coward all you want.” 

“You don’t know what the fuck yer talkin’ about.” 

“Why’d you do it, babygirl? Did daddy touch you? Please tell me. I’m so curious. I want to know every tiny thing about you, even what made you such a goddamn…” Fuck him. She slapped him as hard as she could, and he growled furiously, his eyes wide with rage, and she could tell he was about to react accordingly, but there was something in her face that he hadn’t seen before, and it made him pause. His face twisted into an almost comical expression. 

“No. He didn’t. Not the way you’re thinkin’.” She looked at him over her shoulder in disgust. “Congratulations Remmick. You’ve accomplished the impossible. I didn’t think I could possibly think less of you than I already did.” 

“Liar.” He whispered. “Nah Moira you don’t hate me. Not after last night.” 

“Last night?” She lifted an eyebrow. “You think I’ve never been kissed before?” 

“Not like that. Not by me.” He tried to smile at her but it died on his face. “You say you hate me, but I know you liked it, babygirl.” 

“Oh I don’t hate you, jiangshi.” She shrugged. “I did, but now I won’t think on you at all. Yer just not worth my time.” 

Moira could feel his eyes on the sway of her hips as she turned, and left him there. Fuck that had felt good. 

She couldn’t ignore him completely. She knew that, but by god she could try. Moira threw herself into whatever work she could find indoors. Prepping shipments, working the apothecary and painting lanterns for the upcoming festival. She could feel Remmick sulking, scowling at her and trying very hard to get her attention while not seeming like he was. God he was infuriating. Flirting with the staff, trying to help her lift crates of oranges when he wasn’t needed. At one point he accidentally strayed too close to a sunny window, and she heard him hiss in pain. Shouldn’t he be holed up somewhere? 

At one point she caught him muttering furiously at Jimmy, running his fingers through his hair, but Jimmy had only laughed in his face. 

“Can’t help you there. When Moira’s pissed, she. Gets. Pissed.” 

But she couldn’t ignore him when she’d been given clear orders. After taking the afternoon to get some sleep in preparation for a night of work, she heard an alarmingly loud knock on her door, and to her dismay, found Remmick holding a bouquet of marigolds. Scowling, she took them, and gave him her most disgusted look. 

“They’re your favorite.” Remmick said slowly. 

“You get that from my blood?” 

He nodded with a wince. She shrugged, and threw them back in his face, scattering orange gold petals everywhere. 

“Hey, slow down.” Remmick snarled after her when she stormed outside into the brisk night time air. “Goddamnit there are vampires out here.” He giggled at his own joke as she stormed onward, eager to get this task over with. Then he was in front of her, faster than she had time to blink. “Moira.” He crooned. She scowled ferociously at him. “Hey. I’m fuckin’ sorry. Alright?” 

“So what?” She shrugged. 

He actually looked sheepish as he rubbed the back of his head, looking down at her. “Look…whatever trouble you got into back home? Whatever you had to do to get out? I ain’t one to judge. Shit, Moira. If you knew half of what I’ve done…” he sighed. “I was tryin’ to get a reaction.”

“Ye got one.” She answered coldly. 

“Yeah. Yeah I did. And I deserved it, no question about that. Look, it’s been a long time. I don’t really know how to do it anymore.” He laughed at her expression of incredulity. “Not that.” She kept walking. “Alright fine.” He called out. “No need to tell me twice.” To her relief, he did not follow. 

The address was a new one. The usual seamstresses were so busy with the Autumn festival preparations they hadn’t been able to squeeze her in, but it didn’t prepare her for what was inside. A barrage of textiles and colors, and a scent that flooded her unprepared mind with memories she’d long forgotten. Her mother’s hands, making chapati. Long shining hair, and sandalwood. A little bell on the door jingled as it closed, and a tiny old woman in a pink sari rushed out to greet her. 

“Jai Swaminarayan!” She reached out and clasped Moira’s hands with such warmth it startled her. 
Moira’s head swam, trying to remember.

“Naraskaram, auntie.” She stammered. God how long had it been since she’d spoken a single word of Hindi? 

“You are Moira? My god, what a beauty,” She was holding her face in such a grandmotherly fashion that Moira was suddenly worried she might actually cry. “You must call me Priya. I have all the dresses Madam Qian picked for you.” Then she frowned at something over her shoulder. She turned to look, and saw Remmick at the glass door, frowning at her. “Is that your man?” He had followed her after all.

“No. Just a pest.” 

Priya seemed to understand what she meant. “American boys are no good my dear. You find yourself a nice Bengali. My son is single. You should meet him! He’s studying law.” Prya’s smile was contagious. She glanced at Remmick. His jaw was so tense she could practically hear his teeth snapping.  Clearly he heard every word. “Should we invite him in anyway?” 

“He’s fine.” Moira smiled at Remmick and gave him a mocking wave, enjoying the way his eyes flashed with anger. “I’ll take one of those suits for him when we’re done.” She gestured at the ones on the wall indifferently. 

Priya showed her the gowns that Qian had picked for her, and Moira sighed inwardly. They were beautiful of course. Refined and elegantly beaded, but she already knew these modern dresses did very little for her large chest and hips. She tried them on anyway, noticing Priya’s mouth grow thinner with each one. Moira tried not to gaze longingly at the silks and organzas, lovingly stamped or embroidered, but Priya was sharp. She saw her looking. The old woman delicately placed Qian’s choices to the side, and took out a book of swatches, holding them up to Moira’s face. 

“What would those silly catalogues call you? A winter?” She mused. “Please allow me to choose.” Jewel tones only. No pastels for you.”

Moira nodded, feeling an ache in her chest. She was so unused to motherly affection. She even liked it when Priya prodded her with questions about whether or not she could cook, and tutted over her tattoos in gentle admonishment as she took her measurements. 

“I think I would be a poor choice for your son, auntie.” She grinned, then the grin faltered when she saw what Priya had chosen. “Oh. I can’t.” 

“You can.” She corrected. 

Moira hesitated. It was clear that she was meant to attend this soirée as a representative of Madam Qian, and surely that had been what she’d had in mind when she’d picked out those dresses. Then again, she was attending alone. It was likely a trap. She wasn’t stupid. Her eyes lingered on the colorful patterns once more. Then she nodded. 

Moira felt a flush of embarrassment as she put on the long sleeved choli. It ended at her elbows, and cut a deep v at the neckline, just high enough to be modest, though she still felt exposed at the midriff, which was left largely uncovered. Priya had her step into a glimmering, beaded skirt, and adjusted it so it at least covered her bellybutton. The elderly woman stepped back for a moment in thought, and seemed to consider a red sari before changing her mind. 

“We leave that for your wedding.” She said with a wink. Then she told Moira to lift her arms, and began to drape her in a dark green fabric, beautifully lined with gold embroidery. It was heavy and velvet, unusual but wise for the Chicago weather. Then she felt Priya unfastening her hair.

“What are you doing?” She laughed. 

“Hush.” The woman’s fingers were soft and gentle as they arranged her curls. Then she frowned. “You need jewelry.” 

“I don’t really have any.” Moira admitted.

Priya seemed shocked at this. “You will borrow mine.” She tried to protest but Priya heard none of it. To silence her, she gently turned Moira and led her by the hand to a set of mirrors, looking enormously pleased with herself. “There you are.”
Moira’s eyes stung. She had never seen herself like this, donned in the raiments of her mother’s country. The skirt clung to her hips beautifully, hugging her thighs. She’d always been self conscious about her figure, so used to the willowy beauties in Chinatown, often feeling that somehow her shape was large and incorrect. This garment seemed to celebrate her, showing off those curves in such a powerful way that she did not recognize herself. To her enormous embarrassment, her eyes became shiny with emotion.

“You look like a queen.” Priya said gently. 

“I feel like one.” She replied softly. 

“As all girls should.” The seamstress’s head tilted, then wobbled a bit. “It will be better with jewelry. A shame your nose isn’t pierced. I have a nath that would bring out those cheekbones.” Her cunning gaze flicked to the door. Remmick had his back turned, as though guarding the entrance. “That boy’s eyes will fall from his sockets when he sees you. You will take this one, kanna. I will have it and the suit sent tomorrow.” She patted her cheek fondly. 

Moira glanced at herself once more, then at the door where Remmick was waiting. 

“Is there another exit, auntie?” 

With Priya’s help, she slipped out the back, really not feeling up to another argument with Remmick. She wasn’t in the mood for any more teasing or cruelty, particularly after she’d just been treated with such friendliness and warmth, from a total stranger of course. She was feeling good about herself, and it’d be a shame to let him ruin it. 

A hand snatched her by the hair, yanking her painfully backwards. She gasped, but gloved fingers clamped over her mouth and nose. At first she thought it was Remmick, but there were more hands, and rough, guttural male voices. One of them snarled something. 

“Goddamned race traitor.” As far as insults went, she thought this was rather weak. 

“Barry?” She managed. Someone slapped her so hard she felt her eyeballs vibrate. “Fuck.” 

They pulled her into another street, and she tried to wrestle away from their callused hands, but goddamn it all she could really do was twist herself and try to drag her feet. She bit someone and tasted blood. He howled in pain and someone hissed at him to be quiet. Panic shook her, hard and devastating, but the mere presence of fear infuriated her. She jerked her head back, swiftly and brutally, striking someone on the chin, hearing it crack. 

“Don’t make us fuckin’ hurt ye, Moira.” A voice was muttering. There was uncertainty making that voice waver. Good. They were right to be nervous. 

“Shut the fuck up, Colin.” Barry grunted.

Moira tried to scream. A hand clamped over her mouth, and a switchblade was suddenly so close to her face she went cross eyed. They wrestled her to the ground like a wild sheep about to be shorn. She was being pressed into wet pavement.

Someone was kneeling on her arms, keeping them stretched over her head. She kicked out at a kneecap and felt it snap. He hunched over in pain with a curse. The ground tore at her injured back, making her dizzy with pain. Moira’s eyes were huge and furious, snapping from face to face, memorizing, calculating. The boys from O’Shaughnessy’s. Dread twisted her stomach. She was not about to be killed by these idiots. 

“Tell us what ye did with Michael, and we’ll make this quick.” Barry had his face covered with a scarf, but she knew those freckles. 

“Yer disguise is shite.” She managed to say before she spat at him. He punched her in the gut, making the air whoosh from her lungs, her face screwing up in pain. He used the scarf to wipe the spit from his face. 

“You tell us what you did with him, Moira or we’re all gonna have a turn.” 

“Fuck you.” She laughed, deciding she’d rather burn in the Catholic hell rather than show these pricks how terrified she was. Then someone was unbuttoning her trousers, and pulling them down her legs. Then the terror truly sank in, making her stomach roil. “Yer dead. Yer all fuckin’ dead.” She would make sure of it. Every single one of them would end up in the goddamn river.

“Christ she’s all inked up like a sailor’s whore.” Colin guffawed. Idiot. 

She’d been threatened in this way before. Hell, she’d even come close. It had never felt as real, or as terrible as it did now. 

“Do you fuckin’ idiots know who I work for? She’s going to execute all of you. And then she’s gonna find yer families.” Moira gritted her teeth, as Barry unzipped his pants. “Christ almighty, is that all yer workin’ with?” She laughed again, higher and more deranged. A look of wariness passed between them, weighing her threat, knowing she meant every word. 

“Fuckin’ crazy cunt.” Someone growled. 

“If the Empress comes callin’ we’ll fuck her too.” Barry hissed. 

She fought harder at this, but god she couldn’t move. For a wild moment she wished she had vampire strength. A knife was sliding along her thigh, preparing to slice off her panties. 

“Tell us what you did with him, Moira.” Barry insisted. “We can stop right now and you can go home. Tell us what happened to Michael.” He was almost pleading. He could plead for ice water in hell. 

“I fucked him and then I fucked his mother.” She snarled. 

A hand squeezed her throat. Colors bloomed behind her eyelids. Moira rested her head back, clenching her jaw and squeezing her eyes shut. She wished they’d taken her farther from Priya’s. Finding her corpse would probably harm her business. The thought made her sad. 

“Christ woman, I leave you alone for one minute.”

Ah. She knew that voice. But she’d be damned if she was grateful. If anything, it irritated her. 
Then she heard it, and felt the splash of hot liquid on her face and chest. She opened her eyes to see Barry’s, so wide, rolling like a crazed horse. Remmick had punched his fist straight through the back of his head, emerging from his mouth, the nails elongated, almost touching her. 

She moved. They’d left her knife, the dumb cunts. The man holding her down had lurched back in horror, and she flicked her wrist. The blade was in her hand, as familiar as her own fingers. She stabbed it into his thigh and twisted, the sound of his howling like sweet music, but she silenced it, with a jab to his jugular. Then another, just because she felt like it. 

Fury had set her aflame. No thoughts, only rage. She leapt on top of another, and felt the delicate bones of his nose splinter as she pounded him with the end of her knife. Again and again. He scrabbled beneath her, but she’d pinned him with her knees, crushing his sternum the way Jun had taught her when she was fifteen. The knife she’d used on her own father sank into his flesh with ruthless precision, slicing the flexor tendons of his forearms, rendering him unable to use them, then his trachea. She didn’t want him to be able to turn his head. She wanted to watch him gape at her like a fish when she slipped the blade between his ribs. 

A shudder rippled through her spine. Pure adrenaline. A wildfire in her lungs. “Already damned” the nuns had told her so many years ago. Moira took a quick glance around at the bloodshed, counting the bodies. All there. Every face. Damn, Remmick was fast and efficient when he wanted to be. Moira closed her eyes again, listening to the sounds of carnage, and feeding, her face growing still, and serene. 

“You want to know what happened to Michael Kelly?” Remmick was crooning softly, his voice so cold and terrifying. 

“No no no please!” Colin begged. Then the sound of tearing muscle and ligaments. Silence. 

Something landed heavily next to her, and when she opened her eyes again she was somehow not surprised to see Colin’s head, detached from his body, his face twisted with his last expression of horror. 

Remmick rolled his neck, cracking it. The blood on him was still hot and steaming as he licked his fingers, finally satisfied. He looked like a monster from a fairytale. He looked like a god. 

“Better than flowers?” He pointed at the head. 

****************************************

“Damn, are you still mad at me?” Remmick sounded highly annoyed as Moira quickly pulled her pants back up. There were sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer.

“We have to run.” She snapped.  

And so they did. Through alleys and backyards, through concrete, and dogs that barked through chain link fences, they ran. Moira paused for a second, and grabbed two men’s shirts that were drying on a clothesline. Remmick snorted with amusement as she stuffed them in her coat. 

“Come on ye bastard.” She seized one of his suspenders and tugged, leading him through cramped, winding streets. A cop car drove past, then another. She pressed him to a wall next to a telephone booth, staring down at his blood stained shirt, waiting for the police to pass. Thirty seconds. She exhaled a thin stream of breath, then flinched, startled by the wildness of his stare. He was looking at her like she’d just stepped naked from the flames of hell.

“That ain’t your blood in your mouth.” He observed quietly. She was unsure if that was anger or fascination in his voice. 

Moira shook her head. “I bit one o’ them.” 

“Murder looks good on you.” He murmured, lip quirking. “God you are fuckin’ devastating.” 

“We have to get movin.’” She muttered, not liking the way his words made her belly flutter. 

“Why?” His head tilted. 

“Because in about five minutes they’re gonna circle back around.”

“Oh. Alright then.” 

His arms wrapped around her waist, and he jumped. A small scream escaped her throat as she felt cold wind scrape her flesh. It happened so fast. Her hair was a mess, tossed around by the sudden velocity. Then she realized she was on top of a concrete apartment building. Saints in heaven. Moira let out a startled laugh, and pushed the hair out of her face. She was terrified, and shocked, and absolutely appalled by everything she’d felt and witnessed in the last few minutes, but she laughed, rubbing tears out of her eyes. 

“Fuck, yer handy in a tight spot.” She conceded, still giggling. Remmick was transfixed, gaping at her with such confusion, almost boyishly stupid. She chuckled a bit, then coughed a little, feeling the delirium begin to wear down. “What? What is it?” The way he was looking made her suddenly alarmed. 

“Nothin’.” He grunted. “Just thought…” his cheeks were oddly flushed. “Nothin’.” He shook his head. “Where to now?” 

Moira cocked her head at him. “We clean up. We grab a coffee somewhere where we’ll be seen.” 

“…Coffee.” He repeated slowly, eyeing her like she was mad. 

She recognized the look, the wariness, judging her every facial twitch, and heard Madam Qian’s gentle, stern voice in her head. Not here. Cry later, but not here. Scream later. But not now. She gave him a wide grin, showing all her teeth, then grabbed one of the balled up shirts she’d stolen and tossed it at him. 

Moira reached into the rain gutter, and used the water there to clean her face. It smelled like rust but that was fine. Then she winced. This wasn’t going to be fun. Pulling a face, she whipped off her coat, and began unbuttoning her shirt, careful not to touch the blood splattered on it as she peeled it off, leaving her fully exposed, except for a satin bra. Shivering, she turned her head to make sure he was doing the same, and was instantly rooted to the spot. 

The light was brighter here, thanks to a billboard selling new, automatic gas ranges. She was just reading the billboard, and was certainly not looking at the shirtless vampire, who was taking her lead and using the gutter water to wash himself, rinsing the blood from his face and neck, and working his way down his chest and finally the thin trail of dark hair that traveled beneath his belly button. He was gently muscled, but soft around the edges, which was a surprise. With his unnatural strength she might’ve assumed that he was hard or chiseled like the pictures of Shaolin monks she’d seen. The veins in his arms were beautifully defined, and fuck. He was more tattooed than she was. 

Hidden beneath his shirt were massive swirls of dark blue ink, not crisp and skillful like hers were. They seemed archaic, and ancient, made with a single needle held by hand, and not a modern machine. A stag. A hare. Knotwork that curled around his shoulder blades and elbows in dark wode. She was staring. She knew she was staring. Moira didn’t want to be staring, but he was dipping those long fingers into the water, and running them through his hair, and that water was dripping down his jaw, his throat, his…

“And here I was attemptin’ to be a gentleman.” Remmick sounded mildly annoyed, though clearly also pleased with himself. 

Moira could feel her face getting hot. She realized she was standing there in her trousers and a bra, feeling stupid. At least it was dark. Her eyes flicked back to the billboard. Not dark enough. Fuck. His eyes were roaming her body too, but not with hunger, she realized. Not hunger or desire. What then?

“They didn’t cut you.” He said darkly. 

“No.” She shuddered, already retreating into herself, already wanting to never speak or think on it again. 

“Lucky for them.”

“Lucky? We eviscerated them.” She scoffed.

“I said what I said.” His eyes slid over her once more, and she could feel it as keenly as a caress. “You’re shiverin’.” 

She hastily put the clean shirt on with a scowl. 

The diner hummed with cheap lighting. It stank of cigarettes and stale coffee. She’d ordered one of those coffees and Remmick had done the same, though he seemed content to just hold it in his hands and stare out the window. 

“Stop that.” Moira muttered, taking a sip and grimacing. God she missed Stella’s. “You look like yer waitin’ fer the feds to roll up.” Remmick smiled. His teeth were funny. Slightly crooked and he had a bit of a snaggle tooth. It gave his face a charming sort of character. Unnerved by this kind thought, she took another sip, and pointed to his cup. “What happens if you drink that?”

“Puke it up later.” He shrugged, and took a sip anyway, wincing as he did. Then he set the cup down and looked at her. Really looked at her. “You alright, sugar?”

“Why do ye call me that?” She grumbled, feeling herself glance around the diner out of sheer paranoia. The rush was over and everything was still. The adrenaline had worn off, and now it was far too quiet. Except for her thoughts. Those were far too loud. 

“Because yer so damn sweet.” He drawled. 

She sputtered with laughter, choking on her coffee a bit. Good. Now it looked like they were having a normal conversation. A clarinet was playing on the radio. She tried to focus on that. Their waitress was having a lengthy conversation with the cook. Something about unionization for food service workers. The cook needed to ash his cigarette. Desperately. It was about to fall on the counter. Anxiety gripped her chest and she looked away. 

A warm hand slid over hers, gently coaxing her to put the coffee down. 

“Yer shakin’ Moira.” His voice was low. Soothing. 
She hated the touch. She did not hate the touch. The touch was terrifying and bad. It was a bad touch. The touch was gentle and calloused and strong. The touch was everything she wanted. Flashes of Barry’s freckled face, his eyes so full of hatred. The sound of a zipper. Fuck. She heard Qian’s voice again. Be calm. Be still. Not here, Moira. Not here. 

Moira blew a rogue lock of hair out of her eyes, and realized her hand was shaking. She balled it into a fist and snatched it back, away from him. Away from that calming touch. 

“We can leave.” 

Her eyes widened with confusion, but oh. He was serious. “And go where?” 

“Doesn’t matter much to me.” He shrugged. “I could take you anywhere you wanna go. Nepal. Costa Rica. Fuckin’ Canada. I got all the time in the world.”

“India.” 

“Yeah? You ever been?” That toothy smile again. Damn that was a nice smile. She shook her head. “Shame. It’s beautiful. Bet you’d fit right in.”

She chuckled a bit. “Nah. Too pale for India. Too dark for America.” 

“Not true. All sorts o’ colors here as far as I can tell.” He looked a bit sad at that. Odd. “It’s my favorite thing about this place.”

“What happened to you in the Delta? That’s Mississippi, right?” She inquired, not quite finding it in herself to practice the art of subtlety. 

He stilled, and gave her a suspicious glare. “None of your business, ma’am.” 

“Fine.” She took another mouthful of rancid coffee. 

“Why do you wanna know?” 

“Distraction.” She answered absentmindedly. Truth be told she didn’t really care at the moment. 

“Ah.” That smile again. Damn it. “Well I’m real good at that, babygirl.” He leaned closer. “Did you know that every time I call you that, you blush just a little?” He made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger to show her how much. 

“Oh get fucked.” But she was grinning, in spite of the panic making her heart race. Something clattered in the kitchen, a dropped knife or maybe a pot lid. She jumped so hard at the sound she sloshed what was left of her coffee onto the table. Immediately she reached for a stack of napkins to mop it up. 

“Shhh shh shh.” Remmick soothed. “Calm, Moira. You’re safe. We’re in a shitty diner, with shitty music playin’ and it smells like sweat and cigarettes.” Her brow furrowed. What was he doing? He licked his lips uncertainly, and leaned closer, reaching for her hands, turning them palms up, and began tracing little patterns on them, his calloused fingers fluttering over her wrists, caressing her pulse points. “You’re here with me, a very scary, very bad man. The only person you should be afraid of, is me. You. Are. Safe.” 

Moira had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, but whatever it was, it seemed to be helping. 

“Christ almighty you’re tremblin’ like a leaf.” He growled, suddenly furious. But not at her. She flinched anyway, but he was on his feet, slapping a gold coin on the table. 

“We have to stay…” she trailed off at the flash of anger in his blue eyes. 

“Fuck that. I’m takin’ you home.” 

Home. Oh god she’d have to answer to Qian, to Jimmy. They’d see her and they’d know somehow. They’d know something had happened, and they’d know it was all her fault.  She wanted to scream, wanted to protest, wanted to kick him in the balls again and run until of those thralls found her. She did none of those things, but her mind was racing. All those dead Irishmen in that alley. It would be in the news. They would all know. The sweet lady at the dress shop would know. Shame bloomed in her chest. 

But she didn’t have to see Qian or Jimmy. Remmick had guided her back to Chinatown, not getting lost even once. Unusual for someone who wasn’t native to the city. Then she remembered. “I can always smell your blood.” And the speakeasy was full of her scent. It probably saturated the floorboards by now. 

Suddenly they were at the veranda beneath her window, where the maids and laundresses liked to take smoke breaks. Without saying a word, he hooked her arm around his shoulder and leapt, carrying them both to her window. 

Fighting the urge to snap at him, she opened it from the outside, and let him help her climb down onto the desk. Another confusing touch. Her room. She was here. This was real. It smelled like almond oil and the ghost of turpentine. It smelled like the soap she used to clean her client’s tattoos. She could hear him turning to leave, but she didn’t look at him. Without so much as raising her head, or even looking back, she held out a hand. Remmick stared at it.

“Don’t go just yet.” She murmured, feeling dazed.

 
“You’re in shock, Moira.” He was hesitating. Fucking hesitating. A war was waging behind those blue eyes. 

She glared back at him but her hand did not falter. “Stay with me.”

“I can sleep out here. You’ll feel safer.” But there was hunger there. Strange that he’d be hungry after eating so many Irishmen. 

Her lip curled. “Don’t be an arse. Get in here.” 

And that was all it took. In an instant he was there, staring down at her, watching her fight to keep it all in, to be calm. To be still. He watched her for an agonizingly long time. 

“Oof she got into your head, huh?” Remmick’s eyes were curious. “I’ve been sippin’ on her for a while now. I have a notion on how her mind works. Not ideal. Go on girl. Let that shit out.”

Chapter Text

Something warm and wonderful was pressed into her back. Groaning softly, she wriggled against the wonderful, and the wonderful growled in her ear. 

“You keep that up girl and I’ll give you a reason.” She bolted upright and stared down at Remmick who was gazing up at her with a wicked smirk, still fully dressed, as was she. “Mornin’.” 

Moira leapt out of bed, feeling a distinctive kind of nervousness tug behind her belly button. She glanced out the window. It was getting dark already. She’d slept all day. That was fine. She was accustomed to night time work. Her eyes widened, and she gave him an odd look that made him chuckle, perhaps thinking that she was about to scream at him. 

“Food.” She pointed at him. Then pointed at the door. 

They were downstairs. The kitchen staff had made themselves scarce at the sight of Remmick, who leered at them. She was toasting spices. Grinding them. Pouring pig’s blood into a pot and then adding said spices. He was watching her in utter shock and fascination. 

“Are you cookin’ for me?” He asked in complete bewilderment. 

She frowned at him and pressed the steaming mug into his hands. A line appeared between his brows as he sniffed it, and took a drink, his eyes never leaving hers. It made her oddly nervous. 

“Hm.” He grunted at the taste, not in a bad way, merely a noncommittal one. Then he grinned. “Not as good as yours. Woah WOAH WOAH no. No Moira. Don’t. I’m just playin’.” She had grabbed a knife and was about to press it into her palm but she pulled a face and set it down again. His cheeks puffed out in a slow exhale. “Jesus, what are you doin’?” He ran a hand through his hair. 

“Tryin’ to be nice to ye.” She said blankly, feeling nothing.

“Well stop it. Gives me the goddamn willies. God, stop lookin’ at me all doe eyed.” She scowled. “That’s better.” 

Moira made masala dosas with enough chile and garlic to make Remmick’s nostril’s twitch. At least he wouldn’t try to kiss her. Somehow last night had felt far more intimate. He’d laid down next to her. And that was all he’d done. Never once touching her. 

“Jesus Christ, Moira where the fuck you been, girl?” Jimmy had burst in, making Moira jump. Remmick growled, and gave him a murderous glare. “Fuck you lookin’ at jiangshi?” 

“Don’t touch her.” He warned, his voice low and dangerous. 

“God what the hell…Moira?” Jimmy was staring at her rather stupidly. Maybe there was something written on her face, though usually Jimmy was pretty obtuse about such things. 

She gulped her tea, not caring that it scalded her throat. “I’m fine Jimmy. You got a drop off for me?” 

“Yeah. Yeah the Bocharov’s ordered a case of gin. Big dinner tonight. Moira, is everything alright here?” His eyes slid to Remmick pointedly, and he began again, in Cantonese. “Did he hurt you?” 

“I’ve had enough of your ma’s blood to understand you, you twat.” Remmick growled. 

“I’m fine.” Moira said quietly. 

“Ok. Ok I believe you.” Jimmy flinched a bit when he said this, and as he left he asked “what do you want me to tell her?”

“Nothin.’ I picked out a dress like she wanted.” Moira shrugged. 

“Got it. Just remember,” he mimed violently jabbing a stake through Remmick’s heart, making her smile sourly. She watched Remmick’s cold face as he watched him leave. 

His gaze slid to hers. “I don’t want you going to that party. The fancy one.” 

“What?” 

“I said-“

“I fuckin’ heard ye the first time. Why not?”

“All those gangsters and pushers in one place. Sounds dangerous.”

“I’ll have you.” She muttered indifferently. 

“Quit it. I’ve a mind to drag you out of here by your hair.”

“Do it. You won’t.” 

“Oh no?” There was a glimmer in those blue eyes she didn’t appreciate. 

“Nah. Yer a good one, Remmick.”

Those eyes went wide with rage and surprise. “Goddamnit I should have taken my fuckin’ time with those boys. They twisted your head up. Say that again.” He demanded. 

“Say what?” She blinked. 

“My name. Say it softly again, just like that.” 

“No.”

“Go on.”

“No. You like it too much.” She snapped. God he was irritating. 

“I do.” He purred. “Darlin’ I really, really do.” 

“Alright fuckface, I’ve got a drop off to make. All those people you’ve eaten, you pick up any Russian? “

Remmick’s smirk was almost charming. 

****************************************

“Hundreds of years old and you never learned how to drive.” Moira grumbled, faintly amused as she parked the now heavily scratched continental roadster. The ceiling had a wicked dent in it, which she’d pushed until it more or less popped into place. Remmick had eyed the damage to the vehicle with interest, but did not seem particularly upset by the prospect of Joan being crushed beneath its wheels. 

It was a nice little townhouse, on the outskirts of Albany park. Red brick and cream accents. The hedges high and kept pristinely in their place. This was a decent neighborhood where decent families lived, a place where you got a lot of shite for letting the grass grow. No street vendors, or children being noisy or couples arguing where everyone could hear. Moira hated it here. 

“Now what?” Remmick sounded bored. 

“We take it round the back, and hand it off. Easy.”

 
“There’s music playing.” He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. 

“Never been inside.” She smirked at him, sourly. “You’ll see.” 

The woman who answered was perhaps in her late fifties, and wore a pretty satin headscarf, her dress pinned at the collar with a heavy brooch. The Bocharov’s were an older family than the more recent Russians who had fled the soviets. The Bocharov’s had fled the goddamned revolution. Everyone was always running from something, she supposed. The mistress of this house gave her a grim sort of smile, nodding her thanks. The smile she gave Remmick was far more kind, but the way she eyed Moira warily made her flinch. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have coffee, Zdravstvuyte?” Remmick asked suddenly. 

The woman lifted an eyebrow and asked something in Russian that made Remmick’s eyes darken with fury, though his smile was wide and charming. 

“There is some in the kitchen.” She replied. Her eyes shot back to Moira, looking her up and down, taking in the men’s suit jacket she’d borrowed from Jimmy, the rumpled skirt, the unkempt hair. Her skin, of course. She knew that look. What flavor are you? 

“I’ll wait in the car.” Moira sighed. Remmick held her arm, and said something again in Russian, making the woman laugh and nod. Then to Moira’s enormous surprise, she beckoned them in. “What did you say?” She hissed. 

“I told her my frumpy companion was in desperate need of culture. I asked to please let us hear one song.”

Moira scowled, watching as the woman took Remmick’s coat for him, but did not extend the same gesture for her. Remmick noted this with a small frown, and reached out a hand for Moira’s. She lifted an eyebrow at him, then took off her own damn coat, hating every moment of this. 

“The gin is kosher?” The woman asked.

Moira nodded. “Juniper only. Madam Qian checked them herself.” When Remmick shot her an inquisitive glance, she quietly added “the Italians tried to push their wine here, but they don’t observe the kashrut, and the Irish haven’t been too keen to let a Rabbi oversee production. The gin is a happy accident, so they’ve given us leave to sell here, but it’s fragile.” She shrugged, but there was a warning in her tone. 

This house felt like someone’s home. Not the glamorous pristine of the speakeasy or even the cramped , cluttered apartment she rented. Dark paneled wood walls, family photos, and furniture that was clearly inherited but well used. This place was lived in. There was wealth, that was clear, but there was a history in these walls far less violent than her own. People who died here only did so of old age. She felt like an intruder. 

The woman gestured them to the kitchen, far away from the guests, but Remmick ignored her and pulled Moira into the living room, where a girl was playing the violin, surrounded by a small crowd of exceedingly well dressed people. Some of them stared, but a few nodded warily at her. They knew her. Moira shuddered, knowing that Remmick would see, and ask questions. Too late to avoid that now. 

A young man with enormous brown eyes and a mop of curly dark hair noticed her immediately. Those eyes had a suspicious sheen. He’d quickly risen from his place on the well worn settee.

Remmick scowled. “Who is that?” 

“No one.” 

“He doesn’t look like no one.” 

“Drop it.” She whispered, feeling a flush in her cheeks. 

“He’s comin’ over.” Remmick observed, managing to sound annoyed yet amused by her discomfort.

“Moira.” Mikhail’s voice was so soft, it made her chest ache. 

“Hello.” She didn’t know what else to say. This was a face she had expected never to see again. A rough tug on her wrist. Remmick was taking her, dragging her to the open floor, before she could say another word. “What is wrong with you?” She hissed as quietly as she could, fury leaping to her throat behind gritted teeth. 

“Dance with me.” He snarled. 

Moira turned her head to see Mikhail speaking in bitter, argumentative tones to the mistress of the house. 

“We shouldn’t be here.” She growled, her eyes darting around at the unwelcoming faces. They were all staring at them. 

“They invited us in.” He said this as if that were the end of it, as though a simple invitation made this house his hunting ground. She supposed there was a twisted logic to it. What did he need with social graces once he got what he wanted? Remmick had already placed a hand on her waist, and suddenly he was holding her hand aloft. She was reminded of a different night, surrounded by her countrymen, before the horror that had followed. 

“For coffee, you twat.” She said more angrily than she’d intended. 

“Close enough.” He was moving her. Moving with her. And she wasn’t fighting him, whether she realized it or not. The violin was sad and sweet, if a touch off key. Remmick was staring down at her with such alarming intensity that she wasn’t sure what she should be doing with her own eyes.

“Look at me.” He demanded. He was speaking in Gaelic. She was amazed at how much she still remembered. “Who is he?” He tilted his head, his mouth so close to hers, baring his teeth just a little. 

“First you tell me what happened to you in Mississippi.” She snapped. 

Remmick laughed, and dipped that mouth close to her ear. “I may have saved you from those Irish boys, but don’t forget, Moira. I could slaughter every single person in this room just for fun.”

“Don’t be an arse. You didn’t fucking save me. I’ve gotten myself out of worse. You were a convenience.” Amazing how the Irish rolled from her tongue, her mother language unburdened by her thick accent. 

“Haven’t you wondered why they weren’t in the papers this morning?” Remmick’s teeth were gleaming. She stared at them, begging them not to sharpen. Oh god not here. She slipped the hairpin from her left sleeve, the one Jimmy had pressed into her hand before they’d left. Would she be fast enough? “I went back to that alley while you slept.” 

Moira blinked, so surprised by this that she slid the hairpin back into her sleeve. “Why?” She asked in English. 

“Someone had to clean up the mess. Now you owe me a favor, girl. A few bodies are nothing to me.” He leaned perilously close. “The two policemen and the photographer were a bit trickier I’ll admit.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” She whispered. Then in Gaelic, “You killed a fuckin’ cop?”

“Two. They tasted bitter, like corruption. Both payed by Aiden McCarthy. Oh I know that calculating look. The photographer was far sweeter. He had a family. A new daughter. You see, Moira,” there was something wrong with his eyes, still blue, but deeply unsettling. “They’re all just blood to me. That’s all any of them are. Then there’s you…” 

Someone cleared their throat, giving her the excuse she needed to pull away from Remmick as if he’d burned her. An older gentleman was next to them, trying not to look either of them in the face. Moira glanced at the bundle in his hands, and the way those hands trembled.

“Please…take some food with you.” 

Moira sighed. It wasn’t a gesture of good will. He was politely trying to make them leave. And for good reason. She took the bundle, which was either challah or borodinsky by the feel of it, nodded, and turned to leave, snatching up her coat on the way out. No one stopped her, not even Remmick, who wore a frown so idiotic she wanted to throttle him. She debated tossing the bread in the garbage, but why add insult to injury?

She slammed the car door shut and rested her forehead on the steering wheel, squeezing her eyes shut, debating driving off without him, but of course she did not. Her orders were to be shadowed, damn Qian to hell. Remmick slid into the passenger’s side of course, clearly having no interest in being anywhere other than where she was at any given moment. 

“Explain.” He said tersely. 

“I’d rather not.” She replied stiffly.

“That seemed incredibly rude, even for you.” 

“Do you know what I do fer a livin’?” She snarled, finally fighting back. “Have ye been payin’ attention?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you’re told, apparently.”

“I’m a fuckin’ criminal, Remmick. They know that. I get my goddamn hands dirty so that nice people like that can have their fancy parties, and talk shit about prohis and politicians while desperate fuckers like me do all the killin’ and grovelin’ and makin’ nice with goddamn psychopaths. Do ye know what that little stint looked like to them? It looked like a threat.”

“Do you know what she called you?” Remmick’s growl made her shiver. Perhaps she’d made a mistake speaking to him this way. She didn’t care. 

“Somethin’ nasty I’d bet.” She snorted. “Tsilia’s always been a cunt.” 

“They deserved to be threatened.” His eyes were gleaming. “I could finish them off if you’d like.” 

“Yes and Qian would have no choice but to kill me.” 

“Not if we kill her first, darlin’.” His smile was lethal

Moira’s knife was out in a heartbeat, flicking under Remmick’s chin, making him grunt in surprise. “You say that again and I’ll spill yer black blood all over this piece o’ shite car.” 

“Knives don’t work on me, baby.” 

She lifted an eyebrow and prodded him with the wooden hair pin she’d started keeping in the left sleeve just for him. It was aimed directly at his ribs and she was skilled enough to know exactly how to angle it.

“I know. You keep tryin’ to remind me what a fuckin’ monster you are, as if I could forget. But darlin’,” she noticed the way his eyes widened a bit, “I’m surrounded by goddamn monsters. So forgive me if it doesn’t impress me the way you want it to.” 

They drove in silence for an incredible three minutes before he started asking questions again. 

“That boy back there…”

“Mikhail. And he’s not a boy.” 

“He is to me. What’s he to you?” 

Moira winced. “Not what yer thinkin.’ This may come as a shock but handsome men don’t throw themselves at my feet.”

“That is a shock, actually.” 

“Stop makin’ fun of me.” Her lips twitched for a moment, then she sighed. “It’s none of yer fuckin’ business.” 

“Girl I may be older than this country but it has done nothin’ for my patience. Now I could bite you and believe me the thought has crossed my mind every minute of every day, but-“

“Goddamnit fine.” She growled, and turned left a little too sharply. “Mikhail had…well, a friend.”

Remmick quirked an eyebrow at that. “More than a friend.” 

“Don’t you dare go spreadin’ that around.” She snapped. “This ain’t the neighborhood for it. There’s a place in Southside that’d be safer for him.”

“Don’t get distracted.”

 “Fine. Well this friend got his hands on a case of Stolichnaya. It’s vodka. I don’t know where he got it, but he decided to sell it to some of the clubs and tea rooms, thinkin’ his own people would lock down, be happy to buy from one o’ their own.” She shook her head at the naivety. “Word got out. The Italians didn’t appreciate someone elbowing in. Mikhail’s a good lad.”

“So he went to Chinatown for help.”

Moira gave him a long look. “No.”

Remmick laughed. “He went to you for help.” 

“Nobody fuckin’ knows that so if you breathe a word, I swear to god…”She said through gritted teeth, then sighed. “There’s a cabaret on Rush Street. We used to push opium there, before the Feds started crackin’ down on em. Hays Code and all that shite. He didn’t want to leave. I put a gun to his head, and a train ticket in his pocket. Don’t ask me where he is now. I don’t know and I don’t care.” 

Remmick was staring at her in equal parts disgust and fascination. “You have a bleedin’ heart, babygirl.” 

“Fuck off.” She scoffed. “Listen, as far as they know, I’m the last person to see him alive. They don’t know. Except Mikhail.” 

“Ahh Moira. Lookit you, girl.” His tone was teasing. “Not just Miss. Qian’s dog after all. God damn I love your secrets. Got any more?” 

“I write them all in a little diary under my pillow.” 

“Ooh do ye now?” 

“No, you twat.”

“Qian has one. Little ledger she hides in her office.” 

Moira snorted. “She’s a businesswoman. It’s no secret.”

“She ever tell you what’s in it? You ever read it?Absolutely salacious, darlin’. Oh but…” he tapped his lip thoughtfully. “Oh but it’s all in Chinese, huh? I know you understand it spoken, even speak it some, but can you read it?” He cackled at her cold glare. “I could tell you, ya know. If I felt like it. Bet it’d knock some damn sense into ya.” 

“I’ll pass.” But damn it if she didn’t feel that tingle of curiosity. She’d always assumed the ledger held the usual things. Finance expenditures. Inventory logs. Dirty details the feds would love to get their hands on. 

“You would have to give me somethin’ though.” 

“And I’m sure you’re dyin’ to tell me what that is.” 

It was fully night time now. They were driving on gravel, and the docks were just ahead, framed by salt rusted shipping containers and abandoned loading equipment that created strange silhouettes against the night sky, like great mechanical dragons dripping in chains. Her lips pressed into a grim frown. She hated this part of her job. Moira clicked the lights off and stared out over the pier. 

“One kiss, Moira.” 

Her hair whipped her in the face, she turned her head so fast. “Why?” She frowned. 

He snorted. “Does a man need a reason?”

“Yes.” She answered firmly. “And yer not a man.” 

“I’m man enough where it counts, babygirl.” Remmick smiled fiendishly. “I think about that kiss more than I think about your blood, sugar.”

“Suffer, then.” 

“You think about it too.” He argued. “You wanna know if it’ll feel just as good as it did the other night.” 

Unknowingly she pursed her lips as she retrieved her gun and silencer from the glove compartment, and began to assemble them together. Remmick shifted a bit awkwardly in his seat, waiting for her answer. A soft click as the silencer locked into place. 

“No thank you.” She finally replied. 

“It doesn’t have to be on your mouth, darlin’.” His teeth gleamed as he sneered lasciviously.

She was smirking, about to tell him to kiss her arse then, when she saw the flicker of headlights and was almost grateful for it. That was their cue to cut this conversation short, and she silenced him with a glare that said as much. 

They watched as the other car went dark, and two figures emerged. Their car was still running. They had the luxury of a getaway driver. Moira felt a pang of loss, thinking about Jun, but she smothered it. Then she felt something else, a deep sense of dread. Her eyes flickered over the dark streets. Remmick seemed to sense it too, his nostrils flaring. 

One of Qian’s soldiers was pushing a struggling man to the dock. Jiehong, one of Madam Qian’s favorites. He’d been in her service for years, the gray already beginning to kiss his temples. Tall and stoic, and always pristinely dressed. They’d never been particularly close, certainly not as close as she’d been with Jun, but there was respect there. Jiehong was quiet and efficient. His loyalty had never wavered. Moira got out of the car, and Remmick followed. 

She knew the prisoner of course. In Chinatown everyone knew everybody. Zhiyu was in his twenties, and had landed a job working for the Parisian Novelty factory, stamping adverts onto celluloid buttons. He also liked gin. A lot. Everyone knew that his wife wore long sleeves all year round, and everyone knew why. Moira had wanted to deal with it for years, but Qian had never allowed it. Not our business, girl. She could admit to enjoying a small amount of satisfaction, seeing Zhiyu’s eyes go round with fear at the sight of her. Her reputation preceded her. Qian’s loyal dog. 

Moira opened the cigarette case Jimmy had forgotten in the jacket pocket, bless him. The warmth of the cigarette illuminated her face as she lit it, and she felt  Remmick’s eyes on her mouth as she drew the smoke slowly, and parted her lips, letting it waft there for a minute before gently exhaling. She gazed down at Zhiyu indifferently when he was pushed to his knees. 

“Ah Zhiyu. Ye knew this had to happen eventually.” 

“You’re making a mistake.” God he was going to beg already. It was no wonder, really. Jiehong was laying a tarp down behind him for quick and easy clean up. 

“Nah. No mistakes here, luv.” She corrected almost kindly. “Quite a debt you’ve racked up. Messy.”

“I can pay it back. I can pay it all back.” He stammered. 

“It ain’t about money, Zhiyu. It’s about respect, and you ran yer fuckin’ mouth, didn’t ye?” She watched his eyes dart around, pointlessly seeking any possible sign of mercy from the three faces that towered over him. Remmick only looked highly amused. “You blabbed, you fuckin’ idiot. What did you think would happen? You think Aiden McCarthy was gonna clear up yer tab? Buy you a nice dinner? I’ll tell ye what he did. He got suspicious. Dragged us out to a fuckin’ oyster shed and put his boot down on all of us.”

“Everyone knows Qian wants to expand. It’s not a secret.”

“It’s the principal of the thing.” She gestured whistfully with the cigarette. “You talked, and you were heard. Just not by who you wanted.” 

“It’s a fucking joke and everyone knows it but her. They’re never gonna take us seriously. “ He was buying time. She’d humor him for now. 

“No one takes you seriously? Huh.” She cocked her head. “They haven’t promoted ye at the bullshit factory yet? That’s a shame. Yer so damn good at it.” 

Zhiyu laughed bitterly. “She acts like she’s the Queen of us all, but she’s just another rich asshole profiting off us, and all those poor fuckers off the boat.” He had a point, she’d give him that, though not to his face. 

“Ah yes the ‘everyone’s an arse, but me,’ excuse. My favorite.” Moira  reached into her jacket and removed the pistol, pretending to check that the silencer was seated properly. 

“Please…” he began to sputter. “My family.”

“Oh your poor wife.” She rolled her eyes. Of course he’d only give a shit when his life was on the line. “She’ll be properly compensated. We’ve already offered her a job.” Another puff. “She took it. No questions. In fact she seems happier already.” Her mouth twisted to the side as she considered. “Go on then.” Give me your last words. Tell me what you would leave behind. 

“One last drink. Please.” He begged in Cantonese. 

Moira cocked the gun, and shot him in the head. The silencer muffled the sound a bit, and the Chicago fog absorbed the rest, but no one would come looking here. Zhiyu’s corpse flopped backwards, hitting the tarp with a meaty thunk, and Moira watched as Jiehong wrapped him up as carefully as a Christmas package, pulled out a length of rope, and secured a cinder block to the dead man’s ankle. Moira helped to nudge him into the river. They all watched him silently as he sank with barely a ripple, to take his last drink. 

“You didn’t honor his request.” Remmick observed. 

She shrugged. “I don’t have any. And he doesn’t drink. Yer body is a temple, ain’t it Jiehong?” Her smile was bitter. 

The soldier nodded. “I don’t even eat meat.” That was all he said as he walked back to his car. Neat and efficient as always. 

Then she felt it. The stab of guilt. The self disgust. But there was something else, too. A rush of power, stabbing her with potent adrenaline. It warmed her, as much as it repulsed her. Remmick plucked the cigarette from her lips, and held it to his own, hypnotizing her, keeping her rooted to the spot as he took a long, slow drag, then flicked it casually into the river. What an arse. 

“You have blood on your face, Moira.” He purred. She felt a shudder of warmth at that voice. So gentle and teasing, but dangerous. She stuffed the gun into her jacket, then began to feel around her pockets for a handkerchief, but a strong hand stopped her wrist. “Allow me.” 

His hand gripped her jaw, not roughly, but firmly enough to keep her in place. A low growl rumbled in his throat, not one of hunger, but pleasure as he lowered his lips to her flesh, and licked the corner of her mouth, his tongue swiping the pinprick splatters of Zhiyu’s blood. 

“He was fucking a laundress,” he mused softly. “Bent her right over the basin and lifted her dress so he could slide himself in.” She felt him smiling against her skin. “His final thoughts.” His mouth lowered to her neck, and he allowed himself to breathe in her scent. Moira shuddered, and the motion made him tense. His mouth was so warm on her throat, his tongue tasting her with surprising delicacy. A soft graze of his fangs. 
Moira closed her eyes, and a low moan escaped her parted lips. That damned heat was pooling between her thighs, making them weak. Remmick’s hands found their way to her waist and she felt no desire to push him away. 

“One kiss, Moira. That’s all I’m askin.’” He sounded so desperate. 

Perhaps it was this desperation that had her heart pumping with adrenaline, this strange power she felt. Perhaps it was this that made her throw her arms around his neck, and bury her fingers in his hair to yank him down into a kiss that made colors explode behind her eyelids. The deep, languid sound of pleasure that vibrated his chest was so purely masculine she almost forgot he wasn’t human, but he reminded her when suddenly she was being thrust against a shipping container, his hands sinking into her hair, sliding along her scalp. She felt the panic rise in her. For a moment she caught herself, a flash of that pale, freckled face in her mind’s eye making her pause. 

“Tell me to stop.” Remmick breathed against her lips. “Fuck, Moira. Tell me to fuckin’ stop.” He growled, his voice so pained. She could feel his hardness pressing against her belly through their clothes. She clawed the back of his jacket, feeling herself growing steadily unhinged as his hand found her breast, pinching her nipple through the shirt so roughly she hissed. 

 But she didn’t want him to stop. She was already hiking her skirt up, and his eyes were darkening, quite literally, watching her hands with something like rapture. Pure hunger. Pure need. He kissed her again, hard enough to bruise, and his hands were gripping her thighs and it hurt, but oh how she loved it. His fingers found the seam of her panties, and he hissed in a sharp intake of breath. 

“Christ almighty,” he snarled softly, “you’re just no good at followin’ orders.” In a single motion, he tore the panties aside, and felt how slick she was, his face contorting into a look of terrible satisfaction. She captured his lips, and nipped him sharply. Grunting in amusement at her fervor, he stroked her with terrible control. Suddenly she realized she was the powerless one as a jolt of pleasure rippled up her  body, making her jerk. “You think you’re so damn smart.” His lips twitched into a sneer. “No clever comebacks, Moira?” His fingers grazed her painfully swollen clit, and she heard herself whimper. 

She gasped as he plunged two fingers inside of her, his thumb circling her clit with an expertise she barely possessed herself. His hair fell into his eyes and he tossed it aside, lips pulled back in a delectable sneer. Her pussy was throbbing, aching for something deeper, needing to be filled. A plea danced on her tongue but she quelled it stubbornly. She was not about to beg for anything. But her hands gripped his shoulders as he kissed her again, his tongue swirling with hers as he pumped her, his palm now grinding deliciously against her clit. It was already building inside of her, the rush, the adrenaline and the pleasure all too much. Her walls fluttered around his fingers. 

Then with no warning at all, he snatched his hand back as if touching her caused him physical pain, but he was staring down at her with such primal hunger that she suddenly felt so small and vulnerable. She bit her lip as she watched him inspect his moist fingers, then draw them into his mouth, tasting her desperation. 

“Oh you’re hurtin’ now, babygirl.” He chuckled darkly. “Fuckin’ achin for it, huh?” His tongue swept over his lips, capturing her taste with satisfaction. “Do you want your answers now?”Moira trembled, her breathing heavy, chest heaving. She bit her lip, and nodded. “Never agreed to my terms though. Forgot the fine print.” He giggled at her look of outrage as he quoted her. “Now you get to know what it’s like…” he paused, and lifted his head, nostrils flaring. “Fix your skirt. Now.” 

She wasn’t sure why she obeyed, not when so many golden, glinting eyes were emerging from between the shipping containers, blazing with curiosity and rage. Stalking toward them with eerie silence. At least a dozen of them, their mouths growing wide and twisted as their teeth elongated, glinting so strangely, all of them drooling. The heady distraction of being touched made her clumsy, and she scrabbled to retrieve her gun from her jacket. Normally the harsh click when she cocked it was enough to give someone pause, but not them. They weren’t even looking at Moira. The cold fury on their faces wasn’t for her either, but Remmick whirled on them, turning his back to her, stretching an arm out to keep her back, either to protect her, or them. She wasn’t sure. 

“This one’s mine you illiterate fucks.” His voice was inhuman, so low and terrible she felt it vibrate in her bones. “So clear off.” 

“We just wanna watch.” One of them simpered mockingly, a tall, dark skinned man wearing what was once a smart grey suit. His head tilted playfully to the side. “Why ain’t you saved her yet?” 

“Back off.” Remmick warned. “This ain’t none of yer damned business.” His accent was so thick, breaking through his usual southern drawl. 

“She your favorite?” A different voice. A woman with greying hair, still wearing her Sunday best, the lace now black and moldy with old blood. 
Moira couldn’t breathe. 

Remmick roared something at them, in a language so ancient and forgotten, it had likely never been written on paper. It spoke of rage and betrayal, of family ties brutally cut, of pain. So much pain. He whirled on them, prowling back and forth in front of her like a caged beast. 

“It was my time, you selfish cunts.” He raged. “I saw the faces of my loved ones. My true family. I saw the sun blazin’ over that piss water lake and I knew it was finally my fuckin’ time.”

His anger was so palpable, so terrifying, but Moira had seen these kinds of standoffs before, and a single thought pierced through the fog of her petrified mind as she stared at the approaching march of death. This is theater. Remmick continued to snarl at his abandoned thralls in that long dead language. The man in the grey suit was eyeing her with interest, and he reached out a hand to her. 

She fired the gun. It hit him in the chest, making him stagger back. A mistake. 

They lunged, all at once, a singular hive mind, a pack of ravenous wolves. They were going to be torn apart. Remmick seized her by the waist, and leapt, carrying them both on top of the shipping container, bellowing at her to run. They followed with unnatural speed that made her heart jump into her throat. Their feet barely made any sound as they touched metal. This was a goddamned nightmare. Some of them chased on all fours like demons. 

She felt him grab the back of her coat and she was flying, hitting the next shipping container on her knees. They cracked painfully, the noise of the impact echoing like an enormous oil drum. He’d tossed her as easily as throwing a bag of flour. Then she was being hauled upright, and holy shit they were practically flying, his arm hooked beneath her thighs, cradling her to him. She hated the way her muscles trembled with fear, but his strength was otherworldly, and he held her tight. 

“We need the car! You fuckin’ twat!” She howled. 

He glowered down at her, but landed in front of it. Moira opened the passenger side door and slid gracelessly into the driver’s seat. Remmick stared back at his fellow vampires, face twisted with outrage and guilt, then followed, slamming the door so hard the glass cracked.

Moira turned the engine over, and slammed her foot on the gas, making the wheels spin. She managed to clip the curb as she backed the car off the dock faster than she ever had in her life, turning the wheel at the last possible moment, and feeling the thud of impact when she hit one of them, his wail of hunger and pain making her blood run cold. 

Something wriggled in the back of her mind as they gave chase. She glanced briefly at them through the rearview mirror, brows furrowed. Remmick was silent. Contemplating. The thralls slowed. Finally they stopped. She could still feel their eyes on the back of her head, even as they grew smaller, and finally disappeared, slinking back into the labyrinth of shipping containers. Curious. 

“Thought there’d be more ‘em.” 

His eyes snapped to her. “Oh there’s more. Don’t you worry.” He sounded oddly offended. 

She thought about that night with Jun, how he’d been the best getaway driver she’d ever seen, and how still Joan had kept up, her awful claws scratching the paint on the roadster. “They’re slow, for your kind.” 

“Good lord, woman.” He scoffed. “I told you they’re dumber than a bag o’ hammers. Probably starvin.’”

“How could they be starvin’? This ain’t some backwater village. We’re in Chicago.” Moira frowned. 

Remmick snorted. “Look around. You see any homeless? Look where we are. Which neighborhood is this?” 

“Don’t patronize me, arsehole.” She said darkly. “I know we’re in the blackbelt. I know Bronzeville is three blocks down. I know the feds are cunts who wouldn’t even look twice if an entire black family went missin.’ I know that better than you. My question is,” she looked pointedly into the rearview mirror once more. “Why the fuck did they let us go?” 

His mouth twisted at this, that war raging behind those eyes again. She saw him fidget, flexing his hand once. Abruptly, she slammed on the brakes, and the car lurched to a stop. Her gun was in her hand. She pointed it in his face. 

“GODDAMN woman! Jesus H. Christ!” His expression was boyish, full of shock and dismay, but those eyes were simmering with rage. “It ain’t easy to kill yer own maker, darlin’.”

“So unmake them.” She growled. “You admitted they’re foul enough to target this neighborhood. So end it.” 

“It don’t work like that babygirl.” Remmick half chuckled, raising his hands, about to point her gun somewhere other than his face. She cocked it, and he jerked back. “Now I know you’ve got a few tricks up yer sleeve…” he smirked at his own joke, “but for fuck’s sake girl, yer askin’ me to kill my own children.” 

“No.” She replied coldly. “I’m wonderin’ why you haven’t done it yet. Sentimental, Remmick?”

“Ooh baby I love it when you say my name.” His smile was dazzling but it did not reach those eyes. “You don’t strike me as a woman who’d hold someone responsible for another’s actions, Moira. Now please get that out of my face.” 

She stared at him for a long moment, then sighed and disarmed the gun, taking a moment to disassemble the silencer before placing it back in the glove box. 

“Thank you kindly.” Remmick nodded. 

“I thought you could control them.” 

“I can only influence, and only in proximity.” He smirked. “Why do you think they didn’t tear into ye the moment they smelled you?” 

“Why didn’t they?”

“Because I ain’t done with you yet, babygirl.” His hand reached out to her as she started the car back up, long fingers brushing her thigh teasingly.

She pushed the hand away. “To be clear, the only reason I’m not shootin’ ye is because you cleaned up that mess we made the other night. Consider us even.”

“Still don’t trust me?” He smirked. Moira actually laughed at that. Then something came over her. A stab of panic. Her head grew fuzzy, eyes widening as she white knuckled the steering wheel. “Moira.” Remmick’s lips were close to her ear. “We got out, Moira. You survived. You’ve survived it all, and by god you’re the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.” His face revealed an expression she had never seen on him before. Concern. “I changed my mind. You can shoot me if you want.” He was doing that thing again, tracing little patterns on the back of her hand. “You’re feelin’ too many things. I’m partially responsible for that.”

Something like rage flickered to life within her, but it was not rage. Her eyes fluttered open. 

“Tell me what happened in Mississippi.” She whispered. 

He went quiet for a long time, then sighed. She was surprised to see a faint blush creep across his cheeks. Good lord could vampires really feel shame? 

“I made a mistake. Too many, actually.” His eyes flicked to hers, but she showed nothing on her face. “I was lonely. Idealistic. Thought if I just made more like me, I could fix…well everything. Make a new beginning. No more hatred or petty human squabbles.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But really I was just puttin’ my pain on others. Then there was this boy. The music he made…” he flinched. “You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, but I wanted him. His songs.”

“Then what?” She’d witnesses enough interrogations to know that there was far more he was leaving out. 

“He caved my skull in. Most of my children burned. That night Joan and some of the others dragged me out, skin blackened like a damn catfish, and they fed me. Little bits at a time. Couple o’ dead klansmen they’d found, and oh god they tasted fuckin’ foul, and their memories…” he shuddered, such an odd thing to witness. “I’d thought I could change people. Save ‘em.” 

“By eating them?” She lifted an eyebrow. 

“Sounds pretty bad when you put it like that.” 

“It is pretty bad you fuckin’ idiot.” She snapped.

“I assure you I had good intentions.” He actually looked somewhat hurt.

“Road to hell, and all that.” She mused, then considered him thoughtfully. “Immortality sounds a bit shite.” 

“It is. Except when it ain’t.” His smile was strange. Almost shy, which was in some ways more alarming than the one he wore before he ripped someone’s head off. “Girl, your life is the most excitin’ one I’ve seen in centuries.” 

Moira snorted in disgust, and gave him a hard look. “In the past forty eight hours I have been assaulted by thugs, threatened with knives, evaded the police, chased by a pack of yer fuckin’ thralls, and I killed three people. Four? Nah, three.” She huffed . “Truth be told I’m startin’ to crave a bit o’ borin’.” 

“I don’t think you’re cut out for borin’ babygirl. I think you need it, like one of those dope fiends your boss sells to.” His head tilted as he looked her up and down. She hated the way he was looking at her. She loved the way he was looking at her. 

“Christ I need a fuckin’ bath.” She sighed. 

“I could help.” 

“Get fucked.” 

“I need one too.” He pointed out. 

That made her smile a bit. “Don’t get excited. The zǎotáng has a wall. Qian insisted on it when she had it built.”

“What’s that?” He lifted an eyebrow. 

“Like a bathhouse. Ye haven’t seen it? Christ where do you bathe?” She turned the ignition back on, and continued driving. 

“The Empress insists that I clean myself in her grand apartment before she gives me her blood. Funny lil quirk of hers. I get nowhere near her but I guess…” he shrugged. Moira snorted. That sounded just like her, to insist on cleanliness before he took any part of her inside him. The thought squirmed unpleasantly in her belly. She had not truly considered the intimacy of what Qian had agreed to. “Ooh look at your face babygirl. You don’t like that, huh?” He teased. “She tried to pull a fast one on me you know. Tried to give me some soldier’s blood instead.” Moira didn’t even pretend to act surprised. “Told her if she did it again, I’d bleed Jimmy-boy dry.” 

“You’d have to get through me first.” 

“That’s what I was hopin’ for.” He winked. 

“If ye want my blood so much, why didn’t ye bargain for it? Why hers?”

“Jealous?” The thought seemed to please him immensely. She gave him a look of utter disgust. “I considered it. But I don’t want yours from a jar. Straight from the source, sugar.” His smirk was salacious. 

She parked the car, closer to the speakeasy than she usually would have, but she was just too tired to care if the beat up car attracted attention. Moira knew the vampire was watching her every move, and then he spoke. 

“Are we gonna talk about…” he grinned, “you know.” 

“No.” She slammed the door shut. 

“Ah. So I take it this is the part where you act like nothin’ happened.”

“Nothin’ did happen.” Her sneer was contemptuous. “I didn’t cum, remember?” She shrugged, and to her enormous gratification, he stilled, and watched her walk away, clearly struggling to find something clever to throw back at her. 

Chapter Text

The zǎotáng was not large or regal. No recessed pools or hot stones, only a shower and three enormous barrel shaped tubs for relaxation, divided by a slat wall beyond which were three more. There were no public bathhouses in Chinatown, but this one Qian had built specifically for her soldiers, and staff. A small luxury and a welcome one. Moira didn’t use it too often, not liking the way the others gaped at her tattooed skin, but now she had it all to herself. 

She’d left Remmick outside in the street to sulk, and tried not to think on him as she showered, not caring how much hot water she used. She washed off the blood and the smell of sweat and gun smoke, and carefully cleaned the evidence of her arousal from the heady kiss that had almost led to more than she was willing to admit. Goddamn it she must have been desperate to have let it go that far. Dipping her head beneath the shower, she finished the job herself, since Remmick had been so keen not to let her. 

Moira then soaked in one of the tubs until the water went cold, and emerged feeling like she’d just survived a war. Her body ached, but oh god it was so good to be clean. She even found a bottle of Shuangmei that someone had forgotten, and dabbed a bit of its jasmine scent on her throat and beneath her arms. She thought about stealing it, but didn’t. Moira did however wrap herself in one of the cotton robes she found, thinking she’d simply sneak it into the laundry later. No one would question it of course, but it was still considered rude to heist them. 

She jumped back, startled nastily by the sight of Remmick glowering back at her when she opened the bathhouse door.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” She hissed. He said nothing. His body was so still and so unnaturally tense as he stared down at her, his chest rising and falling hard. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “I’m not too young to die of shock, ye know.” 

“You’d better kill me, babygirl.” He said softly. “Those Italians might come after you for it, but god help me you need to kill me.” Remmick moved then, his steps soft and graceful, shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes completely and resolutely fixed on her. 

Moira felt the flutter of fear. She was growing used to it, and she knew that was a bad sign in of itself. This man was a predator, and he seemed to delight in reminding her of the fact. But somehow this rush of terror excited her, so different from the fear she’d felt in that alley with all those men. A flash of memory. Remmick dripping in their blood, licking it from his fingers, like a vengeful god.

He looked like one now as he inched closer, gently pushing the door behind him and locking it without even looking, because he was only looking at her, at the pinkish flush of her skin, her exposed throat, the rapid increase of her breath. Be calm, my girl. Be still. The steam from her bath still drifted lazily around them, curling around his wrists and settling in his hair and skin. At some point he had rolled up the cuffs of his linen shirt and she could see the veins of his forearms. God he was tense. 

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.” She growled. His eyes were gleaming red again, and his head tilted with manic curiosity. “Remmick?” His eyes fluttered closed as he breathed through his nostrils, scenting her like a hound. 

“All those other scents you had on you, the smell of those boys, the blood of the man you killed? They were protecting you but now? Oh god the fuckin’ steam smells like you, Moira.” His head rolled back. A sound like a panther’s growl was rumbling in his throat. She watched his Adam’s apply bob as he swallowed, and screwed his eyes shut. “Maybe if I focus on that flower smell you put on…” he shuddered. Then suddenly he was far too close. 

Moira shoved him back a little and he staggered. “I’ve had enough bullying fer one night, thank you very much. Now fuck off.” 

“Oh no.” His smile was cruel. “We’re going to finish what we started. Oh god Moira, the sounds you were makin.’ The sound you made just now when you touched yourself, tryin’ so damn hard to be quiet. Did you think I wouldn’t hear? Did you want me to hear? Babygirl do not make me beg.” He sounded angry. A dare. 

“You had yer chance.” She shrugged, hating the way her voice cracked. 

“Don’t lie to me.” The way his voice deepened was borderline terrifying. “Do. Not. Lie.” He enunciated every word with care. “I could make it real good, darlin’. For you I could make it last hours and hours.” Remmick leaned close and breathed deeply through his nostrils. “I want to taste you so fuckin’ bad.” She hated the way she throbbed at his words, how the heat of them flushed her skin, and made her dizzy. His hands were twitching, as if he were fighting the urge to…what? Throttle her? Caress her? It was impossible to say anymore. “Just say the words, babygirl.”

Moira’s lip quirked. “You need an invitation to the  zǎotáng?” 

Remmick moved with vampire speed, his hands fisting her hair, those long elegant fingers gripping her scalp, tugging her head back so she was forced to look up at him. “I don’t need an invitation to make you scream.” 

It happened so fast. His body was encompassing her, pushing her back with such urgency, such vicious intent, it stole the air from her lungs. She was sitting on the stone step that elevated the tub she’d just bathed in, and his mouth was on hers, devouring her fucking soul, his little growls and whimpers so desperate and pleading they made the ache between her legs almost painful. 

“Tell me to stop, Moira. If you want it to stop you have to tell me now.” He begged. His fingers were toying with the front of her robe. 

She tossed back her curls and stared at him, her eyes glazed and unfocused. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what? Be specific.” He snarled. 

“Don’t stop.” 

His eyes widened with fiendish delight and he crushed his mouth to hers, his tongue demanding entrance, probing and seeking. “More. Say please.” She whimpered and shook her head, just a little. Like hell she would. “I will hear you beg for me, babygirl.” He whispered, and the front of her cotton robe was yanked open, the string snapped. There was a glow in his eyes that unsettled her as he gazed down at her breasts, generous and aching, her nipples already hard from exposure. “You cold, sugar?” He teased before lowering his head, and taking one into his mouth, sucking hard.

She arched her back, unable to stop herself, feeling him smirk against her flesh as he toyed with her, gasping in elation and terror when she felt his teeth, the pain sending jolts of electricity down her spine, but he was careful not to draw blood. Surprising. His touch was so rough, his fingers calloused, biting into her skin, but oh his mouth was everything. Still holding her hair hostage, he gave it a sharp tug and chuckled when she gave a little cry, but it became muffled when his tongue flickered over her aching nipple. 

Remmick’s own voice was anything but stifled, like he didn’t give a good goddamn who might overhear. He was enjoying himself, and that rough masculine voice, moaning as he suckled her was driving her mad, and when he moved to her other breast, her body convulsed beneath him, desperate for any kind of pressure where she needed it most, emitting a little moan of frustration. This seemed to amuse him greatly. 

“None of that now. Remember darlin,’ if you scream I’ll have to do somethin’ about it.” He sucked her tender flesh between his lips with a gentle popping sound, making her moan. “And right now the only way I want to silence you is by sliding my cock down that pretty throat.” A shudder so deep rippled through her and she had to bite her lip to keep quiet. “Ohh fuck you’d like that, huh?” His fingers were moving, traveling down her hip, toying with her, brushing the robe aside until they found what they wanted. “Maybe even more than like it.” Those fingers danced down her thighs, gripping tightly for a moment before dipping between them. She couldn’t help herself. She opened for him, and felt his entire body grow impossibly rigid at how slick she was for him. “Tell me what I want to hear. Say it to me sweetly.” 

Moira did not beg. She did not say please. 

“Remmick.” She murmured, her voice low and languid. 

A flash of something that wasn’t quite anger behind those red, red eyes. “That’ll do.” His hands bit into her hips , and he was on his knees before her, pulling her roughly to him so violently she whimpered. “That’s it girl. I love those little sounds you make. I want more of them, you hear?” All she could do was nod. She felt his fingers gliding up and down her slickness, in firm strokes, and melted at the touch. Then two of those fingers were sliding inside her, and she felt herself clench around him. 

“Oh god.” She whispered. 

Finally, he gazed down and looked upon her, so vulnerable before him, his fingers sliding in and out of her cunt with an almost boyish fascination that she’d never seen before. With no warning whatsoever, his head was between her thighs, and he was pulling her so close. “Goddamn beautiful.” He breathed, withdrawing his fingers with maddening slowness.

Her vision exploded, a barrage of sparks behind her eyelids as devoured her. No more teasing or light caresses to torment her. The sound that came out of him when he tasted her for the first time was like an animal, and every stroke of that sinful, talented tongue made her want to weep with pleasure. His mouth was brutal, unhinged in a way that no mortal man’s could replicate, his tongue punishing as it pushed inside of her, and he was gazing up at her with such hunger that it nearly pulled her right over that precipice.

“Not yet, babygirl.” He crooned, so delighted by the silent pleading written on her face. Moira’s eyes were wide, glazed with need, and the words nearly tumbled out but she bit her lip, and stifled them. “Not until I fuckin’ say so.” His snarl was soft, almost dangerous. Moira felt his fingers slide deep inside of her once more, slow and languid, curling ever so slightly until he found that spot, so often neglected by past lovers. The smile that curled his lips was infuriatingly handsome. She closed her eyes in frustration and let her head fall back, feeling the approaching orgasm slowly ebb away. For a man so desperate, he was showing inhuman control, eager to torment her.

Then she felt it. His tongue, hot and wet against her painfully swollen clit, drawing slow torturous circles, and he was moaning in rapture. She wriggled beneath him, desperate for more, but he stilled her roughly, grabbing her ass with one hand, then circling the arm beneath her hips, locking her in place. “None of that now, or I’ll spank you so good you’ll see daylight.” His threat made heat curl in her belly, and he giggled. “Oh honey. I didn’t think it was possible for this cunt to get any wetter.” Another long, slow lick up her center, a sharp flick over her aching clit. “I wanted to do this ever since I saw you drag that cigarette, night I showed up. Wanted to wipe that disdain right off that pretty face.”

“God do you ever shut up?” She breathed. 

Another low chuckle. “Now I’ve got you and I’m gonna take my goddamn time.” 

His lips wrapped around her clit, and he sucked. Saints in heaven, it hurt but oh the way it hurt, making her legs shake and her toes curl, pleasure seizing her entire body like a vice. Moira must have said something, a sound like a whimper or maybe a scream leaving her lungs, making him grin. He sucked her again, more gently, this time his tongue moving hard and fast over the screaming bud, so cruel and fuck her body was convulsing, twisting against his grip. But again he paused, and stared up at her in infuriating triumph, waiting as the pleasure slowly subsided, leaving her trembling. “Not yet. What did I fuckin’ say?” 

A new tactic was needed. “I want you to fuck me.” She said breathlessly. 

“No.” He sneered. “Weeks of watchin’ you, dyin’ to touch you. You’re gonna pay for that, sugar.” 

“I’m ready for you now.” She could fight dirty. “I want to feel you inside me.”

“Go on then. You’re so pretty when you beg.” Remmick’s fingers were pumping harder now, betraying him. She could feel how painfully tense his body was. This was torture for him as well and he was just as desperate as she was. 

“You can take me however you want to. Remmick…” 

There was an edge to the guttural throat moan in his throat as he latched his mouth back onto her clit. Moira’s cry was high and sharp, and there was no muffling it. The sensations were so intense she thought she might die. An exquisite way to go, but she wanted to throttle him. 

He continued this torture for what felt like an eternity, always stopping just as she was about to find release, pausing to taunt her, his words so deliciously filthy. 

“One little word, Moira. Just one.”

“Fuck. You.” She gritted her teeth. 

“Manners, babygirl.” 

She was trembling, her thighs quivering. Moira had no idea that her body was capable of this, of being pushed so far again and again with no satisfaction. Part of her, the stubborn part, wanted to tie up her robe, and leave him there, but she knew if she tried to stand by herself she would collapse. Remmick seemed to know this, as he kissed her inner thigh with surprising gentleness, watching her as if she were the most entertaining thing in the world. 

“Pathetic.” He whispered against her flesh. “Say it, darlin’. Let it go. The only thing stoppin’ me, is you.” There was something strange about the way he was looking at her now, something soft behind that cruel smile. “I want to watch you come undone. I want to taste it.” 

Moira bit her lip so hard she drew blood. At the sight of this, his nostrils flared and he shuddered, eyes growing black. She didn’t care. She didn’t care how vulnerable she was, or that he could bleed her dry in an instant. There was an artery mere inches from his mouth that would do the trick quite nicely. Alarming how much that appealed to her. 

“Alright.” She sighed, breath trembling. “You win.” She cleared her throat. “Please, Remmick. Please let me cum.” 

His body went rigid, his eyes returning to a startling blue as they widened. With both hands he gripped her thighs and pulled her viciously to his face, his eyes rolling back as if this pleasured him every bit as much as it did her. His lips suckled her, and with the rapid motion of his tongue, she came, finally. It was painful yet exquisite, a long stream of curses fluttering from her mouth as she felt her walls clench so hard it damned her soul. His fingers were fucking her, and she could feel herself squeezing convulsively around them, as he watched in utter fascination and rapture. Then she was falling, falling, falling, floating down into sweet, slow release, her soul re entering her body. 

He stared at her in silence, then murmured something in that archaic language she did not understand, but felt like a curse. If this was what damnation felt like than so be it.  

Moira’s lids opened again in a fluttering of lashes. She felt high. She felt like she could sleep for a thousand years. But he was still staring down at her with that odd, twisted expression. Words formed in her head, but she couldn’t quite make them. Fix your face, idiot. 

Instead she chuckled, drunkenly, and lifted a hand, gently tracing his cheekbone in a light caress. A firm hand seized her wrist at the touch, but she ignored it, and instead, in a brief moment of madness, lazily trailed her fingers through his mop of brown hair, gently grazing his scalp. His eyes went wide with shock, and his lips parted in a sharp gasp. To her amazement, he groaned, a low, pained sound, and shuddered deeply. 

Somewhere in her muddled thoughts she realized that a flush had crept into his cheeks, and he was suddenly staring at anything but her, but too late. She saw it. The damp spot on his jeans, clear and wet. Holy fuck. With one gentle caress, she had accomplished what he had drawn out for hours. Something snapped into place when she suddenly realized that she had power over him, and he hated it. The thought should have elated her, filled her with triumph. It didn’t. A line formed between her brows.

Her lips opened. To say what? She didn’t know exactly, and she hated that. She hated it even more when he turned his head away. She positively despised it when he tucked tail and ran like a fucking coward instead of staying with her. That thought crashed into her like someone had snipped a net full of bricks. Fuck, she wanted him to stay. Wanted him to stay while she washed herself again. Wanted him to do anything other than leave her trembling on the damp floor with her robe torn open, the prick. 

She cleaned herself once more, and re tied her robe with a snarl. 

****************************************

Moira scowled down at the jar of pig’s blood in her hand and considered shattering it on the floor, but she knew if she did, the poor maid who’d been tasked with delivering it to the basement would be punished. The poor girl had drawn the short straw, but looked so terrified that Moira had felt sorry for her. Fucking vampire had been avoiding her anyway. 

At first she’d pretended not to care, enjoying her freedom away from him for a time. Then it had annoyed her. Then it infuriated her. The goddamned audacity of him. Time for confrontation. 

The basement was hidden of course, the short tunnel tucked away behind a pantry, leading to a small storeroom meant for booze that watered only their speakeasy, but more than enough to get them all thrown in prison if it were found. Moira stalked through the short, earth packed tunnel, to the janky basement door, lit underneath by the orange glow of a single lightbulb. Remmick didn’t answer the door right away, so she pounded on it louder with a fist. 

“Look me in the eye you fuckin’ coward!” She bellowed, not giving a damn if the kitchen staff heard. 

The door swung open and there he stood, shirtless, glaring down at her with such venom she actually took a step back, then she remembered why she was there and thrust the jar of blood angrily to his chest. Lip curled in a snarl, he seemed to be considering slamming the door in her face. Then he clearly thought better of it. 

“Hello Moira.” He snapped gruffly, flicking the jar open and taking a long swig. 

She wrinkled her nose. “We’re supposed to be reporting to…”

“I don’t give a fuck about your orders.” He sneered. “You wanna do some more dirty laundry? Go ahead.”

“Then leave.” She growled back, anger flushing her face. “You made the agreement, not me. If yer gettin’ cold feet, get the fuck out.” She put her hands on her hips, noticing the way his eyes flicked over her breasts, enhanced by the motion. “Drink it. You’re a miserable shite when yer hungry.”

Remmick’s cheeks were red as he snorted and finished off the blood, giving her an exasperated look. “There. Happy?” 

“Yes. Now put a shirt on.” 

He gave her an odd look, and she realized he was waiting for something else. 

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Alright.” His face looked even more confused. “I have to report to Aiden McCarthy. Irish territory. And after…” she swallowed, and lowered her voice. “After what happened, I could use backup.” Admitting this pained her. The last thing she wanted to do was ask him for help. 
His eyebrows shot up in surprise and he looked her up and down. She made herself look him in the eyes, forcing herself not to ogle his bare flesh and the dark tattoos that covered his shoulders. If she were completely honest with herself, there was a very real temptation to trace those patterns with her fingertips. 

“Is that all?” He asked with quiet curiosity and wariness. 

Moira groaned. “God damnit alright.” She licked her lips nervously. “This isn’t easy for me, but if yer gonna insist I fuckin’ say it,” her eyes settled on his collarbone, unwilling to look him in the eye. “I’ll feel better with you there. Specifically.” Finally she glanced at his face. Remmick was frowning at her with suspicion. “Fuck it.” She threw her hands up. “I tried.” She turned to leave. 

“Just get it over with.” Remmick growled after her. 
“What?” She whirled around, arms falling back to her sides. “Get what over with?”

“Whatever smartass thing you’ve been dyin’ to say. Spit it out.” There must have been some look of bewilderment on her face because he suddenly looked flushed and irritated. 

She scoffed in amusement. “What, that yer a twat? Thought you knew that.” 

“No.” He snarled. 

Then it clicked. Her eyes widened. Oh. Holy shit. Moira’s brows furrowed as she considered him, the humiliation that was now so clearly written all over his face. It appeared she’d have to address the elephant in the room, ruining her plan to never speak of the bathhouse again, sparing both of their egos. She sighed and stepped closer, peering up at him. 

“Listen. This may not come as a shock to ye, but I know what it’s like to, well…to not be touched in a long time. I imagine fer you, it’s been a very, very long time.” She tilted her head, frowning. “But also, fuck you fer leavin’ me on the floor. So stop bein’ an arse and come help me deal with Aiden McCarthy.” 

The look on his face was almost comically stricken. Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “I thought you never ask for help.”

She snorted. “I don’t trust ye, but I think you’d rather kill me yerself than let the Irish do it. Besides, I’m gettin’ used to you annoying the fuck outta me, so I’d say that makes us friends. So yeah I’m askin’ fer help.” 

Finally he smirked. “Are we friends?” 

She gave him a long look. “Well you’ve seen my tits now, so I suppose we must be.” 

“Is that your standard for friendship?” He chuckled. 

“Tits and murder are phenomenal friendship starters.” 

“Can I see them again?” 

“No. Put a shirt on.” She realized she was grinning. 

Remmick was staring at her again. Then he shook his head. “You don’t smile much.”  

“I smile plenty.” 

“No. You don’t.” He argued.

Brushing him off, she pushed past him, determined to find him a decently clean shirt, feeling his eyes on her. 

“Must be fuckin’ nice,” he muttered “to be able to just barge in with no invitation.” 

“It is nice.” She mused, glancing around the musty basement. “Christ. I’ll get the boys to find ye a real bed.” 

“Floor’s just fine.” Remmick grumbled. 

Moira glanced back at him in annoyance, then grabbed a dark blue shirt off the floor and tossed it to him. Then she dug around his unseemly pile of clothes and found a black coat. 

“This too. Oh and this.” She reached into her own coat and pulled out a flat woolen cap with a grin. “Might be smart to whip out your real accent fer this. Might not take too kindly to southerners these days.”

“Why’s that?” Remmick frowned as he pulled on the clothes, indulging in this bit of theater. 

Moira shrugged. “That night at O’Shaughnessy’s, I overheard the boys talkin.’ One of their trucks got hit a while back. Said somethin’ about a Southern driver.”  She felt the air stir behind her, and couldn’t help but stifle a gasp when Remmick’s hands bit into her shoulders and whirled her to face him. 

“What did you just say?” His eyes were wide and furious. Then he seemed to realize that he’d startled her and yanked his hands back, fingers twitching. 

Moira stared at him, deeply unsettled. “Rumors. Irish got robbed. Had a shipment of their finest stolen right from under their noses, and they’ve been terrorizin’ us ever since. Remmick,” She breathed deeply to settle her nerves. “If you know somethin’ about it, you’d be better off tellin’ me.” 

“Rumors.” He repeated with a mirthless chuckle. “Small world, babygirl.” Then he said something under his breath, and the only words she caught were “fuckin’ smoke.” Odd. 

Pursing her lips, she roughly placed the flat cap on his head, then grinned at the annoyed glare he sent her way, but he did not protest. 

“Good lad.” She teased. 

There was some reluctance as he followed her out, hands in his pockets. Qian was waiting for them, frowning at the beat up continental roadster, which had been filled with crates of gin and shaoxing. Moira winced, realizing she’d never confessed the full extent of the damage, but then Qian was staring hard at Remmick and he was looking back with such intense dislike that Moira blinked. Holy fuck. They hated each other.

Then to her surprise, Qian spoke to him in full Cantonese. “Protect my fucking daughter, jiangshi.” 

Remmick sneered. “Even from you?” 

“Pretty sure they’ll need protection from her.” Jimmy smiled down at her. “Don’t let those fuckers bully you. Only I get to do that.” 

She punched him playfully in the ribs, and Jimmy laughed, and pretended to swing at her, which she dodged. Remmick watched this in utter disgust, then to everyone’s surprise, opened the passengers side door, and gestured impatiently for Moira to get in. She hesitated. 

“Go on girl. I’m drivin’ this time.” He allowed himself to slip into his full Irish accent. 

“Thought you didn’t know how.” Jimmy frowned. 

“Picked up a few tricks since I’ve been here.” Remmick winked at Qian, who glowered. 

“Damn.” Jimmy shook his head. “You learned to drive by just drinking blood? Kinda makes me wanna be a vampire.” 

Remmick’s smile was ice cold. “Careful, pup.” He slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door. Moira watched him frown at the steering wheel for a moment, then turn the engine over. 

He was a piss poor driver. It turned out that learning the concept of driving was not the same as actually doing it. He had absolutely no concern for pedestrians, and seemed to enjoy going as fast as possible only to slam on the brakes. Moira quickly developed a headache from the strain on her neck. 

“Jesus Christ SOME of us don’t have magical healing ye cunt.” She snapped. 

“This way, right?” He ignored her and turned a sharp left. Moira’s head thudded against the window and she hissed in surprise as he giggled, enjoying himself immensely.

“Why the hell did I let you do this?” She grumbled. 

“Because yer in the middle of a power struggle, darlin’ and appearances are everythin.’ Seen more than a few of ‘em in my time. You wanna change the status quo, we’re gonna have to show ‘em somethin.’ Drivin’ yerself ain’t a good look.” He looked up and down at her pointedly. “If Qian had any sense she’d doll you up more. Let you borrow a dress.”

Moira snorted. “Qian’s dresses wouldn’t fit me with a crowbar.”

“Thank god fer that.” Lord, that accent was thick now. His lips tugged back in a feral grin. “Be grateful fer that arse babygirl. It’s one o’ the reasons I haven’t killed you.”

“Park here.” She ordered quietly, feeling her face warm from his remark. 

Remmick obeyed, and gave her a long look. Then to her enormous shock, he reached for her, sinking those long fingers into her hair, and kissing her so hard she saw stars. She felt his hand at her throat, surprisingly soft, but still an aggressive act that made her nipples hard under her work shirt. He moaned against her lips, then pulled away, leaving her breathless. 

“The fuck was that for?” She asked, irritated mostly by the sudden lack of him. 

“In case we get killed.” He shrugged, as if the prospect didn’t particularly bother him. 

“It’s just a drop off and a quick report. Stop bein’ dramatic.”

“Whatever you say.” 

She watched him suspiciously as he got out of the car, walked around the back and opened the door for her. Moira frowned up at him as he extended a hand for her. This is just theater, she reminded herself. It meant nothing. 

They were being watched. Only a handful of men were working the dockside at this hour, loading up the day’s last shipments of oysters and booze onto their refrigerated trucks, because Americans liked their beer cold, and it was convenient. Still, she felt a tremor of warmth as Remmick held her hand, his blue eyes burning a hole in her. She briefly caressed his knuckles with her thumb, and saw him stiffen just a little. Not used to being touched. 

“Oy. Who the fuck is that with ye?” A rough voice called out. 

“Mind yer fuckin’ mouth.” Moira spat back. Some of them chuckled, but not in a friendly way. 

“Ah. Evenin’ lads.” Remmick drew a cigarette case from his pocket and handed one to Moira. She placed it delicately between her lips as he struck a match and lit it for her. Ever the gentleman, in public. If she were honest with herself she’d admit that the gesture was strangely attractive. Goddamnit. Now wasn’t the time. 

“You fresh off the boat?” The speaker was younger than the others, but just as suspicious. 

“Yeah. New start and all that.” Remmick smiled easily. “Chicago’s a grand city ain’t she?”

A snort, followed by soft muttering. Moira winced as they drew closer, eyeing Remmick with interest as they began unloading the crates from the roadster. 

“Ye didn’t make yerself known? Seek out yer own kind first?” Ah fuck. 

“Sure I did.” Remmick shrugged. “Me n’ Moira are childhood sweethearts, ain’t we lass?” He gave her a wolfish grin. 

She rolled her eyes at him. “Right. Where’s the boss man?” 

One of the men was dutifully counting the number of crates she’d brought, nodding at the others. All accounted for. Later they’d crack them open to count every single bottle. 

“In there.” He jerked his head at the warehouse. 

“Well someone go get him fer fuck’s sake. Let the lady enjoy her cigarette.” Remmick crooned. Moira could have throttled him. 

They were staring at her with suspicion and coldness, but they did what he asked. She was grateful, in spite of herself. Out here was far better than being led back into that freezing warehouse with no chance of escape. Out here there might be witnesses although she doubted anyone would be stupid enough to talk if things went south and they were slaughtered. Their best chance of protection was her landlady’s fearsome reputation. 

Aiden McCarthy did not look amused. He towered over everyone, in his crisp suit and double breasted coat, showing little to no interest as his boys loaded their car with Irish beer. His harsh blue eyes landed on her, and she steeled her expression, feeling Remmick grow tense beside her. 

“Miss. Domnhall.” His voice was cool and casual, but there was steel in the way he addressed her. “You’re starting to garner quite the reputation.” He tilted his head, considering her. “My boys are callin’ ye ‘Moira the Mauler.’” Those eyes flickered over her, clearly unimpressed. Remmick snickered next to her. Aiden McCarthy’s attention flew to him immediately. “I see you’ve hired a new man. What happened to the big fella?”

Moira gritted her teeth, irritated that this man would dare mention Jun. “Heart gave out.” 

“Did it? Shame. I liked him. Quiet. Polite.” His steel gaze did not leave Remmick. “Where’d ye find this one?”

“Fresh off the boat.” Remmick repeated, unprompted. 

“Too good for yer own kind eh?” Aiden sounded unamused. Remmick only shrugged. Moira thought she heard murmurs of “race traitors” among the men. 

“Ah what can I say? Me and Moira go waaaay back.” His smile was fiendish. 

McCarthy sized them up, then smiled coldly. “A man will do a lot fer a piece of ass. Can’t say much fer yer taste though.” Laughter. Moira lifted an eyebrow. Let them mock. Remick’s smile grew wider, more unnatural, showing all his teeth and Moira silently prayed that his incisors were not changing. 

She took a long drag of her cigarette, and looked Aiden dead in the eyes. “That’s not very nice. Wonder what Millie would say?” 

Aiden McCarthy went dangerously still, as his men exchanged bewildered looks. To their knowledge their boss was untouchable, unmarried with no family to speak of, but Moira had something they didn’t. She had a vampire who could see a man’s memories through one taste of blood, and it just so happened that he had recently drunk from three Irishmen just the other night, and poor dead Colin knew a secret, one he’d taken to this grave. Aiden McCarthy had a lover, who sang at one of the black clubs in Bronzeville, and she was pregnant. 

And lord help him if it got out that not only was Aiden McCarthy not untouchable, he was not as keen on Irish “purity” as he’d let others believe.

McCarthy’s mouth twitched, considering, then it broke into a smile. “Ah Moira. Yer a sharp one, ain’t no mistake. Please, come have a drink with me. I insist. Bring yer man with ye, by all means.” 

So much for the safety of the dock. She had expected this, but still she felt a sense of dread curling in the pit of her stomach as the men watched them follow Aiden McCarthy up the metal stairs that lead to his private office above the warehouse, their jaws set, and it was no surprise. Six of them had now gone missing, and she was the only link to all of them. In the past few weeks, she had unknowingly created a name for herself. 

Remmick stayed close. She was grateful for that, though she thought she heard a low growl in his throat when one of McCarthy’s goons patted her down, checking for weapons. 

“Gun in the jacket, knife in the sleeve, and…let’s see what’s in the other sleeve.” The goon reported. Moira flicked out the wooden hairpin, making Remmick smirk. “Gun, knife and whatever that is.”

“For her lovely hair.” Remmick answered, as he too was pat down. 

“No weapons on him.” The soldier said to McCarthy, unamused. He did not take what Moira carried. McCarthy clearly did not consider her much of a threat. Arrogant. 

The office was spacious, and overlooked the warehouse through large steel framed windows. His desk was surprisingly humble, but the man himself was intimidating enough. He simply didn’t need ostentatious decor to prove himself when he possessed his kind of cold, intelligent aura and brute force. To Moira’s surprise, he dismissed his soldiers, and removed his coat and hat before uncorking a glass decanter. 

“Whiskey? It’s expensive. I think you’ll appreciate it.” He offered her a glass. She took it. Remmick declined. Moira watched as Aiden perched on the edge of his desk and waited for him to take a sip before taking her own. God it was so smoky and smooth, but it burned her throat all the same. Truth be told, she couldn’t really tell if it was expensive or not, but it was strong.

“Word on the street is, you’ve got a few people worried about you, Moira.” He began, swirling his whiskey. 

“Do I?” There was some genuine surprise at that though she did not show it. 

“The Italians. My own men. Madam Qian, by the look of things.” He glanced pointedly at Remmick, then addressed him. “With the exception of lovely Moira here, Qian doesn’t take strays. Odd that she would let you stay so close to home.” His eyes hardened a bit. “So what have you got on her?” 
Moira stilled, the dread in her belly rearing its ugly head, breathing fire as Remmick’s smile curled, cool and serene.

“She’s a decent landlady, far as I can tell. As much as landladies can be decent.” He replied calmly. 

“I could shoot Moira right now,”Aiden mused.

“And offer you double whatever she’s paying you.”
To her surprise, Remmick laughed. “You could. And I could take a little trip to the blackbelt and pay sweet Millie a visit.”

The look on the Irishman’s face was positively terrifying. 

“Come on, McCarthy. You remember the Tong wars.” Moira scoffed. “No one wants that. And over what? Found meself an Irish lad. You should be proud. We lost a good soldier. The Italians got hit. Better reasons to start a slaughter than me takin’ a lover.” 

Moira felt the surprised glance Remmick sent her way, felt its warm touch on her cheek. 

“Way it looks to me, Moira Domhnall, you’ve found a way to play all sides.”

“I’m not that fuckin’ smart. Or ambitious. And I’ve seen what Qian does to traitors.” She winced, thinking how just the other night she’d been ordered to take a man’s life just for having a big mouth. 

“Ah Moira yer a slippery one.” For a moment he looked almost sad. “Should have been me that found ye on the street. I could have taken you in, found you a good school, raised you myself.” He shook his head. 

Moira felt a surge of rage at this. Qian had taken her education as a personal challenge, and she’d bet good money that it was far better than any of the schools in Chicago. 

“Or she’d have ended up in one of those whorehouses on Levee. Maybe even the one you frequent.” Remmick said in a voice she’d never heard him use before. 

“Startin’ to think you know far too much about me. What did you say yer name was?”

“I didn’t.” Remmick smiled. 

Moira knew she had to put out this fire before it became an inferno and they both ended up in one of those ice trucks. 

“The Italians want blood.” She tried to sound bored. “After Stella’s got hit, Nico Farino made threats. We locked in. They’re desperate to hit ye back. We lost Jun. Nico lost a cousin. You want Chinatown to keep havin’ yer back? Give us somethin.’” 

“Six of my men are missing.” Aiden growled. 

“Six boys. Six reckless drunks who probably pissed off the wrong people.” The lie made her feel queasy. “We lost a good fuckin’ soldier. Jun was worth all six of them. We’re already paying for yer pigheadedness.” 

“My shipments were stolen from me.” McCarthy drank the last of his whiskey, as if trying not to lose his temper. 

“Cost of doin’ business.” Moira shrugged. “Yer a businessman. You open a fuckin Woolworth’s or a goddamned Macy’s and you stock it knowin’ some of that supply is goin’ missing. These are hard times and people are desperate. Could have been worse. The feds could have found it and traced it back to ye.”

“Are you advising me to let it go?” He sounded amused. 

“Only in private. You’ve already made it clear that anyone who fucks with your production ends up dead. You made it clear with Stella’s.” She looked him in the eye, saw the conflict there. They both knew that the Irish had nothing to do with the massacre. But he didn’t know that Moira knew far more, and so far had kept quiet, content to let the world think he’d ordered it. Why challenge something that only served him? “Ye drew first blood. Don’t go makin’ enemies where there aren’t any.”

Aiden considered her for a long time. “How much does she pay you, Moira?”

“Not enough.” Remmick quipped. Moira threw a glare at him so fierce he actually winced. 

“Agreed. It’s not enough, whatever it is. Don’t worry. I won’t insult you by offerin.’ I can already see how loyal you are. So what do you want? Allow me to repeat myself before you parrot whatever the Empress trained you to say. What do you want?”

Moira’s brain whirled in rapid motion. They needed expansion, somewhere they could house more refugees. Immediately she thought of Priya, the kind seamstress who had treated her like family. Moira now saw an opportunity to repay that kindness. She could give her protection. 

“Market street.” She said. Aiden’s eyes narrowed and she knew he was thinking about Barry, Colin and the other who were missing, though he had no proof that they were dead. Surely there had been rumors, about where they’d been going and what they’d intended to do. Her people liked to talk. But Aiden McCarthy was too smart to throw any accusations her way. “The Italians won’t touch it,” she continued “and yer boys use it as a pissing ground. You’ll hardly miss it.” 

“Done.” 

That was a shock. She tried not to show it on her face, and failed. Tilting her head, she decided she felt bold enough to ask for one more thing. 

“Do ye know anyone who works at the Art museum?” 

****************************************

“What are we doin’ here, Moira?” Remmick sounded grumpy. She brushed him off as she approached the security guard, who eyed them nervously. 

“Aiden McCarthy sent us.” She held out a piece of paper, a hand written note from McCarthy himself, who had drawn her in close when he gave it to her. Keep an eye on yer man, there, he’d said. I know a rabid dog when I see one. 

The night watchman frowned down at it, then seemed to decide that arguing with her was above his paygrade. 

“Fine.” He muttered. “Just don’t touch anything.” 
Moira looked around at Remmick with an enormous grin as the security guard unlocked the gate for them. 

“Come on.” She gestured for the vampire to follow. 

“Why are we here?” Remmick asked again. 

“Fer culture, you twat.” She held out a hand to him, watching him hesitate. “Ah. Sorry.” Feeling somewhat abashed she lowered the hand. “There’s an exhibition I want to see. I used to come here with Jun, but with all the night work I haven’t had time, and Jimmy thinks it’s boring so…” She stopped herself when she realized she was babbling. Remmick was staring at her, completely bewildered. “I can walk myself home after, if you’d rather not.” 

The air around her stirred, making a few of her curls float around her eyes as he moved with vampiric speed ahead of her. The lights were out in the museum, save for the spotlights that illuminated paintings and sculptures, cheaper to leave those on than to turn them off at night. Moira watched as Remmick put his hands in his pockets, and wandered over to a landscape depicting a brilliant sunrise over a field of haystacks. 

“You came to see this?” He jerked his thumb at the painting. “I used to see this every day. Don’t really miss it. City girl like you, must find it appealing.”

She snorted, then pointed to the far room, closed off with velvet ropes, where the gallery held temporary traveling exhibits. There lie what she’d come to see. 

“Last week fer it. Could be my only chance.”

In a flash, Remmick was already at the entrance, unlatching those ropes. She furrowed her brow, then in another breath, he was grabbing her wrist and tugging her forward. 

Her heart was pounding. She wasn’t sure why. The exhibit was carefully curated to showcase a new movement that had taken Europe by storm, and some of the big names were here, but there were American artists too. She’d only seen photographs of some of them, in black and white, and her blood thrummed in excitement at the prospect of seeing them in person, in all their colorful glory.

“It’s like a nightmare.” Remmick was peering at a small painting of a horrific figure, tearing itself apart with a twisted expression, its malformed limbs stark against a desert landscape. 

“It’s called Surrealism.” Moira felt oddly nervous sharing this. “It’s supposed to reflect the unconscious mind, a dreamlike state.”

“This is an ugly dream then.” He mused, but it wasn’t an insult, more of an observation. 

“That’s a Dali. He lived through the Spanish civil war.” 

“Oh I know him. He has the uh…” Remmick mimicked an upturned mustache with his fingers. 

“That’s the one.” She realized he hadn’t let go of her wrist. He seemed to have realized it too and he frowned down at it before dropping it. 
They took their time. Remmick wanted to know everything she knew, what she liked, what didn’t appeal to her, and he was quick to form opinions of his own. She noticed he seemed to like brighter colors, and natural compositions, then supposed it made sense. The man had spent hundreds of years in darkness. Then he went still as he gazed up at a figure with an intense gaze. The woman in the painting was naked, her body encased in a medical brace, her chest opened to reveal not a spine, but a Roman column, broken in several places. 

“It’s you.” He pointed at her face. “It’s you with a unibrow.” 

“That’s Frida, ye cunt.” She laughed. 

“Nah that’s you.” 

“Well then that’s you.” Moira pointed behind him at a Georgia O’keefe, a depiction of a Lilly so zoomed in that it rather resembled a certain part of the female anatomy, though she’d read that the artist hated the comparison. Remmick laughed, and she decided it was a nice sound. 

She watched as Remmick used his vampire strength to zoom around the gallery, pausing in front of paintings with exaggerated poses that mimicked deep contemplation, and she laughed harder, snorting a little then flushing with embarrassment. He stopped suddenly in front of her, attracted by the sound. 

“Don’t hide that.” He whispered. “Stop covering your mouth. I want to see.” She tried to stop smiling but couldn’t. “There it is. Now, you like that one, yeah?” He gestured at an enormous painting of what was quite clearly a phallus. “I’ll steal it for ya.” Then he went to it and to her horror made as if he was going to lift it off its hook.

“Fuckin’ saints, don’t!” She squealed with laughter, an embarrassing sound, and he turned his head to grin at her.

“Why not? It’ll only take up half yer apartment! Stunning!” 

“Someone painted that giant cock with deliberate skill and precision!” Her face ached from grinning.

“And who appreciates a giant cock more than you, darlin’?” He teased.

“No one.” She shot back in amusement. 

Then he was towering over her, his head bent low, eyes glinting. “Is that true?” 

She slapped him playfully on the shoulder, and he stiffened at the touch. “Sorry.” She bit her lip. He’d been so eager to steal a kiss from her in the car earlier, but she’d noticed how he flinched from her every touch. 

“Don’t be.” He mused, though he looked a bit frustrated. 

Her head cocked at that tone, and she frowned. “Did you eat anything today?” Something had clicked into place. 

Remmick actually looked sheepish. “Nah. Just the jar you gave me.”

“Qian didn’t feed you?”

“She offered.”

Her eyebrows rose at that. “You refused?” He nodded, and she sighed, flicking her wrist from the sleeve of her coat. 

His eyes widened. “Moira don’t.” 

Too late. She pressed the tip of her knife into her palm, not slicing, just pressing down until the skin broke. The change in Remmick was alarming, his spine seemed to ripple as his nostrils flared, taking in the scent of her blood as it pooled in her hand. His eyes went black, and she knew that his teeth were changing. 

Wavering just a bit, she held out the bleeding hand. “It’s alright.” She murmured. 

“Moira I don’t know if…” his voice was so low, so dark with need. 

“I said it’s fine.” She said a bit more confidently. To her amazement, he fell to his knees before her and gazed up at her face with such an odd reverence it made her shudder. Her mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Might have to carry me home though.” 

The sound he made was terrible. Pure animal. I know a rabid dog when I see one, McCarthy had said. His lips latched to her palm, his tongue licking up every drop, so careful not to bite though she could sense that he wanted to. She gasped, feeling warmth shiver through her veins, and closed her eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his mouth, remembering the way those lips had felt on other parts of her body, knowing that she should not be aroused by any part of this. It was depraved, and sinful, but sacred somehow. 
When she opened her eyes again, he was staring up at her, sucking deeper, his throat bobbing with the motion. Hesitating, she reached out her other hand, asking him a silent question. Is this alright? He nodded with a grunt, and her fingers sank into his hair, brushing it away from his eyes.

Remmick’s body shivered with delight at the sensation of her nails on his scalp. They did this for a few long minutes, until she felt herself stagger. Suddenly Remmick snatched her wrist, and pulled away from her with a sharp hiss. 

“Enough.” He sounded agitated, maybe even angry as he stood. Then he whirled on her, his eyes narrowing as they slowly returned to blue. “No more. I can’t fuckin’ stand it.” Moira let her hand drop to her side with a frown. “Why the fuck can’t I stay away from you, Moira? Why the fuck do you taste like this? And why the fuck ain’t you afraid?” 

She shrugged. “I bet it’s boredom. You said it yerself. You think my life’s exciting.”

“Don’t patronize me darlin.’” Remmick warned. “You got me acting like a damn dog on your leash.” He was close now. She could smell the scent of him, like standing in a forest surrounded by lichen. Death smells of the earth. “You called me your lover. At the dock. You called me that.” A strain in his voice, soft and broken. 

“Easier to believe than sayin’ Qian hired an Irishman.” 

“That fuckin’ woman.” He growled. “She’s a goddamn monster. Why do you let her have any fuckin’ power over you?” 

“She gave me a home. A family.”

“Over rated.” He snorted. 

She glared up at him. “Then I guess we’re done here. I’m going home now. Come if ye want.” 

“I want you.” 

She stilled, unsure if she’d heard him right, but he didn’t correct himself. 

“That’s a shame.” She shrugged with one shoulder. 

“Don’t tease.”

“You’re angry when yer hungry. Pain in my arse.” She muttered. “And if it makes ye feel better, I am afraid of you.”

“Not enough. Not like you should be.” 

“Get better at it then.” She turned to leave. 

Something hit her between the shoulders, knocking her flat on her face. Her fingers scrabbled on the marble floor, making a squealing sound as she was dragged backwards, and flipped onto her back. Instinct took over, and she fought him, scratching at his face, his neck, pummeling him in the chest as hard as she could. Nothing. It was like striking a stone statue encased in flesh. His teeth were long, jagged like a shark’s and they were so close to her skin. The breath caught in her lungs, fear closing her throat. 

“Remmick you made yer point! You fuckin’ win! What do you want from me?” She snarled. 

“I told you what I want, girl.” 

The wooden pin was in her hand and she jabbed it at his heart but he caught her wrist and wrenched it to the side, sending the pin clattering across the floor. A sob rose in her throat. 

“Shhh shh none of that now.” He purred. “Would a friend do this to you Moira? Would a lover?” He roughly shoved her legs apart with his knee, and pressed himself between them. His face was horrible to look at, lips pulled back in a snarl, drool dripping down his chin. “Look at me babygirl. Do you see me? You understand I’m a goddamn predator yet?”

She did. She stared up at him, round eyed and terrified. “Fucking do it you coward. Drink the rest.” 

A hot wet tongue was licking the side of her face in one slow stroke. “Your memories are delicious. You gave your virginity to a boy at the bodega for a few cents. Enough to buy food. How’d it taste?”

“Fuck you.” She snarled. 

“You been runnin from death your whole damn life. Well I found you. You remember the night you got so doped up on opium you wandered outside in a sheet? Well I just learned a new word, Moira. It’s the one you called me before you called me a ‘twat’ and passed out cold.” Her body turned to ice. She didn’t remember a moment of that. “You called me ‘meri jaan.’”

“I would never call you that.” She spat.

“Oh but you did. You called me ‘my love.’ Because you love death don’t you? You wanna fuck death baby? Fine.” His hands gripped her waist and he pushed her out from under him. “Gotta give me somethin.’ Run, babygirl.” 

Fuck it. She ran. Scrabbling to her feet, she bolted, feeling a rush of dizziness that made her just unsteady enough to hit her shoulder on the doorframe and trip a little on the brass sign that marked the exhibit, Remmick’s laughter following her. 

“That’s it baby! Run darlin’!” He howled. 

The night guard called out to her as she barreled past him into the night, and slammed against the continental. 

“I still have the keys Moira.” Remmick’s voice floated out to her. 

“FUCK.” She hissed. 

Bastard was giving her a head start. She knew he was mocking her, loving her terror, refreshed by her blood, the loss of which now weakened her, but still she ran, abandoning the car. Moira knew this city. Knew it like she knew her own face. But she was bleeding, only a little, more than enough to attract him. 

A head start though. She’d use it wisely. Swerving her body into a dark alley, she slapped her bloody palm against a dead end wall, smearing it. Then she turned in the opposite direction, and bolted. He had such an advantage, but maybe if she was smart she could confuse him. Briefly she considered hiding in the dimly lit tourist shop, but no. There might be people in there and she wasn’t about to risk dragging them into this mess. 

The echo of her heartbeat pounded a rhythmic tattoo. Every breath brought pain to her ribcage but the adrenaline, dear god it was making her high and she barely noticed it. The sound of her boots on the asphalt seemed far too loud. He’d hear it. But even worse was the faint giggling, the roar of frustration behind her when he found her little distraction. She flew, down passageways, between parked cars, past late night musicians enjoying their cigarettes, past shop windows and flop houses. 

But the blood loss was making her confused. Surely it hadn’t been that much? But it was enough to weaken her, to slow her down and make her dizzy. Panting hard, she turned, squeezing her body between two brick townhouses and into the narrow passage beyond. There was a trellis. If she could find the strength to climb it…no. Fuck he could follow her up in one leap. She’d seen it. 

“Moira, it’s time sugar.” A soft voice purred, so dangerously close.

Panic gripped her. Fuck it, she’d climb. She grabbed the trellis with both hands and hauled herself up. Remmick grabbed the back of her coat and yanked her off so violently she yelped, and suddenly his fingers were covering her mouth. 

“Don’t scream.” He murmured into her hair.

She tried to jerk her head back to break his nose, but he knew her well enough, and he evaded it, wrapping both strong arms around her, pinning her in place. Her head lolled back, resting on his shoulder and she glared up at him, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. How odd to see that look of reverence on such a handsome, demonic face. His teeth were so, so sharp. “Baby I love that spitfire. So fucking beautiful.” He breathed. She squirmed against him pointlessly and he shivered. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He said as if trying to convince himself. 

She was being spun around, pressed viciously against the trellis, and he kissed her with that mouth full of fangs, hard and deliberate, his fingers biting into her cheeks, forcing her still. Moira choked on a gasp when those fingers wrapped around her throat, so strong, but gentle. 

He chuckled. “The look on your face. Did you think I wouldn’t catch you, clever Moira?” His lips brushed hers again. “Now don’t pretend that didn’t excite you.” 

She looked down, at the bulge in his jeans that was pressing against her hip, straining the seams, then looked back up into those black eyes, and with a little trepidation, brushed her hand against it. Remmick froze for an instant, then lurched forward, snarling in her face, those awful teeth glinting. She squeezed, gently, feeling the steel length of him. Holy fuck. He was bigger than she’d imagined. 

“Look at me.” He was running his thumb across her lower lip. “Goddamn it that fucking mouth, Moira. You know how often I’ve thought about this mouth?” Her vision was hazy, as if she’d been drugged, and lord help her his words were making her soaked. Closing her eyes, she flicked her tongue over the pad of his thumb, and felt him press it between her lips. A low growl like a purr was thrumming in his chest. “That perfect, cruel mouth. Always stingin’ me with your words. Not now, huh?” He tilted his head. “Ohh I’ve got you now girl. And I’m gonna punish that fuckin’ mouth. You gonna fight me, babygirl?” She shook her head, surprising herself. “Then get on your fuckin’ knees.”

He pressed down on her shoulders, made her kneel before him. Instinctively she reached up, thinking to unzip him, but he snatched up her wrists in one hand, and with the other, began unbuckling his belt. 

“Nah baby. You don’t get to touch. You think you got some power over me? Weak little human like you? You think I’ve never been with a beautiful woman before?” 

She blinked in confusion. Beautiful. That word again. No one had ever called her that. It annoyed her and she glared up at him, even as she allowed him to bind her wrists to the trellis, locking them in place above her head. At least the bleeding in her hand had stopped. Moira wriggled a bit, testing these bonds. The fear had left her drunk on adrenaline. She felt it flooding her, making her hypersensitive to her surroundings. 

Remmick was sneering down at her. “You don’t believe me? Honey I’ve fucked hundreds. More than that.” She frowned. Why would she care about that? “Fuck it. I’ve wanted this for too long.” He reached down, and smirked at the way her eyes widened when his cock finally sprang free. Maybe it was the dizziness, or maybe it was desire that made her whimper at the sight of it, but dear god he was huge. “That’s right sugar, take it all in. Pretty soon you’ll be suckin’ on this.” 
He gripped the base of his cock, easily longer than the span of her own hand, and squeezed himself, pumping slowly, so close to her face. 

“Remmick…” she whispered uncertainly, licking her lips, about to beg him to please let her touch it. He liked it when she begged, didn’t he? Fingers were sinking into her hair, locking her head in place, and suddenly he was guiding himself to her lips, pressing the tip of that glorious cock against them. 

“Open your fucking mouth.” He growled. And god save her she did, feeling her lips stretch around him, realizing at that moment how thick he was. Slowly thrusting his hips forward, he sank himself deeper, deeper, until he hit the back of her throat. “That’s it. Take all of it. Ohhh my god. Fuck.” The sound of his guttural moan made her pussy throb torturously. “Oh my god Moira that fucking mouth…mmm.” 

She was struggling. His cock was so deep in her throat, hard and pulsating. She was going to gag. She squirmed beneath him, straining against the belt that bound her wrists. Then she told herself to be still. To breathe. She closed her eyes, savoring his warm flesh against her tongue, even managing to flicker her tongue against his shaft, loving the way he growled with tormented pleasure. 

“Oh no you don’t.” He hissed, quickly unsheathing himself from her lips with a loud pop. Moira bit her lip, trying to keep herself from drooling and failing. “Look at you.” His fingers brushed her cheek, caressing her jaw. “Such a good little whore for me. You think you’re gonna humiliate me again? Make me cum too quick like a pathetic schoolboy? Like those boys who used to throw rocks at you and chase you?” He slapped her face. Not hard, just enough to sting a little and make her scowl up at him with fury. “None of em ever caught you, huh? No one’s ever caught you. But I just did sugar. And I can do what I want now, huh?” 

She glowered up at him, enraged by his cruel words. But she didn’t have time to snap at him. He was already yanking her head back, filling her mouth with his girth, pumping her throat with such violence that she did gag, hard, her legs twitching beneath her. He withdrew again, making her gasp and cough. 

“Shhh shh shh.” He crooned, before thrusting again, mercilessly, fisting her hair with both hands. Moira had never been used like this before, so helpless, and yet the way he gasped and whimpered made her feel so damn powerful. Squeezing her thighs together to ease some of the ache that was building there, she tried desperately to relax her throat as he squeezed himself in deeper. When she felt the muscle begin to tighten against her tongue, she hollowed her cheeks, wrapping her lips firmly around his shaft, sucking hard as he withdrew rapidly, cussing as he did. His cock was twitching, so swollen it had turned a deeper shade. Moira stretched out her tongue to give the tip a gentle flick, and felt his hand at her throat once more. 

“Fuuuck.” He cursed, running a hand through his hair. “Christ why do you feel like this? Why do you feel so fucking good?” 

“My cunt feels even better.” She murmured, giving him a smirk. 

“Ohh such a mouth on you.” He dipped two fingers between her lips, and she suckled them, swirling her tongue, loving the way his face twisted with torment. “If I fuck that sweet, wet cunt babygirl, I’ll never stop huntin’ you. Never stop chasing.”

“Thought you’ve fucked hundreds.” She snickered. “They no good?”

“God, stop talking.” He hissed, grabbing the base of his cock and plunging it so deep in her mouth she choked. “If I fuck you proper babygirl, I might love it. Then I’ll have to turn you. Make you my fuckin’ thrall.” His hips slammed against her, and she whimpered, feeling a rush of genuine fear. Remmick reached down to cup her cheek as he fucked her mouth, his cock making deliciously wet  squelching sounds as he did. “Would you like that darlin’? Then you could be my slave for all fuckin’ eternity. I’ll put you to better use than that bitch you work for. Mmmhm.” God did he never shut up?

Moira’s heart was pounding, her face turning red from lack of oxygen as he used her mouth, thrusting again and again. Again she felt his muscles tense, his cock growing impossibly hard, and again he withdrew, determined to last, to draw out this torture. 

“Look at you. Goddamn those eyes, Moira. You’d be terrifying. One taste of you and I knew I’d be haunted till the end of days.” A gentle touch on her temple and heaven help her she wanted to lean into that touch. “Ohh and I don’t mean your blood, baby.” She moaned, unable to help herself. “Aw, you hurtin?’” He teased. “You want it so bad, I know. You want me to fuck that pretty pussy so hard, don’t you?” 

“I want you to cum for me, Remmick.” She murmured, her voice low and syrupy. 

“Goddamn you.” He snarled, thrusting his cock close. His eyes were glaring down at her with something like desperation. “Suck.” He commanded. 

Eyes rolling back in her head, she obeyed, drawing him deep into her mouth with a heady moan that vibrated against his flesh, listening to him gasp and release a stream of curses as she sucked him as hard as she could, swirling her tongue over the tip of his cock, again and again. He was trembling, whimpering as she pleasured him, and it didn’t take long before she felt his cock harden, and pulse. Remmick grabbed the back of her head and plunged deeper, but she held him there, locking eyes with his as she tasted his release on her tongue. 

He threw his head back when he came, face contorting with pain and pleasure, the veins in his neck throbbing, his mouth falling open, slack jawed. She watched his teeth shrink back to normal, his eyes bleeding into that pretty blue again. Brows furrowed, he glanced down at her, watching as his cock twitched its final release into her mouth. 

“You look real pretty with your mouth full, sugar.” His smirk was wicked. “You can spit it out if you like.” 

She stared into his eyes as he leaned over her to untie her, and making sure he saw, she swallowed.

“Fuck.” He whispered.

“You gonna run away again?” She asked wryly. 

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head. “That wasn’t very gentleman-like was it?” He jerked his chin at the wall behind her. “I didn’t hurt ye, did I?”

Moira was surprised by the question, but inwardly pleased. She shook her head. 

Remmick paused to give her a long look. Sometimes she caught him looking at her like that, a bit like a lost puppy. It confused her. He had no business gazing at her in this way, and surely he had gotten it out of his system, as other men had before him. For one wild moment she considered asking him why he hadn’t fucked her properly, when she’d clearly offered, but decided she really didn’t want to know, in case the answer was painful. Remmick wasn’t like Michael Kelly. His rejection might actually sting. 

It occurred to her, as they slowly made their way back to the car, that she liked Remmick. She enjoyed his company, his conversation and yes obviously the way he used his mouth. She even liked the way he annoyed her, and the thought was truly terrifying. 

“I’ll drive.” She insisted. 

****************************************

Qian had waited up for them. Surprising for a woman who prized her beauty sleep. There she sat, hair down, long and shimmering, and Moira felt a small pang of jealousy. At fifty years old, the landlady could have easily passed for thirty, even with no makeup. She was making tea, or rather spinning the lid of a teacup absentmindedly before drenching her little stone tea pet with the first pour. Without saying a word, she gestured to the seat across from her, then slid the teacup in Moira’s direction. 

“Thought you might be dead.” Qian finally murmured, not looking at them as they seated themselves. “What kept you?”

“Free museum access.” Moira smiled softly “Couldn’t resist.” 

“Ah. Sometimes I think you would have flourished in Shanghai.” 

Remmick tilted his head, and to Moira’s annoyance, cut in rather rudely. “Moira just expanded your territory. She did it with words, Qian.” 

The Empress’ eyes flicked to her, and Moira’s heart sank just a little. There was no pride there, only doubt and disappointment. “Which street?”

“Market. Plenty of housing there. We could re-home a lot of families.” 

“Not enough.”

“It’s a start, though.” 

Qian pressed her lips together. “It’s something.” Then she looked at Remmick. “Leave us.” 

“No.” Remmick’s smile was ferocious. “I don’t serve you, neoi wong. And I don’t take kindly to your orders.” 

“Fuck you.” Qian muttered in Cantonese. 

“Diu lei low mow goh tsau fa hai.” He spat back.
Moira’s mouth fell open at the foulness of the insult. She’d seen men beheaded for less. Qian just snorted. 

“If I’d known what sort of man you’d pick, Moira, I never would have asked when you’d be married.”

Moira blinked, and felt Remmick grow tense with agitation. “He’s not mine.” She said quickly, feeling Remmick’s glare of outrage. 

“Oh I think he is. Or do you think anything happens in this house without my knowledge?” She glowered at Remmick with a deep frown. “I don’t know what twisted bargain you have made, but if it affects my business in any way, I will drag you into the sun myself.” 

Remmick gave her that feral smile again. “Moira’s too smart to bargain with me, Qian.” 

Moira could feel the beginning of a headache pulsing low behind her eyes. She sipped the tea gratefully. Red date, goji and ginger, to replenish the blood. 

“This arrived for you.” Qian reached down and retrieved a brown paper parcel, wrapped in thread. “From the seamstress.”

“Ah.” She’d nearly forgotten the soirée. It was in two nights. 

“A pit of vipers. They will be interested in you after this new deal you’ve made with Aiden McCarthy. They will see you as a player now.” Her eyes narrowed. “I hope you will be as loyal to my son as you are to me.”

Moira’s brow furrowed, alarmed by this dark tone in her boss’ voice. “I’m no threat to you, Qian.”
Remmick snorted. Both women looked at him, Qian with a quiet, imperious rage, and Moira with furious horror. 

“It was a mistake to let you in, jiangshi.” Qian finally admitted. 

Remmick’s smile was rakish and charming as he slumped back, throwing an arm around the back of Moira’s chair with a possessiveness that made her flinch. “Mianach.” He purred. Mine. 

“English or Cantonese in this house.” Qian snarled. Moira blinked at the landlady. She had never seen this side of her, so quick to anger. It hurt her, deep in that dark place where she was still a child, desperate for a mother’s approval.

Qian must have read the flicker of emotion that crossed Moira’s face, because she seemed to soften a bit. “Please don’t misunderstand, my girl. You’ve done this community an enormous service, and I’m grateful, but you must not take Aiden McCarthy at his word. Go to the soirée. Play along with the Italians and keep your ears sharp. Do not mention this to anyone. We will have to secure this new territory as soon as possible. Any idle gossip could ruin this deal you’ve made.” She sighed wearily, suddenly looking far older, and finally Moira could see just how exhausted she was. 

“We can use the Autumn Moon festival as cover.” Moira proposed carefully. “There are families here who have waited years for proper housing. We can help them relocate while we prepare, and spread the festival over Market Street to ease the transition.” She smiled cautiously. “We could have the biggest celebration this city has ever seen.” 

It was not a simple matter of moving Chinese families and businesses outward. They had to secure Market street first, get the proper licenses and lock down the tenement housing, but one thing she loved about Chinatown was the shear weight of community, an endless resource that others did not have. They would close ranks, pool their resources and fall upon it like ripples over a still lake, and Moira had just dropped the first stone. 

Qian considered her silently, and finally returned the smile. “You have become formidable my dear. Imagine what you could do with an army of your own.”

Remmick had been watching this interaction with growing disdain, but now his eyes glimmered with something sharp and mischievous. 

“She already has one.” 

Chapter Text

Moira poked her head out of her bedroom window, and peered into the darkness. Tonight was her last chance and she wasn’t about to pass it up. It’s not that she was worried about being caught, but god she just wanted one night alone to do this, and the last thing she was interested in was hearing Jimmy’s snarky little comments, which she would never hear the end of if he knew about this occasional ritual. 

Deciding that the coast was clear, she crawled out of the window and onto the roof of the smoking porch, dragging a small leather satchel with her. The temperature had dropped considerably, and still smelled like the rain from earlier. Lips quirked to the side, she crawled carefully to the roof corner and began to shimmy down the wooden column. It wasn’t terribly tall, but climbing was not her strong suit and she slipped, landing hard on her bum, but she stifled a cry and brushed herself off. Success. 

Tossing her hair away from a shoulder, she made sure her woolen beret was still in place, and began to walk closer to the street as the lamplights began to glow. 

“Evenin’ Moira.” Remmick sounded highly amused, if a touch perplexed.

Fuck. She sighed and looked over her shoulder at him. He was leaning against a lamp post with his hands in his pockets, eyeing her up and down, and worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Christ, his eyes were so blue. 

“Evenin.’” She repeated warily, trying not to wince at getting caught. 

“Fine night for a stroll? Takin’ in the sights?” He tilted his head. 

“Delivery.” She lied. 

He snorted. “Without me?” 

“Thought ye could use a night off.”

“How thoughtful.” His mouth ticked upward. Moira exhaled sharply through her nose, and began to walk away, but of course he followed, the nosy motherfucker. “Where we goin’?”

“Secret mission.” She replied with dark amusement. 

“Dangerous?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“So why are you dressed like you’re droppin’ papers off at uni?”

“The fuck is a uni?” She asked with a grin

“University.” He scowled. 

“Yer Irish is showin.’ And I look fine.” She was wearing high waisted trousers and a sweater underneath her wool coat. 

“Never said you didn’t.” Remmick replied grumpily. “You got your gun on you?”

“Nope.” 

“Ah. So just an unarmed late night delivery then.”

“Yes.” Moira could feel her lips twitching as she suppressed a smile.

“Hey. I told you not to do that.” Remmick had stepped in front of her, but was still moving, walking backwards as he deftly hooked a finger under her chin. “Quit hidin’ your smiles from me. I wanna see.” He tilted his head, and tried to steal a kiss. 

Laughing softly she dodged the kiss and ducked under his arm, twirling just out of reach. 

“C’mon then.” Without thinking, she grasped his hand, then suddenly realized what she was doing and tried to drop it, but he squeezed her fingers and did not let go, pulling her to his side, lifting an eyebrow at the flush that crept across her cheeks. Christ, she felt giddy. It felt so nice to do something just for her. 

They walked like that for some time. She was taking him deeper into the city, past fancy dress shops and jewelers and a store that primarily sold hats. Moira breathed a small sigh of relief. It was always nice to come here where people didn’t usually know her, even if she didn’t look the part. 

“You should probably stop holdin’ my hand now.” She muttered when she noticed a few people giving them odd looks.

“Why would I do that?” He shot her an offended look. 

Moira shrugged. “I blend in here well enough on my own, but you and me together? Might attract trouble.” 

Remmick snorted. “So?” 

She laughed. “So? You just came from down south. Don’t play dumb.” 

He only gripped her hand tighter, drawing her in close enough to murmur in her ear. “Anyone who says a damn thing to us is gettin’ eaten, darlin’.” 

She rolled her eyes. “I forgot. You don’t need to worry about other people, do ye?” 

“They’re all just food to me.” 

“Not me though.” She batted her lashes at him, mockingly. “I’m fuckin’ special, yeah?”

“Nah you’re food too. Just a different kind.” He bent lower, and she could feel his smirk against her ear, making her shiver. “Or do I need to drag you back to the bathhouse to remind you?” 

She hit him hard on the shoulder, making him laugh, but she was smirking too, and fuck he was giving her that look again like a dumb little puppy. It annoyed her how much she was enjoying this. It felt so damned normal, but the last time she’d felt that, she’d seen a man get his head ripped off, and the man who’d done the ripping was now humming to himself, something vaguely familiar.

“Where are we goin’ Moira?” 

“Here.” She stopped and pointed at a brightly lit, twenty four hour coffee house. 

“And we’re here for what exactly?” Remmick had clocked the gaggle of policemen sitting inside. At least he was smart enough to have some trepidation where feds were involved. 

“I’ll be right back. Wait fer me, yeah?” 

His eyes widened slightly at her request, a far cry from her usual fuck off. Looking slightly wary, he nodded, shrugging his coat a little as if warding off the cold, though she knew he didn’t need it. The man felt like he had a perpetual fever. 
When she returned, he gaped at her in dismay, then laughed in genuine delight. 

“Yer bloody jokin.’”

Moira stared at him blankly, then handed him an icecream cone with a bemused grin. “All done. We can go home now.”

“You know I can’t eat this.” He watched her lick her icecream with amazement and more than a little rude fascination. 

“I know that, but it felt wrong to just get myself one.” She cocked her head. “Shall we?”

They continued walking, to nowhere in particular, until they found an accommodating park bench. Remmick was shaking his head at her. 

“I watched you climb out a window for that. You know it’s autumn, right?”

“Yeah that’s why I had to get it now before they stop sellin’ it. Get off my back.”

“Thought you’d be more of a vanilla type of gal.”

“Why the fuck would ye think that?” Moira snapped, genuinely affronted. 

He only shrugged, then gave her a long look which she pretended not to notice. When she’d finished her cone he glanced down at the pointless one she’d bought him and not so casually tossed it over his shoulder. Except he seriously misjudged his vampire strength and the icecream cone splattered across the back windshield of a passing car. It screeched to a halt, and the driver began screaming something at them in a thick Chicago accent.

Choking with laughter, she pulled him by the lapel and they took off, sprinting into the trees of the little park, passing a different couple walking their dogs. The dogs yipped at them and to Moira’s shrieking delight, Remmick hoisted her over his shoulder, and took off with her. Good lord he was fast. It was making her stomach queasy. 

“Put me down ye fuck!” She squealed and when he did she was laughing so hard her ribs ached. “Oh my god yer an idiot! You hit his fuckin car!” Tears were rolling down her face. He was staring at her, his eyes wide with amazement and curiosity as she steadied herself on a tree. 

“And you made me run you little criminal!” 

She wiped the tears off her face. “The trash can was right there, too.” She felt high off the rush like a giddy teenager. God, when was the last time she’d felt like that? Probably the time she and Jimmy had nicked a box of Chick-O-Sticknis from a grocer when they were kids, and gotten violently ill after eating them all. 

Remmick was inches away, his hand pressed to the tree above her head, and he was grinning down at her with mischievous intent, his fingers idly toying with a rogue curl. Then she was kissing him, smoothing her hands beneath his coat, pulling him in even closer. God he felt so good. His hand wrapped around her throat, gentle but assertive in a way that made her melt as he kissed her back, making those soft growls and whimpers that had her aching. There was fire in her belly and she moaned with encouragement when she heard the gentle clicking of his belt. 

“You want this?” He snarled, pupils dilating. “Right here?” 

Moira nodded, and tilted up to press her lips to his throat, biting sharply then soothing him with her tongue. Remmick made a sound, deep in his chest that had her ready to tear his fucking clothes off, not giving a damn who saw. 

Except someone did see. Remmick grasped Moira’s shoulders and pushed her away as a soft, female voice drifted over them like an icy wind, promising a gentle death. 

“Well ain’t this nice?” Joan was slinking toward them, and her face and dress were so dirty, her hair a tangled mess, but her eyes were wide and gleaming with fury. The sweetness of her voice made Moira feel nauseous and she watched as her fingers grew, elongating, curling like awful talons. 

Remmick held an arm out protectively, and stared Joan down with a murderous expression that would have made any human shit themselves. His body language was strange, domineering yet it seemed like he wanted to hide Moira more than anything else. Moira realized she was being pressed firmly into the tree. 

“Best back the fuck off, Joanie.” His voice was a deep, rumbling, dangerous thing. “Don’t make me fuckin’ kill you.”

“Kill me?” Joan murmured so softly, making Moira shiver. “You already done that. After you killed my Bertie, Remmick. After you took him from me, and then left us all to die.” Her golden eyes burned right through Moira. “Why do you get a happy ending, huh? After all you done?” Moira blinked, then her eyes narrowed. 

“Not another word, Joan.” Remmick warned stiffly. “Not one more goddamned syllable.” 

Joan laughed. “Or what? Afraid she’ll run away?” Joan shook her head, looking at Moira strangely. “Oh girl, don’t you know anything?” 

“What don’t I know?” Moira demanded, putting a hand on her hip. She was frightened, sure. But mostly she was agitated that her pleasant evening had been ruined, once again. She’d just wanted icecream, goddamnit. 

“Enough.” Remmick snarled.

Joan opened her mouth to speak again, but Remmick had leapt for her, and the violence of it took Moira’s breath away. He twisted his head back to snarl at her, teeth dripping with black, dead blood, his pupils shimmering with a red glow so intense they may have been traffic lights in the dark. She gaped at his monstrous face, and he bellowed something that she did not understand, and then he lunged for her, pushing her away, leaving Joan sputtering on the ground, choking on her own blood.

“Goddamnit run!” He screamed, his chest heaving, but she furrowed her brow and shook her head. 

“No.” 

Snarling in frustration, he whirled back to Joan, only to find her gone. They’d been so transfixed on eachother they hadn’t noticed her swift retreat into the trees. Remmick inhaled sharply, as if he was considering hunting her down. Then he spun back to Moira, his hands digging into her shoulders. 

“When I tell you to run, you fuckin’ RUN girl.” He snapped so close to her face. 

Moira shoved him from her and crossed her arms, scowling ferociously at him. “What was she talkin’ about, Remmick?”

Growling with fury, he ran his elongated fingers through his hair. “Don’t you listen to her lies, Moira. That woman was poison when she was alive, and she ain’t much better now. Her and her shit husband. You’d be nothin’ but a mongrel to her.” 

Moira glared at him. Those words had extra bite coming from his lips. “Is that how you see me?” 

“Never.” He stalked toward her. “Someone like Joanie don’t even deserve to stand in your presence, meri jaan.” 

“Don’t call me that.” She hissed, backing away from him. “Don’t ever call me that.” Fear and rage leapt behind her teeth, more fiery even than when she’d stared into Joan’s pale, deadly face. Hearing that pet name in his voice was simply too much. The nickname brought back memories that she was not prepared to face. 

“Why not? You said it first, babygirl.” He was slowly beginning to transform, back into his handsome, human self, and he looked genuinely puzzled, and seriously agitated. 

“I was takin’ opium. I could have called you Warren G. Fuckin’ Harding.” 

“And what would you prefer?” Remmick crept ever closer, fury slowly twisting his features. “Mo ghràdh? A stór? Ooh, I know. How about Sam-gan? Or qīn'ài de?” The way he switched languages was chilling, when she knew how he’d learned them. 

“Stop fuckin’ with me.” She growled. 

Remmick’s laugh was harsh and mocking. “What should I call you, Moira? Shit, girl I’ve tasted your blood, your lips, your cunt. A minute ago you seemed eager enough to let me fuck…but you got that black heart locked up real tight, huh? But I’ve tasted your blood, honey. So quit actin’ like a brat.” 

She turned and stalked away from him, raising her middle finger as she did, anger pulsing in her blood. 

“What’s it gonna take, Moira?” He called out after her. “Oh now you fuckin’ run, huh?”

****************************************

Moira did not recognize the person in the mirror. The reflection showed someone who knew what they were doing, and could command attention. Tears had formed in her eyes when she’d seen the jewelry Priya had sent her. Silver, for her complexion. When she’d seen the delicate maang tikka, a simple chain with freshwater pearls meant to adorn her hairline, she’d had to tilt her eyes to the ceiling to prevent those tears from ruining her makeup. 

The bangles felt personal. She remembered the ones her mother had worn, and her grief when her father had sold them, knew that they held significance, but could not remember why.  A familiar grief rippled through her as she squeezed them onto her wrists, mourning the loss of a culture she had never been allowed to fully embrace. She had never worn this much jewelry in her life, and supposed she should have swept her hair up to show off the elaborate jhumka that now dangled from her ears, but opted to wear it down, remembering the seamstress’ hands arranging it that way with fondness. 

It took an hour of fidgeting with the sari until it draped to her liking, finally settling on letting it cascade down one shoulder, to show off the pattern on the dark green velvet. The skirt was heavy, the beadwork shimmering with every step, hugging her hips and flaring at the knees. She eyed the tiny pot of red sindoor warily, thinking the seamstress had sent it as a little joke, knowing she was unmarried. For a brief moment she wondered if her father had ever partaken in the ritual of adorning his new wife’s hairline with it, but seriously doubted it. All of this was dredging up complicated memories. 

Moira was terrified. This was a mistake. They would laugh at her, judge her, see a vulnerable piece of her soul that she did not like to reveal. Somehow this made her more nervous than the damn party full of mobsters and criminals. Eyes gazing longingly at her closet, she briefly considered tearing the whole thing off and putting on her familiar, comforting hanfu jacket. Then she sighed, and painted her lips red, a ritual that had always been hers, in spite of what she wore, a bold statement of femininity that she would continue to her dying day. 

Perhaps she was hoping, rather guiltily, that she could simply sneak out of the speakeasy with little fuss, avoiding any awkwardness and only dealing with Remmick’s smartass comments, but of course nothing could ever be simple. Qian, Jimmy and a few soldiers were deep in conversation at the bar, and to Moira’s mortification, they went dead silent when she appeared at the top of the stairs. It took every ounce of willpower not to fidget as she pretended not to notice, keeping her eyes on her shoes, praying that she wouldn’t slip. 

“Holy shit.” Jimmy, to his credit, did not laugh.

Qian did not even reprimand him for cussing. She was staring at Moira with something that might have been shock, which she supposed was better than anger. After all, she was supposed to be going as her representative. Instead, she was going as herself. 

Remmick was staring too, his expression strangely anguished, and oh no. He was gorgeous. Moira had not given Priya the slightest bit of direction when it came to his suit for the evening, and damn the old woman, she had exquisite taste. He looked taller than he actually was in the black herringbone three piece, his shoulders broader. Priya had given him a dark green tie, accented with silver to match her, which seemed slightly insulting. Jimmy had lent him a pocket watch, and the chain clipped to a button on his waistcoat. He even had a damn pocket square in a three point fold. 

She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to think about all those things he’d called her. They were far too overwhelming, combatting that niggling instinct in her gut that told her in no uncertain terms, that he could never truly be trusted. Moira refused to slip down that twisting rabbit hole, but god he wouldn’t stop looking at her like he couldn’t decide whether to carry her off, or eat her. Maybe both. 

“Jesus Moira you look like a goddamned-“ Jimmy began. 

“Not another word, pup.” Remmick snapped darkly.

“I was gonna say ‘princess’ you fucking bloodsucker.” 

Moira’s eyes were on the floor. She could feel her face growing hot under the all the eyes that scrutinized her. Then she felt Qian’s hand gently tilting her face upwards, and she was speaking softly in Cantonese. 

“You look them in the eye. Always. And make sure they are first to look away.” Dear god, those were tears in Qian’s eyes, and there was pride on her face. Then to Moira’s surprise, she turned to Remmick. “At the first sign of trouble, I ask that you get her out. Bring her home to me. Please.” The “please” shocked her more than anything, even more than Remmick’s silent nod of agreement. 

“Car’s already warmed up. You ready?” He held out her dance card, and Moir flicked it open with a snort of amusement. He’d already filled it out, not that anyone actually used these anymore. 

Remmick. 

Remmick.

Remmick.

And so on. What an arse. 

“It’s not true, you know.” She murmured to him as she took his arm and let him guide her outside. “I’m not yours, no matter how many goats you kill.”

“You’ll come around.” He replied with a shrug.

“Here.” Remmick reached into his breast pocket and handed her a silver flask. “You’re nervous. Filled this up for you.” His smirk was odd, almost pained as she took a swig and handed it back. “I’ll keep it for you. I doubt you’ve got pockets in that getup.”

“Did you eat?” A hint of warning in her voice. The last thing she needed was to worry about a hungry vampire.

“Got a flask for that too.” He said wryly.

“Jesus Christ and all the fuckin’ saints.” She muttered. “Oh god tell me yer not drivin’ the Bugatti.” She eyed the beautiful cream car idling in the street, but to her relief, Qian had assigned Jiehong, her accomplice at the docks, to be their driver. 

The older man looked her over briefly. “You look radiant. Well done.” This shocked her. Jiehong had always been a man of few words, and she felt herself blushing at the compliment.

Remmick was frowning as he opened the door for her, and held out a hand to help her climb inside. She rolled her eyes at this unnecessary bit of theater. When he slid himself in next to her he immediately began fidgeting with his necktie in discomfort. 

“Let’s get this fuckin’ dog and pony show over with.”

Moira had to agree. Her belly was doing all sorts of terrible, nervous flips. 

“What are you gonna tell ‘em?” She finally asked quietly. “When you report back to Nico Farino?” This was the night when Remmick would show her whose side he was on. If he wanted to, he could completely fuck her over, and there was simply nothing she could do. 

Remmick’s eyes slid coolly to her. “What would you like me to tell ‘em?” His lips curled into a very feline sort of grin, and then he spoke in Gaelic. “I could tell them how pretty you look with your mouth around my cock.” 

She shivered, taking a moment to shrug off the heat that bloomed in her cheeks at his words, then glared at him. She was still angry with him, for the things he’d said to her, though she could not for the life of her explain why. Moira did not like complicated feelings. Anger was far easier. He chuckled. Then he leaned closer, and reached up to toy with one of her earrings. 

“You say the word, Moira and I’ll slaughter every man that looks twice at you. Hell, I might do it anyway. Just for fun. So why don’t you just relax and enjoy the night?”

“A fucking blowjob in a back alley doesn’t give you the right to act like a cunt.” She shot back, enjoying the way he went rigid.

His hand found her thigh, and he gave it a sharp squeeze, reminding her just how strong he was. Then the squeeze softened into a caress, inching upward, making her inhale softly. Goddamnit. She hated the effect he had on her body, how it left her aching and wanting, and it was impossible to tell how much of it was simply because it had been so long since she’d been properly taken. 

“What does give me the right?” Remmick asked in a strange tone. “Should I tell you that you look like a pretty princess in that outfit? That what you want?”His laughter was cruel. Anger and embarrassment curled in her chest, making it ache, and she despised that she cared what he thought. Then he leaned in closer to murmur in her ear. “Princess doesn’t cover it. Radiant doesn’t come close. You look like a goddess. Men should sacrifice themselves upon your altar, and kill for the chance to look upon you with fear. Say the word babygirl, and I will lay their corpses at your feet.” Then in Gaelic he added “I could be your army. I could give you this city, should you desire it.” Moira gaped at him in horrified astonishment. He chuckled darkly. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Ask for what?” Her brow furrowed. 

He snorted. “Ain’t it obvious?” 

“I have no idea what the fuck yer talkin’ about.”

“You’ll figure it out, smart girl.” 

“Bold words fer a man who won’t even…” she trailed off, biting her tongue, her eyes flashing with anger.

“Won’t what?” Remmick had gone unnaturally still. When she didn’t answer, a cruel smirk passed over his lips, and he spoke once more in Gaelic. “You want me to fuck you? Rip off that pretty skirt and make you cum all over my cock? I could you know. I could fuck that sweet, wet pussy until you begged me to stop. But I wouldn’t stop, babygirl. So, no. Not until you admit that you’re mine.” 

“Yer fuckin’ crazy.” She whispered, her eyes wide with fury, then she answered in their native tongue. “You couldn’t pay me to fuck you.” A lie, and they both knew it. 

Remmick shrugged. “Ain’t got much money anyhow.” But she could tell he was irritated, hell maybe even infuriated by her words. 

“We’re here.” Jiehong said brusquely from the driver’s seat, as if he no longer wished to overhear them bickering in the back seat. 

The Farino house appeared opulent at first, then on closer inspection seemed like a cheap knockoff of the McCormick mansion with its Romanesque revival architecture and tall iron fence. The yard was overshadowed by two oversized fountains, plaster replicas of the Fontana delle Tartarughe in Rome, the driveway flanked by pruned topiaries. 

“Think they’re compensating for somethin’?”

Remmick lifted an eyebrow at the needlessly elaborate landscaping, but Moira was steeling herself, turning her face into an emotionless mask as Remmick offered her an arm, and escorted her to the porch where a man in a pinstriped suit waited to pat them down. Moira felt naked with no weapons. Not even a hair pin. 

Finally the guard opened the door for them, and they were greeted by the splendor inside. Moira clenched her jaw to keep it from falling open. She had never seen such a display of garish opulence. More ornate statues and greenery flanked what could only be considered a ballroom with checkered marble floors, lit by warm chandeliers and candles to provide a romantic aura. The bar was enormous, gilded with gleaming counters, and the staff that ran it wore impeccable uniforms, but there was an ugliness to it as well, a whiff of something fraudulent. Moira felt an ugly pang of disgust. People these days were desperate and hungry, and here she was looking at not true wealth, but the illusion of it. Moira knew that true wealth meant never having to worry about money ever again, and the Farinos were nothing if not hungry. 

“Fix yer face, darlin’.” Remmick smirked at her, and she felt her eye twitch a little. “People are lookin’ at you.” 

She schooled her expression into one of calm indifference, one she’d practiced in the mirror when she was an awkward teenager. People were looking at her, whispering to eachother, but not with disdain. They were glancing at her with something like awe and curiosity. Aiden McCarthy’s voice whispered in her mind. You’re a player now. To her inward astonishment, people moved out of their way. Men with sparkling cufflinks, and girls draped in pearls made way for them. This all had the potential to go very bad, very quickly.  

While mingling was not Moira’s strong suit, it came easily to Remmick, who flashed easy smiles and was quick to flatter. She became a bit of an item, it seemed, as several women in various states of drunkenness came to admire her sari, touching the exquisite embroidery, the beadwork, making her wince. At one point, a petite woman with red hair and a cloche hat stumbled into Remmick and pressed her hand to his chest in a way that made Moira feel a sharp, bitter stab of jealousy, until one of her friends whispered in her ear frantically, and drew her away, shooting Moira a terrified glance that made her smirk. 

Moira plucked a clear shot of liquor from a passing server, and drained it. The sharpness from the anise stung her nose and left a clear herbal taste that crawled down the back of her throat. It was somehow delightful and vile at the same time. 

A warm touch on the small of her back made her arch a little, involuntarily. Remmick’s fingers had found the bare flesh beneath her choli, raising goosebumps along her skin. Those callused fingertips were roaming gently up and down her spine, soothing her like a skittish horse, distracting her from the vipers surrounding them. When she glanced up at him she found his eyes roaming over her face, drinking her in.

“God damn it, Moira.” Remmick murmured, gazing down at her. 

“What?” She blinked. 

“You don’t want to be here any more than I do. Just say the word and I’ll find us some place else. We can forget all this business with the Italians and the territories and the goddamn gang war that you keep tryin’ to avoid, and we can just go.” Moira jerked back from him in surprise. This was the second time he’d proposed such a thing and this time she was certain he’d meant it. 

“Are you tellin’ me to run away with ye?” 

“I’m askin’ darlin.’” He looked like there was something he wanted to say, the words forming on his tongue, but there was a war waging behind his eyes, and she knew he wouldn’t say it. Instead Remmick made eye contact with a server, and gestured him closer. “A sidecar for me, and Miss Domnhall will have a…” he gave her a considering look. Then he stiffened, his eye catching something over her shoulder. “Mary.” He muttered. 

Moira immediately turned her head, and saw what he was looking at. A woman was staring at them. No, not them. She was staring at him, with enormous interest, like a cat that has just caught sight of something small and too dumb to know it’s about to be eaten, her fingers idly tapping the stem of a wine glass. Dread reared its ugly head inside of her, a warning she could not afford to ignore. Moira had learned to trust her instincts far too young. 

“I’m sorry?” The waiter asked. 

“A Mary Pickford.” Remmick was quick to correct himself. “Extra grenadine.” He gave her a disarming wink and added “cause she’s so damn sweet.” 

“Fuckin’ Christ.” She muttered under her breath. 

“Might wanna watch that language. Too many classy folks around here.” 

“Fuck that.” She snapped, making him chuckle.“You gonna tell me who that is?” Her face became flushed with an emotion too embarrassing to name, but of course she was not immune to it. Jealousy was not something she wanted to feel, not when it came to him. Its presence implied too many other things. 

“Name’s Mary, and my, ain’t you a pretty thing?” 

Moira turned to face the woman who now stood far too close, and knew immediately that she was now in the presence of two predators. She felt the shiver of foreboding down her spine, making her stiffen, her fingers longing for the familiar weight of her father’s knife. It was impossible to say what it was about Mary that made her certain of it, whether it was the unnatural grace of her every gesture, or the simple fact that she clearly knew exactly what Remmick was. Or, maybe it was just the thick southern accent, which Moira had now come to associate with the undead. 

This woman was beautiful, every inch of her the epitome of modern fashion, her pale gold dress dropped at the waist, her eyebrows thin and arched, and to Moira’s slight discomfort she found herself eyeing her with the same curiosity that she was so often the object of. How odd to be on the other side. This new predator was watching her with the same interest as she carelessly swiped her soft, chin length curls away from a lovely heart shaped face. This woman was nothing like Joan. This woman oozed with feminine power. 

“Little Mary.” Remmick tilted his head, wearing a charming smile that did not reflect in those cold blue eyes. 

Mary’s own smile was demur and dazzling as she reached up and delicately ran Remmick’s tie through two perfectly manicured fingers. 

“Not ‘little Mary.’ Not to you.” She purred, and there was a warning in those words. Moira saw her fingers twitch around the necktie, as if fantasizing about using it as a garrote.

Remmick’s eyes glinted red, so briefly that Moira wasn’t sure she’d seen it. He jerked his chin vaguely over Mary’s shoulder, but his eyes never left hers. His muscles were tense, ready to remove limbs, should she make a wrong move. “Is he with you?”

Moira did not like that she had no idea who they were talking about, but she found herself absolutely fascinated by Remmick’s facial expressions, trying to decipher which emotion he was attempting to hide. 

“Oh he’s somewhere. Never goes too far. Food here doesn’t agree with him.” Mary smirked as though enjoying a private joke. Then her eyes landed once more on Moira, with a smile that made the blood rush to her cheeks. “Remmick, you dog. Didn’t know you had it in you. What’s your name, honey?” Her accent was smoother than satin. 

Moira lifted an eyebrow with increasing interest. “Moira Domhnall.”

Mary laughed, a lovely sound like bells. “I simply must steal you. That is if Remmick won’t mind?” She fluttered her lashes. 

Remmick immediately stiffened, and Moira felt him place a hand on the small of her back. “This one’s mine Mary.” He growled. 

“Oh Remmick I think we can all see that you think that.” 

Remmick actually took a lurching step closer, his lips twitching back in an ugly snarl that made Moira instinctively place a firm hand on his chest. To her surprise, he stopped and seemed to remember where they were. When he went to place his hand on hers, she quickly withdrew it as if his touch burned her. Mary, to her credit, did not so much as twitch, but simply watched this with fascination. 

“Fuck’s sake.” Moira rolled her eyes with a short laugh that was far less pretty than Mary’s, making both vampires look at her in surprise. “Whatever this is,” she made a vague gesture at the space between the two immortals, “it’s not my business. Excuse me.”

The waiter returned with her drink, and she saw Remmick scowling at her fiercely when she plucked the cocktail off the tray, and walked away, perhaps exaggerating the sway of her hips just a touch for his benefit. The last thing she needed right now was to babysit him. 

As she moved through the crowd, she passed a table of brusque Italian men who were laughing and smoking cigars. Nico Farino was one of them, looking incredibly handsome as always, in a beautiful grey double breasted suit. Always so damn bespoke, this one. Smirking, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and glanced back in Remmick’s direction, noticing the way he was glowering at her, like he was tempted to seize a fistful of her hair and drag her back. 

Nico greeted her with surprising warmth, clasping her hands and kissing her deftly on both cheeks which admittedly surprised her. She was not used to such greetings, but smiled, refusing to look at Remmick who was glaring holes into her, angry enough to make her catch fire. 

“My shadow is just there.” She said, watching Nico’s eyes traveling over her body, taking in the dark green sari, the jewelry, the overall presentation. She stood out in this crowd of flappers and criminals. “Better go get him now before that pretty thing takes him away. You might not get him back.”

Nico said something to two of his companions in Italian, and they immediately rose at his bidding. Moira watched as they confronted Remmick who was still staring at her, but nodded and allowed them to take him somewhere private, where he would make his report. This was the moment then. She would soon learn if Remmick would take this opportunity to turn on her. 

To her surprise, Nico pulled out a chair for her, and gestured for her to sit. She smiled at him, and seated herself, drink in hand. When she sipped it she made a face. They’d added far too much grenadine. Fucking Remmick. 

“You play briscola?” Nico sat next to her. Another surprise. 

“Is that some sort of pastry?” 

Nico chuckled warmly. “A card game. I will teach you.” 

He reached up and gave one of her curls a gentle tug, watching it spring back into place. From across the room, she could see Remmick giving her one last glare over his shoulder as the Farino thugs escorted him. The sight made her cringe inwardly, then she reminded herself that he was a damn vampire and could kill them without a second thought, even if it did mean exposing what he was. He’d be fine. Her fate on the other hand, was less certain, and Nico’s  friendly, quiet flirtation was making her nervous. The last time she’d seen him, he’d pointed a gun in her face. 
The game used an Italian forty deck. Moira tried to pay attention as Nico showed them to her. Coins, cups, swords and batons. Denari, coppe, spade, bastoni.  She repeated the words as best she could. Moira had always had a knack for languages and though she didn’t speak Italian, she was a master of reading body language. They were feeling her out, trying to make sense of the rumors they’d heard and comparing them to the woman who now sat with them. 

Nico dealt the cards, giving everyone three, then turned the card of the remaining deck and placed it face up on the table. Two of swords. Due di spade. 

“This is the briscoli.” Nico tapped the card. Moira watched as the other players each placed one from their hands face up. Then when it was her turn, he pointed at the three in her hand. “Play that one.” She did. Nico grinned and swept up the other cards, pulling them to her and arranging them in a pile. “Three is ten points.” 

“Why?” 

He shrugged. The game moved rapidly after that, but Moira was barely paying attention, far more interested in the players, who smiled at her warmly but spoke to eachother in slightly terse voices. She knew they were speaking about her, but pretending they weren’t. Time to keep them guessing. 

“Potrei averne uno?” She asked, using what little Italian she had managed to teach herself since receiving the invitation. They stared at her with wide eyes as she gestured at one of the cigars smoldering in an ash tray. Faces turning red, they produced one and one of them cut the tip off with a little silver knife. “Mille grazie.” 

They grew more quiet after that, clearly unsure how much she had understood. 

“Sei bellisima.” Nico intoned in a low voice with a charming grin. He struck a match and lit the end of her cigar for her. She considered him from the corner of her eye as she held the twisting smoke between her lips, then gently exhaled. 

Then she snorted. “Liar.” 

His eyes widened in offended surprise. “I would never lie about beauty. You look very exotic.” She cringed. Exotic was not the compliment he thought it was. It made her skin crawl, but she had picked up more than a few tricks from Qian. Exotic could be a weapon, a distraction. 

“Last I recall, you wanted me dead. Why the change of heart?” 

Nico had the audacity to look embarrassed, and she thought she saw a flicker of fear, which he quickly stifled. Then he leaned in closer, licking his lips nervously. “I have terrible dreams of that night. I wake up screaming. But you at least…you were smart. You took control of the moment and I walked away alive. Quie vampiri. My father does not believe me.”

“Reasonable. I hardly believe ye, and I was there.” She said indifferently, suspicious of his careful flattery. 

“He blames the Irish. Then we heard that five went missing. Near Chinatown.”

Moira heard alarm bells ringing in her ears, but she had anticipated this. She shrugged, and played a card, looking to Nico to see if she’d played well, then sweeping her opponents cards when he nodded in approval. 

“Near us but still Irish territory.” A simple truth, meant to conceal a much greater lie. 

“They’re calling you macellaia.” 

“Sounds pretty.”

“It means mauler.” 

“Ah.” She considered this thoughtfully. 

“Miss Domhnall, if it is true what they say…” he paused, waiting for her to look him in the eye. “We will back you.”

“We?” She snapped. 

“I will back you.” He corrected. 

“You? The bakery owner? Do I get free Tiramisù?” Moira smirked. 

“We specialize in maritozzi.” Nico’s smile was dazzling, his teeth so straight and pearly white. To her alarm, he reached over, and placed a hand on hers, discreetly under the table. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” He murmured softly. Moira lifted an eyebrow, and stared him in the eyes. Something about his tone was off, and she knew that when he said this, he was speaking to her, and not the Empress of Chinatown. Her stomach twisted with dread. Was he offering to help her stage a coup? Not breaking eye contact, she took a sip of her drink, giving herself time to think of a response. 

Moira had never held any interest in power, had always known her place and was content to remain there. Besides, Jimmy was the one being groomed to take his mother’s place, as Qian had been when her father was in charge. Moira had always accepted that she would remain as Jimmy’s second when the time came, helping him navigate his newfound position, which hopefully would be no time soon. 

Suddenly a splash of cold liquid splattered the back of Nico’s neck, and he let out a shout of surprise followed by a lengthy stream of Italian curses. Behind him, Mary covered her mouth, her eyes wide with dismay. Moira watched this little display of theater with wariness, and a little amusement. 

“Oh my goodness, I am so very sorry! Please forgive me!” She staggered a bit, as if tipsy, then set her empty wine glass on the table as one of Nico’s men produced a handkerchief to help mop it off, but the suit was ruined. At seeing that the perpetrator was a beautiful woman, Nico’s tune immediately changed, and he smiled graciously. 

“Signora please, don’t apologize. I can have another made.” 

“Oh no.” Mary turned to Moira, who was watching her carefully. “Looks like I got you too, a little.” 

Moira understood this unspoken code immediately, as all women do. Some things were universal, vampire or no. We need to talk. And we’re doing it in the bathroom while you clean up. 
Moira extinguished her cigar and excused herself from the card table, unable to quell her curiosity, thinking that if Mary meant to tear her throat out, the middle of a gangster’s soirée was a poor choice. Still, she hovered for a moment at an empty table, about to swipe a butter knife. Not wood, but better than nothing. 

“Don’t bother, honey. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” Mary chuckled as she held the restroom door open for her, but Moira just gave her a wry look.

Perhaps she was so used to Remmick’s vague threats that they simply no longer had much of an effect. Still, she watched to make sure that Mary did not lock them in once they were inside. There were few things she was certain of, but she knew she did not wish to die violently in a bathroom. She glanced at her reflection in the enormous mirror. Not much harm done, only a few droplets of wine on her cheek and neck, which she patted dry with a hand towel. 

“What is it you need to tell me?” Moira asked, looking at Mary in the mirror. 

“Oh Moira. You’re in danger girl.” Mary’s hand squeezed her gently on the upper arm. 

Moira’s brow furrowed. “Of course I am.” She gestured dismissively at the bathroom door. Obviously she was surrounded by a pit of vipers. Surely she could see that? 

“Not them. They’re only human.” Mary tilted her head. “I haven’t been turned long. My man and I tucked tail soon as we could. Wanted to make space between us and him.”

“Why?” Moira’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

“Honey…” her voice was soft and gentle. “Don’t you know what he is?” Good lord that was pity written on her lovely face. 

“Hard to miss.” Moira snorted. Did Mary think she was stupid? 

“I don’t mean the killin’ darlin.’” Mary shook her head. “I mean him. You can’t trust him, girl. That man will chew you up and spit out your bones. He’s a liar through and through.” 

Moira smiled. “I’m surrounded by liars.” 

“No baby. Not like this. You see, when he turns you, he doesn’t just get all your memories. He gets you. I couldn’t kill you even if I wanted to. He won’t let me. But you get a glimpse of him too. There’s blackness in him. Hunger beyond hunger. You have him playin’ along all nice for now, but baby he will get what he’s after. It’s what he does. Now when he lost in the Delta, he took that real hard. It’s personal for him. He won’t just hurt you. He will damn you.” Mary shivered, then she turned and placed a chilly hand on Moira’s cheek, making her flinch. 

“Why bother?” Moira asked, genuinely bewildered.“I’m just food to you now, so what’s the point?” 

“Us mixed girls ain’t got an easy time of it.” Mary grinned sadly. “Way I see it, we gotta look out for one another. So take my advice, honey and fuckin’ run. Do it now while he’s distracted. Hop on a plane. Put an ocean between you because he will destroy you and everything you love.” 

The way she was looking so intently into Moira’s eyes made her still. There was truth there, or at least truth as far as Mary knew it. 

“Just how old is he?” She wasn’t sure why she asked, but clearly Mary knew more than she did. 

“I don’t think even he knows any more.” A sad smile. “But believe me honey, you don’t know him the way you think you do.” Mary opened her mouth, about to say more.

Gunshots sliced through the air like cracks of thunder. Gruff male voices. 

“Fuck.” Moira hissed, then she started forward in alarm when Mary threw open the door, and bolted. “Mary don’t!” 

“Everyone, lay face down on the floor with your hands behind your head! We are federal prohibition agents and this residence is in violation of the Volstead Act. Face down on the floor, hands behind your head!” 

Moira had no choice but to obey. 

****************************************

Moira had been well trained. This was not her first arrest. She said nothing. Not a word. She knew they had nothing to charge her with, knew that they would keep her for one night and be forced to let her go in the morning, when Qian sent a car to retrieve her. Moira was a good soldier, and still considered low ranking. She did feel a bit overdressed for the occasion however. 
Then a cop with a blonde mustache so large it concealed most of his mouth leaned in close enough that the others would not hear. 

“Yer not gettin’ out of this, Moira Domhnall. This one’s off the books, so cry fer a lawyer all ye want, girl.” 

And she knew. She knew that this one worked for Aiden McCarthy, knew that he was backing out on their deal, knew that she was never going to see the inside of a cell. Moira was about to go missing. Except Qian knew about the deal, and would not stop. To the Empress, word was law. Expansion was inevitable, with or without her. Thank god for that. She spat in his face, and received a black eye for her trouble. Stars exploded behind her eyes, her brain rattling in her skull. Christ, he hit her hard. It knocked one of her earrings out and sent it tinkling across the cement. She’d have to pay Priya back for it, assuming she lived long enough. 

That single blow to her face was enough to unleash a flood. The others seemed to take enormous pleasure in kicking her, again and again. Her ribs, her legs, her stomach. She giggled, which made them kick her harder. The fear came in flashes of memory, of a night not long ago when different men had wanted to punish her, to threaten her body in a different way. Just as she had that night, her eyes snapped to each and every face, memorizing them, even though she knew she had no chance of exacting revenge. She hoped that Remmick was safe, wherever he was. Then she felt stupid for wanting that. 

Now she was at a table, her wrists and ankles cuffed by a long connecting chain that bound her to a metal ring on the floor. Her left eye was beginning to swell shut. At least they hadn’t broken her nose. Moira liked her nose, even if it was a touch too large for most people. And they hadn’t threatened her hands, for which she was grateful. It would have been the best way to break her. But they had laughed when they ripped away her sari and saw the way she tried to cover herself. Now she was fucking freezing, left in only her skirt and choli, the jewelry taken. It would be years before she could pay back the seamstress, but she vowed that she would do it, if she found a way out of this. 

“Ye know why you’re here, lass?” The agent spoke softly, an older man with a jaw like granite. There was pity in his voice, but all she could hear was how hard he was trying to conceal his accent. She spat blood on the floor. No interest in pity. “I have a daughter you know. About your age. Breaks my heart to see ye like this.”

She smiled, showing bloody teeth, watching him flinch. Amusing. Moira did not say a word. 

“Moira Domhnall. Age thirty two.” Thirty, you fuckin’ cunt, Moira thought. “Father dead. Mother dead. Brothers, Mannix and Madon, killed in action in service to his Majesty King George the Fifth.” His face twisted in dislike. Still an Irishman after all. “Parents liked their ‘M’ names, didn’t they?” Oh he was funny, this man. “Says here your Pa killed yer Mam, then killed himself. So then what? You got yer papers in Philly and then? Record goes blank. Then you got picked up for…” he squinted at the documents which supposedly contained the official record of her life. “Panhandling in the form of busking.” 

She grinned wider, but still said nothing. Her record was clean apart from violating a noise ordinance with her sitar when she was a teenager. One of the many benefits of working for Madam Qian. She’d had her record expunged multiple times. It could have included murder, theft, assault, public drunkenness…the list went on. 

The officer shook his head. “I apologize for the treatment you’ve received here, Moira. It’s unusual for my department to target private residents, even with the amount of contraband we found. Looks to me like you’re just a young woman who went to a party. You smell like booze, but had nothin’ on ye worth mentioning. We’ll find you a place to rest for now. You’ll be out of here in no time. I’ll send a nurse in to look at that eye.” 

Lies. Pretty lies, meant to create trust. Surely she could rely on this fatherly man who was only doing his job so he could go home and terrorize his wife and daughter. No thank you. Moira tilted her head to give him a deranged, bloody smirk, and still said nothing. Never trust a fuckin’ cop. He wanted more out of her. So she would remain a stone wall. The agent sighed in frustration, then gathered up her papers, and stood. 

“Alright. If that’s how it’s gonna go, it’s out of my hands.” He opened the metal door, and walked out, leaving it open, allowing two others to infiltrate. “Don’t make a mess. We can’t give the cleaning staff any more overtime.” He left without another word, turning his broad back to her. 

Moira stiffened, and instinctively reared back at the sight of these two cops. They were new to her, but the coldness in their eyes was alarming. Their eyes spoke of an aggression she knew intimately, one reserved for anyone they deemed lesser. There would be no negotiating with them.

One of them wielded a baton, which he immediately swung into the side of her head. She managed to evade it mostly, and it glanced off her temple but still had her seeing pinpricks of little white lights. Then he moved around to stand behind her, using the baton to choke her roughly, enough to force her to lift her chin and glare at him with the ferocity of a deranged cat. 

The other prowled the room, watching with delight as his partner yanked back her hair and sneered down at her. 

“You think your boss is gonna come save you? Huh?” He tapped the baton against her cheek. “She doesn’t give a fuck about you, believe me. Who do you think made the call? Informed us about that fancy party? Hmm?”

“Liar.” She hissed. The cops laughed. 

“Think about it, dumbass. She was fine keeping you under her thumb, but you got cocky. Started making a name for yourself, cutting deals, getting a reputation. Hitting the Farinos, and you? Lot of eggs in one basket. All it took was a phone call.” He shook his head as if marveling at her stupidity, to which she only snarled. 

It was a common tactic. To tell a prisoner that their cohort had already snitched somehow, and damn it if it didn’t make the dread sink to the pit of her stomach like a brick. Her heart was pounding, fear clenching her throat even harder than the baton, but still she said nothing. She wouldn’t give them a single inch. Not one damn word. 

“We could go easier on ya.” The cop said thoughtfully. “But you’d have to do something for us.”

She spat in his face, and it was tainted with blood. He snarled and lifted his baton, ready to bring it down on her hard enough to shatter bones. 

A muffled sound echoed from the hallway, making him pause. The other agent frowned at the door, then went to it, peering out the glass window. 

“The fuck was that?” He murmured.

“Ignore it.” His partner grunted. “We have hours. Hours and hours.” His smile was lecherous, promising pain, and worse than that. “You have brass balls, Moira. I’ll give ye that. Takes big ones to go up against Aiden McCarthy.” Those cold eyes flicked to his partner. “Get her up. We’re going for a ride.” He leaned down close to Moira’s ear, and his breath smelled like stale coffee. “We’re gonna send those pretty eyes to that Chinese bitch, and her spineless son.” 

But his partner had not moved from the window. He stood, frozen, his skin draining of color. 

“We gotta go.” He murmured. “Jesus Christ we gotta-“ The door crumpled with a sound like an explosive, crashing inward, crushing the agent beneath  its steel weight. His head smashed open on the concrete floor like a melon, scattering blood and bits of brain matter. Some of it flew at them, and Moira cringed with horror as a piece splattered her cheek. She screamed a little. She couldn’t help it. 

“What the FU-“ The cop behind her managed to scream, cut short by an awful gurgling that could only mean one thing. 

Moira closed her eyes against the sound, feeling an awful, delicious swell of relief. Remmick had come for her. And this time, she was grateful. 
Her eyes snapped open a moment later. That was not Remmick’s voice, groaning and snarling with deep satisfaction as he drank. She felt the chains binding her to the floor snap, and long fingers were gently breaking her handcuffs. She rubbed her wrists. 

“Shit, they got you good, huh?” A male voice said gently, but with a note of disgust. “Hey Moira.”

She remembered that voice, and shivered. He sat down in the chair across from her and adjusted the lapels of his jacket, which was now even darker with blood. There sat the most beautiful man she had ever seen. She’d thought so the first time they’d met, and the second time, though she’d expected him to be long gone by now. Her gut twisted at the memory. 

“There were two of ye last time.” Moira watched him carefully. “Where’s the other one?” 
The vampire shrugged, and she saw the glint of gold jewelry on his teeth, which gave him a rakish appearance. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been driving a truck. 

A truck full of stolen Italian wine, and Irish beer. A truck that she had helped him steal. A truck that had made an entire criminal organization lust for blood. 

She watched longingly as he reached into his pocket, lit a cigarette, then tossed one to her. She moaned with pleasure when the nicotine hit the back of her throat. 

“Left him back home.” He answered with a pained smile. “Not sure he made it. Bit of a mess, if I’m bein’ honest.” 

“And which one are ye?” 

“Stack.”

“Ah.” Her fingers were trembling as she took another draw from the cigarette. “I remember. Yer the funny one. How’d ye get in?” 

Two sharp canines gleamed through his smile as he regarded her carefully. “Ain’t hard for a black man to get an invite to a police station. Barely even had to ask.” He winked, but his smile had become sour. 

“Who turned ye, Stack?”

That smile became bright, gorgeous and menacing all at the same time. “My girl did. She’s always full of surprises. Give you one guess who turned her though.” 

Moira shivered, then licked her lips, tasting blood. “Is he…safe?” She winced, feeling somewhat embarrassed. 

“That’s an interesting question, coming from you, Moira. You know, you started somethin’ when you got us those truck keys and the maps to their facilities. Heard you shot Smoke’s driver too. Pissin’ off the Irish and the Italians? That cop was right. You got balls.” Stack shook his head with a wry grin, his teeth pearly white against his dark skin, but she saw the yellow gold sheen to those eyes. Seeing her stricken expression, he chuckled and gestured at his face. “See, Moira I don’t want you thinkin’ I ain’t grateful. I am, truly. You got my brother and me out of a tight spot and got us where we needed to go. I appreciate that.” His eyes flashed so bright, and suddenly he was on the table, crouched low with his wrists resting limply on his knees. “But your actions girl. They sure did have fuckin’ consequences. Wooo mama the shitstorm that followed.” He shook his head in amusement but his gaze upon her was black and glittering. 

Moira bared her teeth at him. “My actions? I don’t recall forcin’ ye to do shite, Stack.”

“Nah but you pulled some strings, didn’t you? Wouldn’t have gotten far without you.”

She flinched. He was right and she knew it. She’d overheard them discussing the best way to heist product from the Irish, in that smoke filled speakeasy in Bronzeville, and she’d seen the opportunity. In one move she could cripple Qian’s competition, just a little, knowing they’d blame each other, knowing they might take eachother out and make room for them. Even her boss had no idea what she had done, and she’d sworn to take her secret to her grave, which may very well be sooner than she’d thought. 

“You see Moira, that booze we stole, with your help? We took it home with us back to the Delta. My brother and I had this great big notion that we’d open our own joint, serve our own people. Make it bigger than we ever could here. Then he came. Turned most of us. Made us his family.”

“Fuckin’ Christ.” She cursed under her breath, completely appalled by all that Remmick had done, and all he’d left out of his story. 

“But my people? We fight back. Don’t think he was ready for that. Sun came out, burned up most of us. Remmick got burnt up too I hear. Took a fuckin’ guitar to the head and everything. He should have died.” There was a bitter tone of resentment “Actually we thought he did die, so I grabbed my girl and we came up here to enjoy our new freedom, so imagine my goddamn surprise when he showed up.” He was glaring down at her with such black fury that she sat back in her seat, grunting in pain from her bruised ribs. “But he didn’t come here for us, Moira. Not even a telegram. Wanna take a guess what he did come for?”

Moira pursed her lips, ignoring the way it stung. “To see Wrigley Field? Maybe he’s a Cubs fan.” 

“Revenge honey.” Stack shook his head in warning. “He sees us when we turn. Gets all our memories. I ain’t no exception. And he saw your face, Moira. Knew your name before he even got here.”

Moira’s eyes went wide with horror, and a sharp sting of betrayal. Her mind was reeling, each new thought like a slap in the face. That fucking cunt. Remmick knew. He’d known who she was, and what she’d done. God only knew how long he’d been in the city, waiting, looking for her. That night he’d arrived, he hadn’t wanted shelter, wasn’t running from his damned thralls, he was there for her, for revenge for all that he’d lost. All this time, toying with her, following her, waiting outside her damned window, all for what exactly?

“Why hasn’t he killed me yet?” She whispered, unsure if she even wanted the answer. Moira knew there was a sliver of a chance that he was lying, but she felt in her gut that he wasn’t.
Stack shrugged. “I ain’t psychic. Who knows what game he’s playin’?” 

“I met Mary,” Moira said carefully. “She’s your girl, right? She tried to tell me.” 

“She’s the only reason I’m here.” Something softened his gaze. “Girl’s got me wrapped around her finger. She asked me to come get you out, so I did.” 

“Is he…is Remmick…?” She winced, and cleared her throat, not wanting to finish. She shouldn’t care. Why the fuck did she care? 

“Dead? Nah I think I’d know. But he ain’t here, honey. He didn’t send me. Mary sent me.” He stood, and leapt down from the table with that inhuman grace and speed, brushing himself off. “I didn’t say I’d see you home though.” His eyes slid to hers. 

“That’s fine.” She whispered. Her eyes were prickling, and she hated that. Something was cracking in Moira’s chest, making it ache in a deeper way than her fractured ribs. “I doubt I can go home.” 

“If I were you, Moira?” Stack gave her a little jerk of his chin. “I’d get the fuck out of Chicago.” 

Fuck that, Moira thought viciously, feeling the air disturbance as Stack used his vampiric speed and was gone. She wanted to cry, could feel the pressure rising in her throat and behind her eyes. It was embarrassing really, to be so upset that Remmick had lied to her. He was a fucking vampire, and she was only food. Her heart though. Why was it aching? Why was it breaking? And to make matters worse, she was worried. That was fear clawing in her belly, real fear that he was hurt or worse. He’d been making his report to the Farinos when the feds had shown up, and who knew where he was now? 

The lights were flickering. Stack had unchained her and left the door open. Moira’s body was screaming, begging her not to move, but of course she gritted her teeth, and used the table to push herself out of the chair. Everything hurt. It even hurt to breathe. Fucking cops. Fucking Aiden McCarthy, trying to take her out before he had to make good on his deal. One thing at a time though. She had to find a way to get home, and she had no money for a pay phone. 

Little by little, she inched her way out of the interrogation room, and down the hall, using the walls to brace herself, praying that no one else saw her, that she would not collapse here, making Stack’s effort to free her useless. There was blood on the floor, evidence that someone had been dragged. Fuck, there was blood on the ceiling. The lights in the little glass booth where she’d been taken in were dark, and there were red, wet handprints along the railing where she’d been cuffed initially. She saw booted feet sticking out from behind the desk, but averted her eyes, not wanting to see the horror of whatever had been done to him. 

When she made it outside, it was raining. A blessing really. The water felt nice and cool on her skin, but she was so exposed, and soon enough she was shivering with enough violence to make her bones rattle. God she felt pathetic, limping along, holding onto stone walls, anything to keep her upright. There were not many people out tonight but she did snarl at one or two of them who stared at her in awe. She didn’t want their help or their pity, though she did consider stopping at a diner to see if they had a phone. The same diner she’d had wretched coffee in with Remmick the night they’d killed Aiden McCarthy’s boys. Now the memory filled her with rage. How dare he treat her with kindness, calming her down with his jokes and his soft touch while lying to her face? She should have known then. The whole time he’d been waiting for the right moment to slaughter her, to make it hurt as thoroughly as possible.

She was nowhere near home and she knew she was never going to make it, not like this, not with her ribs and legs failing her, and her left eye now completely swollen shut. Her vision was growing blurry around the edges, making her stagger, and she was so damn cold. Finally she stumbled, and felt herself collapse, curling up like a shrimp, right there on the sidewalk, the rain tickling her face, pooling in the wells of her eyes and soaking her hair. 

Moira had no idea how long she was there. Occasionally someone would step over her, indifferent, minding their own business. This fucking city. She was crying but it didn’t matter. The rain made it impossible to tell anyway. 
Then a hand was brushing her wet hair from her face, with a low hiss. She flinched back from the touch, but the action made her moan with pain. God her head was about to split open. 

“Who did this, babygirl?” Remmick’s voice was steel. “You give me a name right now, darlin.’”Moira shook her head with a scowl. She didn’t have names, only faces. “Can’t talk, huh? That’s fine.” She felt his lips on hers, just enough pressure to sting. Her lip had been busted open, and the rain had left the small injury unable to close. His tongue probed the tiny cut only a little, tasting her blood. There was nothing she could do. It didn’t matter. “Goddamn it.” He sighed and she had no idea what he was referring to, which memories he’d seen from so little blood. “Alright. I’m gonna have to move you. It’s gonna hurt so if you need to pass out, now’s a good time.” 

Fuck that. Moira gritted her teeth, wishing she could find the strength to fight him, to scream at him, to at least push him away but her bones were full of fire and god she was so, so tired. The best she could do was clutch his chest and shoulder with her nails, as hard as she could while he hooked an arm beneath her knees and lifted her up, cradling her like a child. He grinned down at her. 

“If you’re gonna do that, at least try to make it hurt.” Remmick sounded amused.

God she hated him, but his warmth was delicious and soothing. How was it possible for a dead man to radiate so much heat? Surely he should have felt cold and clammy like a corpse, but no. Everything about him drew her in, made it so easy to be taken by his lies. She curled her hands, digging her nails in deeper as he proceeded to carry her, slowly and carefully. 

“That’s more like it.” He growled a little, and she snorted with irritation. Of course he enjoyed it. “Took me a while to find you, I’ll admit. Wasn’t easy gettin’ past Farino’s men, and those damn Prohis. Don’t worry though, I can find your scent anywhere.”She growled in frustration. How dare he speak to her like this after what she’d just learned? “Course I do wish I could have been here sooner. Don’t you worry though. I got you now.” 

“Fuck…you…” Moira grunted. 

“Nah I don’t think I will. Not like this, anyhow.” His smirk was enraging. 

Christ, she did not want his fucking help, and she hated that she needed it. Her vision was blurring. God she was so tired, and she didn’t want to listen to him any more, focusing instead on the soft drone of traffic, the dull thrum of the street lights. 

Chapter Text

She dreamt she was sitting in the diner, the cheap fluorescent lights thrumming overhead, the waitress saying something about unionizing as the cook neglected to ash his cigarette. Barry was there, eating an omelette with his fingers while sitting cross legged on the floor. She snarled at him, but his eyes were completely vacant. At the bar, Aiden McCarthy sat with Nico Farino and they were playing an idle game of Russian roulette. Their guns made no sound. 

From a booth in the far corner, someone waved her over, and she began to cry. Jun. Her sweet, gentle giant was smiling at her, telling her not to drink the coffee. It was poisoned. Then he pointed at the swinging doors that led to the kitchen and she nodded before pushing them open. 

No. Not this fucking memory. She refused to dwell here. Moira strolled through the tiny living room of her childhood home, refusing to look at her father who was drunk, sobbing over the body of his wife, the finger marks still fresh on her throat. She could hear his voice calling after her, begging, pleading for her to understand. Please, it wasn’t his fault. He’d simply lost control. He’d been fired from his job loading the red sailed Galway hookers, caught drinking again, and the stress Moira, the pressure…

Moira was standing in an evening glen, shrouded in mist, her fingers twirling idly through tall swaying heather. It was dusk. This was her homeland, but not the dirty cobbled street she’d grown up on. This was her home the way she wanted to remember it, the one painted on postcards. A sweet voice was humming in her ears. Was it her mother’s voice, lilting softly in the Carnatic style? It sounded eerie, reverberating strangely in the fog, sometimes sounding distant, other times as close as if she were humming in her ear. 

Qian was waiting for her, wearing a sparkling gown that shimmered with an ethereal glow, a fashion she’d never seen her wear in real life, like the women on billboards. She was gesturing for her to come closer, then raising a finger to her lips. Be still, my girl. Be silent. Then she was parting a tall hedge, beckoning Moira to look through as if they were children, trying to be sneaky. 

Remmick was there, naked and tattooed, glorious and glistening with sweat, his shoulders rolling as if his neck was stiff. Then he turned his face to stare at her, his eyes glowing ferociously red, his mouth opening far too wide. Blood poured from that gaping maw, an ungodly amount, flowing like a river down his chin, gushing in dark rivulets down his chest and stomach. His eyes though, were filled with pain and longing. She was horrified and repulsed. She was neither horrified, nor repulsed 

“No one can save you.” Qian whispered, in her mother’s voice. And then she pushed her. 

“I could really use a fuckin’ espresso.” Dream Moira said idly, indifferent to the monster before her. 

Remmick’s arms were around her, and he was breathing hard, hot and heavy on her face. It felt nice.

“I came here to hurt you. I came here to burn this place to the fucking ground. I came here to kill you. To break you. To ruin you. To pin you and pluck out your wings. I came here to make you suffer, the way I suffered.”

She pulled her hair to the side for him, giving him lazy access to her throat. Somehow she could taste blood in her mouth, maybe from being so close. His lips pulled back from a mouth that promised pleasure and violence. She smiled. So serene like a good little sacrificial lamb, and when he sank those teeth into her flesh she felt her entire body shudder in relief. God why did death have to feel so good? 

Fucking hell. 

Her eyes popped open, wide and furious, snapping around the room with delirious panic. 

“Where the hell am I?” She cried out, but it was more of an ugly croak. Moira did not recognize this house, its whitewashed walls, its rickety furnishings.  

“I’ll give you three guesses.” Remmick was sitting in a chair he’d pulled up next to the bed. She glared down at the quilted coverlet in disdain. 

“Am I wearin’ your shirt?” She asked, the fury rising in her throat. Had he fucking undressed her and put her in his clothes? 

“Absolutely.” He nodded, smirking down at her. “Your skirt was ruined. Saved that though.” He gestured at the end of the bed, to the dark green sari hanging over the bed frame. “Got these back for you, too.” He opened the drawer of the little nightstand, and her eyes widened at the sight of the silver jewelry the seamstress had lent her. It was all there, which meant he’d gone to the police station. 

As if reading her mind he gave her a sharp look. “Quite a mess.” He shook his head. “Sloppy work. No time to clean up, sorry to say. It’ll make the papers. Lucky for you I found that file on you. Fun little read, if you like fiction.” His smile was pained. 

“Why can I see?” Moira reached up with trembling no fingers to touch her face. Her eye was tender but no longer swollen shut. 

With a snort, he reached over and handed her a glass of water. “So many damn questions.” 

It was then that she noticed two things. The first was that this was clearly a woman’s bedroom. The second was that when she went to take the water glass, she couldn’t, because her wrist was bound to the bed frame with a single handcuff. 

It was then that Moira began to scream a symphony of loud and poetic curses that would have made Al Capone himself clutch at his pearls. Remmick watched her with a lazy, infuriatingly patient smile, clearly enjoying her reddening face, her heaving chest, her wild, flashing eyes. She was going to kill him. Panic was clawing at her flesh, like thousands of scurrying rats beneath her skin, making her twist wildly, tugging so hard at the handcuffs that she felt them break skin. She was going to scratch his goddamn eyes out. 
Then he was on the bed, sitting beside her, pinning down her free hand into the mattress, and he was holding a damp dishtowel embroidered with poppies. She glared at it. Whose goddamned house was this? 

“Shhhhh. Enough, Moira. Enough.” He crooned, sounding somewhat irritated as he pressed the cloth to her forehead. She snapped at him like a vicious dog as he tried to soothe her, and he stuffed the dishtowel between her teeth. “None of that. You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.” 

She spat it out. “I will kill you.” 

“Oh I’m sure you’d like to right now, baby girl.” Remmick pursed his lips in annoyance, then sighed. “You’re not gonna listen, but you will hear me. You had a fractured rib. Nothin’ serious but I had to keep you from thrashin’ around. Your cheekbone was broken. Again, nothin’ serious.” 

“Was broken?” She stared at him, trying to comprehend. 

To her surprise, he blushed a little, then with some trepidation, pointed to a small tortoiseshell thumb lancet on the side table just out of reach. It sat near a powder blue porcelain bowl, the water inside tainted dark with old blood. Moira stared at it for a moment, then looked down at herself. Her veins appeared intact. But Remmick had his sleeves rolled up, even though he too showed no injuries. 

“Did…did you…?” Her voice came out as an embarrassing whimper of fear. “What the fuck did you do?” Too high. Too shrill. Oh god.

“I gave you a little blood. Not much! Just enough to patch you up a bit. The rest you can handle on your own. It won’t turn you or nothin’. I’d have to do a bit more than that, and I didn’t bite you. I swear on my father’s grave.” Remmick replied, a bit too quickly. He was nervous. 

Moira’s head was reeling and she could feel a headache begin to throb behind her eyes. “Are you tellin’ me you have healing blood?” It was fucking absurd, but she’d seen how quickly vampires could mend themselves. Sort of. She cringed, remembering a huge man retrieving his own face and trying to put it back on. 

“Yes, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go spreadin’ that around.” He fixed her with a hard look as though he expected her to do that very thing. “I’m well aware that you’re supposed to be reporting back to your landlady about me.” His lip twitched, almost a snarl, but then his gaze softened. “I also know that you haven’t.” 

Moira felt a flush creeping up her neck. “You say that like yer gonna let me live.” She raised an eyebrow, her jaw set, determined not to show him a solitary trace of fear. 

“Course I am.” He spat. “But I need you to cooperate.”

“I’ll cooperate as long as you answer my goddamned questions.” She replied darkly. 

Remmick scowled, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Still don’t trust me? Christ woman, how many times do I have to save yer skin before you’ll stop lookin’ at me like that?”

“Trust you?” Rage was bubbling behind her words, and she spat them like venom. “You’re a lying bastard. A fuckin’ con man. You knew who I was the moment we met.” No point in holding it back. “You knew and you said nothin’ and don’t you dare try to tell me it’s not the same as lying because you know damn well it is.”

Remmick’s face fell a fraction but at least he had the grace to look her in the eye. “You saw Stack.”

“Oh you bet yer arse I did.” She hissed, baring her teeth. “He broke me out, and had some choice things to say about ye.”

“Yeah that explains the mess. Fuckin’ baby vampires. Guess I can’t kill him then.” He sighed. “Shame.” 

“Why the fuck would you do that? He’s yours ain’t he?” Remmick actually looked uncomfortable, and muttered something darkly under his breath.“Come again?”

“I tasted some of your blood. Saw how pretty you think he is.” Good god that was jealousy in his petulant voice. It enraged her. 

“Yer a fuckin’ cunt.” She snarled, jerking forward then hissing in pain. 

“I’m not proud of it. Your lip was bleeding. Your wrist is bleeding now.” His eyes flickered to her handcuffs, his pupils dilating a bit. “You have no idea Moira, how hard it is for me to resist that fuckin’ scent. You have no idea how delicious you are.”

“Yer a goddamned psychopath.” 

“Ohh darlin’. You haven’t a clue what a fuckin’ psychopath I am.” He whispered. “Would ye like to know how many I killed, just to get to you?” 

“I hate you.” Moira muttered, mostly to herself, feeling her chest ache. 

Remmick pounced on her, alarmingly fast, his hand at her throat, not quite squeezing, glaring deeply into her eyes with a look of pure savagery. Her heart pounded against her ribs so hard it hurt but she did not look away, watching the red begin to bleed just a little into his irises, like drops of ink on wet paper.

“Take that back.” His voice was a deep, dangerous hum. 

“Fuck you.” Moira’s lip was quivering. Her chest ached so badly. And then she felt it crack, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. How dare he try to frighten her after all he’d done? “Fuck. You.” 

His expression changed, eyes widening with bewilderment and horror. His grip loosened immediately and he sat back to stare at her, drinking in the sight of her wide grey eyes now full of tears. 

“Please stop cryin.’ I can’t…” he licked his lips nervously, “I don’t like it.”

“I’ll cry if I fuckin’ feel like it.” She spat. 

“Nah. Not like this. You don’t cry like this.” 

“Well I am now, so congratulations Remmick ye fuckin’ did it. That’s why ye came here right? To hurt me?” She was remembering his mouth on her, how she’d let him use her in that dark alley, how he’d walked through the art gallery with her, how he’d made her smile, how he’d slept next to her when she’d asked him to. All a game, because she was just a stupid little human. Only prey, to a wolf that knew how to drag it out for his own amusement. 

“Not like this.” He admitted. “I came here to find you, that’s true, but…” 

“Sorry yer little schemes down south didn’t go right, Remmick. Sorry yer plan to slaughter an entire town didn’t work out. So fuckin’ sorry.” She choked. “You were right though. It was all me, Remmick. I’m the one who got Smoke and Stack what they needed to open their speakeasy. It all started right here with the three of us, and guess what? I would do it again. So go ahead. Take yer fuckin’ vengeance.” 

“Goddamnit Moira! I was gonna…fuck.” He ran his hands through his hair then smeared them down his face. 

Moira snorted with disdain. “Go on. Astonish me.”

“I couldn’t do it.” He murmured. “I can’t. I don’t even know if I ever intended to…” Remmick wasn’t looking at her and she wanted him to look at her, to see the wrath on her face. “I saw Stack’s memories when Mary turned him. We’re all connected like that. I saw your face, heard your voice, the way he remembered them and I just…yes. I wanted revenge. I wanted to kill you.” Finally he turned those pretty blue eyes on her, and she hated the plea in them. 

‘Someone needed to pay, so why not you? Why not the one who started it all? And then there you were, and you were real. Smokin’ a damn cigarette and givin’ me shite.” Ooh that accent was thick now. He was upset and trying not to show it. “I knew I should just kill ye. Drain ye dry and leave ye on the steps for them to find, but that fuckin’ scent. Those eyes and that damned mouth. The words that came out of em. Ye weren’t even afraid. Not like you were supposed to be. Then I just…I wanted to…to keep you. Make ye beholden to me. Not like the others. Not a thrall. Unless that was the best way to do it, then maybe…’ God he was stammering through the words, but they horrified her all the same.

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about Remmick?” She whispered, fear pounding in her chest, clawing up her throat, making her ill. 

“I’ve thought about turnin’ ye, girl. Really turnin’ ye.” Finally his eyes slid to hers. “Properly. The hard way.”

“What does that entail?” Horror was slithering in her belly, cold and brutal. 

Remmick shook his head as if he didn’t know, but he answered anyway. “I’ve never done it. Don’t really know if it would work. But it’s what was done to me. I think.” His brow furrowed. “The details are fuzzy.”

“You were goin’ to hurt me.” She started for him. “You were goin’ to rip my life away.”

“Yes. And then I’d replace your blood with my own. Not just a little. Much more than that. What better way to punish you than cursin’ you the way I’m cursed? But then I…I just couldn’t do it.”

“Why?” She demanded. 

“Dunno. Just didn’t. Heard ye playin’ that sitar.” He fidgeted uncomfortably. “It sounded so sad. And then I just wanted to…to…” he let out a puff of air. 

“Be a fuckin’ pain in my arse?” She added helpfully. 

“To know you.” He bit back angrily. “Is that a crime? This ain’t easy fer me, ye know.” He glared at her as if she’d done something. 

“Oh cry me a fuckin’ river.” Moira rolled her eyes, but she’d be damned if she didn’t feel a little flutter in her chest. 

“You don’t know what it’s like. The endless wandering. To walk the earth in damnation and then to suddenly be interested again. I kept thinkin’ kill her and be done with it but all I wanted was to stand in yer presence, you mad, gorgeous thing.” 

“You don’t get to do that.” She spat. “You don’t get to toy with my life fer entertainment.”

“Entertainment? Do you have any idea how fuckin’ terrified I was?” His eyes were turning red. “That night your speakeasy was attacked and you were hurt and I could do nothing about it but stand outside and scream your name? Your name, Moira. Do ye know how stupid and helpless I felt? I barely knew ye and still I felt real fear that ye were dead or dyin’ and that I’d never know what it was like to kiss ye? You’ve poisoned me. Me. I who have tasted death upon my tongue a thousand times and spat in its face?” He was speaking in Gaelic now. She stared at him, utterly transfixed. “I who walked the Aillte an Mhothair when our people still spoke the language of fae and knew their secrets? I who drank the blood of Normandy when it was young? I who cursed heaven and turned my back to hell’s great fire? I am death Moira Domhnall and all shall tremble to look upon my face. It should be an honor to be chosen.” 

“Nah.” She snorted. “Yer just another lying Irish cunt. Men will say anything, but yer poetry is shite.” 

“You’re in no position to mock me, Moira.” There was real danger in his tone, low and rumbling. “I could make you beg for me. I’m dyin’ to make you beg for me. Say the words, Moira. Tell me yer mine.”

She gaped at him for a moment, then barked out a laugh, a high pitched ugly sound.

“Oh my god. Do you need an invitation?” Remmick’s face fell, and flushed red with anger. He did not respond. She laughed again. “You need an honest to god invitation? Does it have to be formal? Do ye want it in writing?” 

“No. I don’t, and it’s not like that!” He spat sounding humiliated. “Believe me, I’ve come close.” His eyes darkened. “I could take advantage of the position yer in.” He looked pointedly at the handcuffs. “Is it so wild to believe that I don’t want to touch you out of hate? Or spite? Has it crossed yer mind that I want more than that?” 

“Jesus Christ you told me you’d fucked hundreds.” Moira’s smirk was cold. “Is that the line you like to use to get dumb girls into bed?” 

He snarled. “You’re bein’ cruel, Moira.”

“I’m the one chained to a stranger’s bed.” She rattled the handcuffs. “Does anyone even know I’m here? Does Qian?”

Remmick smirked sourly and shook his head. “It’s just you and me here babygirl.” Moira’s response was unhinged, baring her teeth and pulling so hard at the handcuffs it tore her skin open. Remmick seized her arm, stopping the motion. “Christ almighty YES she knows yer here, goddamn. She wants you to lie fuckin’ low for a while! Think for one minute! You just got arrested! That police station was a damn slaughterhouse! So you’re stayin’ here until shit calms down!” 

“I want to speak to her!” 

“Well tough shit, babygirl. Your boss has her hands full. The Italians are out for blood. Qian’s out for blood, and…” He stopped, and his whole body trembled violently, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Oh goddamnit.” He snarled, and fell to his knees next to the bed, latching his lips on her bleeding wrist. She’d cut herself deeper than she’d thought. Reaching up, he snapped the handcuff free, and cradled her hand to his mouth, slurping at her blood with a voracity that stunned her. 

The memories he saw began to flash before her eyes, just as they had the night he’d tasted the wounds on her back, like little bits of cinema but with color and sound. A smoke filled den of iniquity. A trumpet playing mournfully while she flirted with a waitress. Smoke and Stack eyeing her with interest, exchanging silent words the way only siblings can. Then she was eighteen, hissing in pain while Qian tried to tame her hair into a sleek bun. Jimmy was teasing her, and they were sneaking out to see The Thief of Baghdad, in which Douglas Fairbanks spent a good deal of time running about with no shirt on. 

Moira tried to jerk away, but Remmick’s grip was iron. She tried to smash the water glass over his head but he was too quick for her and he grabbed that arm too, letting the glass fall to the floor with a crash. He was whimpering, grunting like a brute as he tasted her. There was savagery in his movements, in his hunched shoulders, and the way his fingers gripped her. She tried once more to tear herself away from his grasp. 

“Remmick, yer hurtin’ me.” She hissed. When he only grunted, she twisted her body as best she could and tried to connect her knee with his breast bone. “Remmick STOP!” Her voice broke a little. At this, he pushed away from her, his chest heaving. 

“Christ, Moira…” He stammered, his eyes wide. 

“Don’t bother.” She snapped. She did not want his damned apology. “Just tell me where we are.”

Remmick shook his head, looking disgusted with himself for his lack of control. “I can’t do that. Not until you agree to stay put. They’re after you now. The empress is going ahead with the expansion, but McCarthy’s claimin’ he didn’t promise shit. You’re right in the middle, babygirl.” His eyes lifted to hers in a calm, slightly nervous way. “I could kill him for you.” She hated that boyish little smirk. 

Moira’s lip curled. “Jesus, Remmick.” 

“I could. If you asked me to, I could do it. Hell, make me a list.” He grinned wider. “I’ll kill em all for you. Every damned one of them.”

“Yes and then the Irish will be so riled they’ll come down on Chinatown like a flood!” She snarled through gritted teeth. “Here’s a fuckin’ newsflash, Remmick. Yer actions have goddamned consequences. I didn’t force ye to go up against Smoke and Stack. You did that on yer own. And ye fuckin’ lost. So what? Ye crawled out of it alive. That’s a win in my book.” 

“I lost everything.” He growled, pacing back and forth next to the bed like a caged animal. 

“So start. Over.” Moira could growl too, and somehow hers had more of an effect than she’d anticipated. His blue eyes actually widened in surprise. “Goddamnit. Hundreds of years old and ye don’t know nothin.’” He lurched toward her somewhat jerkily , perhaps thinking to wipe some of the tears off her cheek, but she held up a hand. “Mrs. Yáo used to run a noodle shop in California. Then they passed that damned exclusion act and ye know what those fuckers did? They grabbed her son. Cut off his braid, and burned the shop to the ground. Her husband tried to stop ‘em and they killed him for it. So ye know what she did? She packed a bag, and came here.”

“To sell noodles?”

“No ye fuckwit she married rich and moved to New York. Pay attention. My point is, some o’ those people ye prey on know what it means to have to start all over again, and we don’t have time on our side.” Moira pursed her lips at Remmick’s stricken expression. “I’m sorry. About yer thralls, I mean, not fer callin ye a fuckwit.” 

“What?” He hissed, making her frown. 

“The thralls you lost. Your children, right? I’m…fuck, I’m sorry.” She winced. “I…I can’t imagine what that was like.” 

He stared at her, his face twisted with something that may have been either shock or disgust. Then without saying a word, he stood up and simply left. Walked out of the bedroom, and down what Moira presumed to be a hallway. She heard a door slam, and the sound jolted her into action. Sprinting after him, she grabbed the door handle and yanked, but the fucker had locked it. She pounded on it with her fist for good measure, then realized that she still wore the broken handcuff like a bracelet and briefly wondered which dead cop he’d stolen it from. 

“Yer a fuckin arse, Remmick!” She hollered pointlessly, then shivered and noticed she wasn’t wearing pants, only his shirt and her underwear. “FUCKIN’ PERVERT.” 

Moira tried the windows next, flinging open curtains and swearing loudly when she found them completely painted over and nailed shut. Then she began rifling through dresser drawers, finding several women’s skirts that were far to small for her, and finally settling on a pair of trousers which flopped comically over her feet and were far too tight in the bum but terribly loose in the front. She couldn’t find her damned shoes anywhere. 

Screaming with rage, she picked up a heavy clothes iron she’d found in the closet, and was about to hurl it through the front window, then paused, hearing Qian’s voice in her head. Be calm, my girl. Be still. Fuck. She couldn’t go out there. Not when there could be an army of cops out looking for her. Although, her arrest had been off the books, but then again, that didn’t mean the ones Aiden McCarthy owned didn’t know, and they were twice as bad. And what if Remmick had been right? Maybe she was supposed to lay low. And what about the Italians? They’d be reeling from the arrests, pointing fingers. 

“Fuck.” She ran her fingers through her hair, or rather tried to but it was such a tangled mess she couldn’t quite manage. 

So Moira made herself useful, by finding the bathroom and rummaging through drawers and medicine cabinets, making a giant mess, and muttering furiously at herself until she found a comb. It was delicate and jade colored and two of the tines snapped when she tried to yank it through her tangled curls. Moira cursed Remmick for this, because this too felt like his fault. 

She started to cry. Moira hated crying. It made her feel stupid. 

Of course Remmick had ulterior motives when he came to Chicago. Of course he did. Everyone did. Why should she be surprised that the bloodthirsty vampire had travelled all this way from wherever the fuck he came from, just to kill her? In a way, she could relate. She too liked to blame other people for her inconveniences. It was so much simpler that way. How young had she been when she’d learned that even adults could not be trusted? If she expected disappointment from the beginning, it didn’t hurt so badly when it happened. 

Except this did hurt. Moira didn’t know what she’d thought exactly, but some part of her, some small, fragile thing deep in her chest, had thought that maybe, just maybe, it was pure coincidence. That maybe there was some magic out there that had brought Remmick into her life with his delicious chaos, like a mad fae prince. The worst part was that she’d truly started to believe that Remmick had her back, after all, hadn’t he shown her that when Barry and his boys had tried to take her in that alley? Was that all a game to him, or was he simply getting his rivals out of the way? Christ, she needed a shrink to help sort this mess out. Maybe a nice padded room. 

The front door slammed open, and Moira wiped her face dry before storming out to confront whatever bullshit mood he’d brought with him. Remmick was awkwardly carrying several paper bags, but managed to kick the door shut behind him, and wrestle a key from his pocket. Moira noted the key, watched him lock the only exit, then pocket it. Remmick saw her watching and his lip curled. 

“Don’t even try it.” He warned. 

She lifted her brows at him with mock innocence, but said nothing, watching him carry the bags into the kitchen and slam them on the tiny dinette with a frown. His eyes flicked to hers sharply, then his face softened. 

“I’m not angry.” He muttered.

“Too bad.” She cocked her head. “It’s fun makin’ you angry.” 

A twitch of his lips. “You surprised me. That’s all. Didn’t expect that from you. Didn’t expect it to aggravate me.” He was taking things out of the bags, and setting them down on the table, looking at each item curiously. “I haven’t done this in about two hundred years ye know, so don’t laugh.” 

“Haven’t done what?” Her brows furrowed. “Is that kasoori methi?” 

“Maybe. That’s this green stuff, right?” 

She eyed the ingredients suspiciously. “Are you making palak paneer?” 

He shrugged with one shoulder, not quite looking at her. “Is that what it’s called?” 

“Why?”

Without turning he pointed at her belly, and as if on cue, it made an embarrassingly deep, rumbling sound. 

“No garlic though. I do have some sense of self preservation. Got you this.” He tossed something over his shoulder and she caught it, then made a face at the bottle of almond oil. For her damned hair. She was rendered speechless, wrestling with the words in her head. Why the fuck would he bother? Her throat closed up at the emotional turmoil that left her feeling so very conflicted. Then he tilted his head to look at her. “I’d rather not try this with an audience, and you still reek of another man’s blood.” He handed her a paper bag. “I don’t know what half this shit is for so I just picked stuff that smells like you.” 

Jesus Christ on a bicycle. Moira peeked into the bag and saw that he’d given her a comically large amount of menstrual pads and an assortment of shampoos and bath soaps that would have cost her a month’s wages. Delicately she plucked a tube of red lipstick from the bag and held it up. 

“How’d you know my brand?” 

“I’d know that color anywhere, darlin’.” 

Not knowing what else to do, she clutched the bag to her chest and scurried back up the stairs to bathe, still thinking about the keys Remmick had placed in his pocket. The wildness in her roared at the thought of being trapped in a strange house for any reason, but the part that had been raised by the Empress of Chinatown knew that he was right. She had to lie low. For now. The story would be in the paper. An entire police station full of dead cops would have the city in an uproar. But she couldn’t trust him, and that made her angry. Moira simply couldn’t afford to take him at his word. Maybe she had been given orders to stay put. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t stay. 

She took her time bathing, even shaving her legs, and applying a touch of orange blossom behind her knees, because hell, murderous bloodsucker or not, she wasn’t about to waste it. Sighing, she pulled Remmick’s absurdly sized clothes back on. 
When Remmick gave her a once over, he smirked and muttered something about grabbing some of her clothes in the morning, then frowned down at the sticky mess of dough in front of him. The kitchen smelled heavenly now. Moira looked at the dough with some amusement, then she picked up a bowl and scooped the gooey wad into it. 

“Roti takes practice. That’s all.” She grabbed a small fistful of flour and began to skillfully work it in. 

“I was trying to avoid makin’ a huge amount.” 

“That’s the opposite of a problem.” She snorted. He was annoyed, but his eyes were lingering on her tattooed fingers as she worked the dough into a consistency she liked, and added salt to keep it from getting any more stretchy. She pinched off a large wad and began to flatten it. “My mother made these so often, I’d blink and miss how she did it.” She didn’t know why she said this. It just slipped out. Remmick nodded, and followed her lead, slowly stretching the ball in his hands until it was more or less roti shaped. 

“If you’re thinkin’ about playin’ nice until you can get the keys, think again, babygirl.” He said casually.  “But by all means, if you wanna stick your hands in my pants, I won’t stop ye.” 

Moira smiled at him with clenched teeth. “Duly noted.” 

She slapped her roti on the devilishly hot skillet and watched until the bubbles formed, snorting with amusement when Remmick tried to stop her from flipping it with her bare hands and the way he winced when she ignored him. When it was done she pointed at the skillet. 

“Your turn, white boy.” 

He rolled his eyes at her, but used her method anyway. 

“I found yer file, ye know.” Remmick said with pretend nonchalance as he spooned her a bowl of palak paneer and handed it to her. “At the police station.”

Moira did not bother to sit, but instead leaned against the counter, waiting for the food to cool a bit. “Did ye read it all?”

“Course I did! Too good to pass up. It was full of shit, though.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with curiosity, watching her every move as she tore off a bit of the flatbread and scooped a bite of paneer into her mouth. She always felt uncomfortable when people did this, made food for her and gauged her every facial twitch for a reaction. 

Fuck. It was goddamned delicious. Creamy and spicy and oh god spinach had absolutely no business being this good. She couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes and moaned. Fuck, it tasted like her mother’s. Oh god she was tearing up at the swarm of memories it brought back. Hopefully she could blame it on the spices. 

“Is it good?” There was that damned puppy dog face again. 

“Where the fuck did you learn this?” 

He fidgeted uncomfortably. “I uhh…” he cleared his throat. “I asked that seamstress lady. Just asked her. Didn’t hurt her or nothin.’ Figured you’d set me on fire if I did.” Remmick made a confounded sort of  face. “She told me you were too good for me. But she also said if I could feed you proper…”

Moira barked out a laugh. “That you’d make a good husband?” 

“Nah, she said it’d knock some sense into ya, so that you could find a good husband. Didn’t appreciate that much.” 

“Ha! She’s a fuckin’ treasure, that one.”

Remmick was looking at her strangely. “That what you want, Moira? A husband to pump a bunch of babies in you?”

She nearly choked, then quickly hid it by eating another mouthful to give her some time to think on how to respond to that. 

“Not in the cards for me.” Something her boss had said to her once.

“Oh.” He seemed to relax a bit, but his eyes were still glittering with curiosity. “Can I ask you somethin’ without you throwing that bowl at me?”

Play nice, Moira, she thought. Answer his questions. Ease him up a bit. She nodded slowly. 

“We both know yer father didn’t kill himself. So why’d ye do it?” 

Moira finished her food in silence for a minute, keenly aware of Remmick waiting patiently, his eyes never leaving her face. 

“He was drunk. Lost his temper when he saw mum cryin’ again.” She shook her head sharply as if she could shoo away the memories. “She was already dead. He tried to say he hadn’t, but…he had. Course he had. He was gettin’ worse all the time after the boys died. They were handsome, ye know. My brothers. Fought fer king and country and all that shite.”

“So you stabbed him?”

“Oh that I did.” She winked at him. “Gonna call the Pinkertons on me?”

“No one will ever lay a hand on ye again and live.” Remmick growled softly. “I know you hate me fer lyin’ and that’s fair. I could pretend I was just findin’ the right time to confess, but I had hoped you’d never know.” 

“Three can keep a secret if two of ‘em are dead.” She pointed out. “You have more than three. You have children still out there.” 

Remmick shook his head. “They’re not my children. They were full grown humans and I killed them, Moira. I killed ‘em all.” There was real pain in his voice. Honest to god remorse. “I was married once, ye know.” That shocked her, rooting her to the floor. Remmick held up his left hand. No ring to be seen. “Threw it in the lake. When I nearly died, I saw her, and you know what? After hundreds of years I didn’t even recognize her face. Only image I had of her was in my mind, warped and confused with time. Then she spoke to me. Said I could never join with her after all I’d done. “

“Fuck.” She didn’t know what else to say. 

“Hundreds of years trying to find her again, and she was disgusted by me. Now, I don’t know if it was real, or just my mind makin’ pictures. But I hated her for it. And I hated myself even more. I wanted to die, Moira. I hold no grudges against Smoke or Stack, or any of em. They gave me a gift. Then my own fuckin’ thralls dragged me out.” He bared his teeth. “And I cursed the lot of ‘em. Talk about the consequences of my own damn actions.” 

Remmick considered her as she chewed on this. Then finally she crossed her arms and pursed her lips at him. 

“Yer not the first man to want me dead.” 

He laughed bitterly. “True enough, but you’re the one who told me to start over. Ain’t that what I been doin’ babygirl?” 

***************************************

The basement door was locked. When Remmick was out doing whatever it was Remmick did, she tried to open it, even attempting to pick the lock which only resulted in a broken hair pin and a few choice cuss words. Granted, the only thing she knew about lock picking came from dime store detective novels. She wasn’t even that interested in the basement, just terribly bored to the point where she’d tried to pick fights with Remmick just for something to do. He’d tactfully ignored her. 

Eventually he figured out what was wrong with her and brought her a fat stack of books and some drawing utensils with which she’d immediately drawn a crude, ugly face with fangs and the word “fuckarse” beneath it in bold, swirling letters. Remmick was so pleased with it, he had taken it and pinned it to a wall. This irritated her. She didn’t want to please him. She wanted to piss him off. 

“Yer bein’ childish, Moira.” He now said with an amused smirk.

“When can I speak to her?” She demanded for the fourth time in the last hour. 

“I’ll say it again. I don’t know. It’s not up to me.”

“I could call her! Take me to a payphone.” She tried. 

“With what money?” 

“I don’t know, the money you’ve spent on all this!” She gestured at the books. 

Remmick grinned. “I stole all that.” 

Moira rolled her eyes. “I don’t even read romance!” 

“Oh? Could have fooled me.” He looked pointedly at the dime store paperback that she’d already finished. “So what do you read?” 

Moira glared at him, a slight blush crept across her cheeks. “Adventure. Science fiction.” She paused, debating whether to confess this next bit. “…Shakespeare.” 

“You like Shakespeare?” Why was he grinning like it was his birthday? “Which one do ye like most?” Moira only pressed her lips together, not wanting to say. “Wait let me guess. Bloodthirsty little thing like you? You like Titus Andronicus. You like the bit where they get baked into pies.” 

Moira mumbled to herself. He heard her anyway, damn him. 

“A fuckin’ Midsummer Night’s Dream?” He looked at her skeptically now. “The one with the fairies?” Remmick laughed in disbelief. “Why that one?” 

“Dunno.” The blush was deepening, she could feel it. “It’s pretty, I guess.” 

She turned away from him, not wanting to see him laughing at her, then started in surprise when she felt his warmth at her back. Long fingers were toying with a lock of her hair, and suddenly his breath was hot against her ear, making her stiffen. 

“Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword, And won thy love, doing thee injuries; But I will wed thee in another key, With pomp, with triumph and with revelling. And you said you don’t read romance.” 
God she hated how deep and throaty his voice was. 

“All the lovers in that play to choose from and ye picked the one who enslaved a queen after defeating her in battle.”

“Yeah. It’s fitting, don’t ye think?” He pulled back a bit. “I met him you know. Billy Shakespeare.” 

“You goddamn liar.” She whirled on him, but her eyes had widened. 

“You’re right,” he chuckled. “I didn’t meet him, but I did see him in passing. At the premier of Much Ado About Nothing, you know, the one about two people who hate each other but fall madly in love at the end?” 

“Never read it.”

“Now who’s the liar?” His lips quirked. “You are my Beatrice. Cruel. Sharp tongued.”

Moira scowled, not liking the direction this conversation was taking. “Yer not Benedick. Benedick is handsome.” 

“Never says that in the play.” 

“Leading men are always handsome.” She shrugged. 

“You don’t think I’m a leading man?” He raked his fingers through his mess of dark hair, as if proving a point. Damn it, he was handsome. She didn’t need to inflate his ego, though. 

“Nah. More like the creepy villain.” 

“The one who kidnaps pretty maidens? Aye that may be true.” He leaned closer, his breath tickling her lips. “But what if, the villain kills the hero and drinks his blood? What if he seduces the leading lady and makes her knees fuckin’ tremble? Hmm? Would ye read that play, Moira?”

He was close enough to kiss. God, how she wanted to be kissed, and clearly he could see it because that damned smirk was making his eyes glitter with fascination. 

“Sounds poorly written.” 

Remmick brushed his lips to hers ever so slightly, his mouth a hairs width away. She closed her eyes. 

“Didn’t stay in London long. Burnt it to the ground before I left. Does that shock you? It should. No. Don’t think I will kiss ye.” He chuckled at her look of outrage. 

“Good. I still hate you.” 

“Oh see, I don’t think you do, Moira.” He purred, but there was anger in his voice. “I think you want to, but you can’t quite manage it, and that pisses you off. “

“You want to know what pisses me off, Remmick?” She sounded a bit sadder than she wished to. “I was really startin’ to like you.”

His face went a shade paler, then a flush bloomed across his cheeks. Quite a dramatic shift, as if she’d struck him. Fingers were biting into her shoulders, but then they trembled, and he jerked them back, staring into her eyes as if desperately seeking something within them. 

She continued. “I hated havin’ ye shadow me. Nothin’ nice about havin’ yer every move scrutinized. But I was startin’ to like knowin’ you, too.” 

Something about the way his eyes began to shimmer triggered something within her. Instincts took over. Moira held him in her gaze, and placed a firm hand on his chest, putting just enough pressure on him to distract him from what her other hand was doing. 

“Moira, I’m…” Remmick stammered. 

“Yer what? Yer ‘sorry?’” She scoffed. “Yer not sorry, Remmick.” As she spoke, she utilized a skill she’d perfected as a teenager, when she’d been living on the streets. “I’m not sure a man like you is even capable. I do think yer sorry that I found out.” Her fingers were close to the seam of his pocket. 

“It wasn’t my intention to draw this out Moira.” Remmick’s hair was falling into his eyes. God she hated that. It made him look so disarming, and sweet.   She felt her fingers brush the door key in his pocket. “I swear I never planned that, if that’s what yer thinkin’. The moment I kissed you was the moment I knew that killin’ ye was out of the question.” He licked his lips and his eyes fell to her mouth, as if imagining doing that very thing, and she’d be damned if she wasn’t considering it too. 

Her eyes became hooded, and she sighed, gazing up at him and shaking her head. 

Then she ran for it. Kicking out, she swept his leg from under him and he fell, cursing with shock and alarm as she leapt over him, and flew down the hallway, using the bannister to fling herself down the steps. She heard his footsteps, surprisingly heavy, his roar of fury as he gave chase. 

So close. So damn close. The keys were in her hand. The keys were in the first bolted lock. Then the second. Then the primary by the doorknob. Her fingers were deft and sure, practiced from years of getting in and out of places where she wasn’t supposed to be. The door was open and she knew this street. She knew the speakeasy was only a few blocks away. This was still Chinatown. It was broad daylight. Cars were honking, people were yelling out of windows and loudly haggling somewhere in Cantonese. It was daytime and she would be safe. He would never be able to follow her. 

But a hand was gripping her jaw, and an arm like iron wrapped around her waist, pulling her back with a terrible hiss of pain. The sun had touched the skin of his forearm. She could hear it sizzling. He was wrenching her back with a growl of frustration, and throwing her back into the house. She fell on her hands and knees with a small cry of shock, and she heard him closing the door and locking it up tight once again. 

Then he was upon her, wrestling her back to the floor as she squirmed, cursing his name in every language she knew. His fingers were sinking into her hair, yanking her head back, close to the scalp, his other arm wrapping around her throat. 

“Go ahead and cry out.” He snarled. “Go on. No one will care.” 

“You can’t keep me locked in here like a fuckin’ pet!”  She growled.

“Just you watch me, darlin’.” His voice was so deep, so furious. “I’m tryin’ to keep you safe. I’m tryin’ to prevent you from doin’ somethin’ stupid. You gonna behave?”

“Get fucked.” She hissed. 

“Fuck. You’d better stop squirmin.’” He warned, his voice odd and muffled. 

“Or what?” She snapped. 

“Oh is that how it’s gonna be? Alright fuck it.” 

Moira twitched in alarm she felt him reach down and roughly yank her pants down. She gasped as cool air caressed her backside. 

“What the fuck are ye doin?” 

She felt his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, his breath hot against her cheek as he held her jaw firmly. 

“I don’t care if you hate me, Moira. You are done acting like a fuckin’ brat.” God his voice was husky. 

The first smack reverberated in the hallway. A sharp pain bloomed across her bottom, making her gasp, her eyes wide with shock and humiliation. Remmick was chuckling, mocking her. She fought harder, trying desperately to squirm her way out of his vice like grip. 

“Let go of me.” 

“No. I’m not going to let you get yerself killed. If that means treating you like a spoiled child then so be it.”

Smack. 

The sting brought tears to her eyes, which she screwed shut, biting her lip to keep from whimpering. Alarmingly, she could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, and her body shuddered. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Moira.” Remmick whispered, sounding immensely frustrated. His fingers were dancing along the back of her thigh. 

Smack.

She gasped out, the pain wicked and sharp, and yet heat was pooling deep in her belly, and she was throbbing. 

“Remmick…” She pleaded. 

Smack. 

“You look so good like this, babygirl.”

Smack. 

He was soothing her, his fingers so gentle as they grazed her stinging flesh, bringing her pleasure even as he hurt her. 

“Please.” She murmured. Her body was thrumming, aching at his touch, her blood heating in a way that surprised her. 

“No.” He growled. “I ain’t stoppin’ until you promise me you won’t do that again.” 

“It feels so good.” She whispered. 

Remmick paused. This was not, apparently what he’d expected her to say. He seemed to be considering her, calculating. 

Smack.

A moan tore from her throat, low and soft, her eyes rolling back in her head. 

“Fuck, Moira. Holy fuck, yer panties are soaked.” A note of surprise in that gruff voice. He was struggling. She could feel the struggle, pressing hard against her thigh. She wriggled, and was rewarded with a husky growl of immense frustration. 

Smack. 

Smack. 

Smack. 

“Startin’ to think this ain’t much of a punishment.” Remmick smoothed her hair away from her throat, and pressed his lips to her skin, at the slope of her shoulder, then up the tender side of her neck until he reached the pulse point beneath her ear. His tongue flicked over it, and she bit her lip to muffle a soft whimper. 

Smack. 

Her ass was so sensitive now, inflamed by his brutal attention. 

“Got a new trick for ye, Moira.” He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply. “One I think you might appreciate.” Then he dipped his head to her throat, and very gently kissed her there. 

Then she felt it. A wave of pleasure so deep it rattled her, coming from seemingly nowhere, rushing through her veins and pooling in her sex, making her throb, making her weak, dripping down her thighs. She prayed he wouldn’t see, even as she throbbed so hard it hurt. 

“You’re tremblin’ babygirl,” his voice was cruel, but soft. “You got some of my blood in you now. And guess what?” 

Smack. 

“Please…” Moira begged, not really sure what she was begging for. 

“I can make you cum without even touching you, darlin.’” But his fingers had dipped between her thighs, stroking her gently through her panties. She flushed with embarrassment at how wet she’d become. “Not much fun in that, though.” He chuckled. 

Smack. 

The orgasm came, unbidden, rippling through her like a tremor of electricity, making her sob a little with some relief, but it was not enough. If anything it mocked her, teasing her with the pleasure he could give, but wouldn’t. 
Remmick growled with frustration, and released his hold on her. 

“Goddamn stubborn, Moira. Just fuckin’ say it. Give me what I want. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you lo…” He stopped. 

Moira’s eyes went wide. She scrambled away from him, and yanked her pants back up, until she was sitting with her back to the wall with her knees bent. Then she chanced a look at him, saw the war raging behind an otherwise placid face. It was the same war she’d been fighting since that night in the diner, when he’d calmed the storm in her head. 

He swallowed. She watched the way his throat bobbed with the effort and he was staring at her, searching her face for anything, any hint of what she might be thinking. 

Her brow furrowed. This was an interrogation, then, but not like the one she’d endured in the police station. This one was far different, and she could feel herself cracking. 

Moira wasn’t about to give him a goddamn inch. 

Chapter Text

Moira couldn’t tell if Remmick was overcompensating or if he simply had a very misguided understanding of just how much food humans require to survive. Then she realized that he wasn’t about to let her cook for herself. Far too many knives involved, and Moira was still angry. Either way, this game of false domesticity seemed to have piqued his interest, like it fascinated him how these little humans carried on behind closed doors when he wasn’t hunting them.  

“All this could be avoided if you’d just let me fuckin’ go.” She watched him over the rim of the coffee he’d poured her. Jesus Christ it was strong. He insisted on making it by boiling the grounds in a pot like a goddamn cowboy instead of using a percolator like a normal human. 

“Tea next.” 

“Ah yes. Some caffeine to go with my caffeine. Lovely.” She lifted an eyebrow. She’d been peppering him like this, trying to get some sort of rise out of him. All attempts had failed spectacularly thus far.

“Anything fer you, darlin’.”

Tea had become his current fascination. She didn’t know where exactly he’d found the little bamboo tray, complete with cups and a little porcelain pet, shaped like a turtle. He was smoking a cigarette, not something she recalled ever seeing him do casually, though she supposed he had no reason to worry about his lungs. No incense for the tea gods, only tobacco. She watched the way he held it gently between his teeth as he poured boiling water over the teacup to warm it, then added tea leaves. His eyes flickered to her as he shook the cup to release the aroma. 

“Ok fine.” She smirked a little. “Now the first pour. “

Remmick added more hot water, then with unusual skill and confidence, used the delicate porcelain lid of the tea cup to skim the foam, and rub the tea leaves, sloshing a bit of this first pour into the saucer.  He even spun the lid deftly over the rim, to ensure good luck before giving the first pour to the tea pet. Moira pressed her lips together, refusing to look impressed. He even used the remainder to rinse her cup. The second pour was much the same, and when he finally slid her cup to her, the steam smelled of marigolds. 

“Show off.” She muttered, annoyed by the smirk he gave her as he ashed his cigarette. Wanker. 

“Got a lot of time on my hands.” His smile was devastating. “Can’t draw fer shit though. I’ll leave that one to you.” 

Was that a compliment? God he was laying it on thick today. Her gaze lingered on his forearm, still pink from the burn he’d received from the sun. Slow to heal, this injury, not like the others she’d seen him endure. Hell, she’d stabbed him once, and he’d recovered from that quickly enough.

“Quit ogglin’ me.” Remmick teased.

Moira frowned at him. “Will I heal fast too, now?” 

“No idea.” Remmick shrugged, taking another draw of his cigarette. She tried not to watch the way the smoke swirled around his fingers, or the slight pout of his lips. Those fucking dimples again. She glanced at the kitchen stove, still hot from boiling the water. “Don’t even fuckin’ think about it, or so help me I’ll hogtie you to the goddamn radiator.” He snapped. 

“Not even in the pursuit of science?” 

“Let’s say I let you test it, and it works. Then what? You cut off a pinky to see if that works too?” He snorted. “Over my dead body.” 

She looked at him curiously. “Wouldn’t that just be the body yer in now? You are dead.”

Remmick pulled a face of exaggerated hurt, laying a hand dramatically on his chest. “Do I look dead to you, sugar? My heart’s still beatin’ even if it ain’t doin’ nothin’. I walk, talk, feel things. Way I see it I’m just as alive as the rest of these poor suckers workin’ their nine to fives. Maybe even more alive than some.” He cocked his head at her. “Still curious about me? Even after…?” He trailed off, looking slightly uncomfortable. 

She sipped her tea, rolling her eyes a bit. Of course it was perfect. “Find me someone who wouldn’t be.” He seemed to consider this, rolling it around in his head for a bit. Then she asked a question, one that had echoed in her mind before falling asleep. “Ye said  you were married. What was she like?” 

This took him aback. He sat up straighter, regarding her with an odd look on his face. “Hard to say what’s made up and what ain’t.” 

“Well what do ye remember?” She pressed. 

“Red hair. I remember that. I remember her father gave mine twelve sheep when I married her.” 

Moira choked on her tea and began to cough. “You had an arranged marriage?”

“It was the way back then. Not a lot of partners to choose from so our elders chose for us.” He shrugged. “I know we grew up together. I remember bein’ offered her younger sister first, but askin’ for her because I knew her. I know she was kind, and gentle and she felt like spring. Temper like a fuckin’ hailstorm, though.” He grinned. There was sadness in that grin. 

“Was she funny?” Moira was genuinely curious. 

Remmick shrugged. “That’s all I recall.”

“I bet she was. Best thing about our people, I think. “

His brow furrowed a bit. “What about your first love?” He asked this with a sort of regretful curiosity. 

“Brian Mcenna.” She answered immediately which made him frown. “He was gorgeous. Big brown eyes.  Curly hair. Played a penny whistle fer change outside the corner shop.”

“Boy from class?” He winced. 

“Nah they kept us separate from the boys back then. But our love was timeless. A passion only the poets write of, though our words were few. I’ll never forget the first ones he ever uttered to me.”

“Go on.” Remmick lifted an eyebrow. 

“He leaned close to me, close enough to kiss me, and he said…’can I have some o’ that?’” She sipped at her tea. “I had a sandwich that he wanted.”

Remmick’s smile could have lit up every damned department store on Michigan Avenue. 

“Did ye give it to him?”

“Aye that I did. And a packet of crisps as well. My dowry was a lot cheaper than twelve sheep.” 

Remmick’s laughter was interrupted by a knock on the door. Moira went to stand immediately then scowled when Remmick held out an arm, motioning for her to be still. His nostrils flared. 
The annoyance on his face was almost comical when he returned with Jimmy in tow. Her friend was holding an envelope which he dropped on the table as soon as she saw him and flung her arms around him. 

“Goddamnit, Moira you scared the shit out of me.” Jimmy had stiffened at the touch, but he patted her back consolingly. “Heard they fucked you up, girl.” He was tilting her chin, inspecting her face with a frown. Moira heard Remmick inhale sharply, but he said nothing. “I guess they exaggerated.” 

Moira gave him a pained smile. “I guess they did.” 
Jimmy licked his lips, glancing nervously at Remmick as he made a space for himself at the little table. 

“Moira, listen. I’m not supposed to be here. Ma gave strict orders. What you did…what he did,” he gave Remmick a sour look, “it hit the papers.” At this, Remmick shot her an amused look, and Moira grimaced. Naturally they’d assume Remmick had slaughtered those cops. She couldn’t say she wouldn’t have thought the same, but the vampire did not seem eager to correct him. “Now, you weren’t the only one arrested that night. A lot of people at that party got taken, including Nico Farino. His father is furious. Got him out a few hours ago, obviously. They have the money. No one knows who talked or who’s going to talk, so…fuck, it looks bad, Moira. Real bad. Now, ma wants you to lie low for a few weeks, then-“ 

“A few weeks?” She hissed. “Fuckin’ hell, what am I supposed to do for that long?” She glared at Remmick who was pretending to inspect his fingernails. 

“Will you let me finish?” Jimmy snapped. “Look, she wants you at the Autumn festival. We need as much security as we can get. She’s going ahead with the expansion.”

“That’s fuckin’ suicide.” Moira snarled. “Aiden McCarthy…”

“They came to terms. While you were in prison. Don’t ask me how but he agreed.”

Moira shared a doubtful look with Remmick. Jimmy hadn’t seen the result of her brief time in that interrogation cell, hadn’t heard McCarthy’s men promise to send her eyes back to Chinatown. But she wasn’t about to reveal that Remmick could heal with his blood, so she said nothing. 

“So why are you here?” Moira growled, feeling her temper rise. “If it’s dangerous to be seen with me, why the fuck would you take that risk? Yer her only heir, dumbass.” 

“Jesus, Moira you’re family.” Jimmy looked hurt. “You’re practically my damn sister!” He looked at Remmick and sighed. “I think you should get her out of Chicago.” 

“I BEG YER FUCKIN’ PARDON?” Moira snarled. 

“Now’s the only time you got!” Jimmy snapped right back at her. “We can’t protect you Moira! You have two fucking gangs AND the cops looking for you! McCarthy’s pissed because he has to honor that deal, the Farino’s are lookin’ for someone to blame, and holy shit you killed THIRTEEN COPS! Now, no one knows what happened, but they saw you get taken, and then you just walked out! All off the books! No one knows what you did, only that somehow you did it. They think you’re dangerous. People keep dyin’ around you and I can’t fix it for you! We can’t keep cleaning up your mess, Moira!”

“That’s enough, pup.” Remmick said in a flat, warning tone. He was watching her carefully.

Moira had gone pale. She was staring down at her tea cup, desperately trying to keep her misty eyes from leaking. Every word was a knife to the gut, and hearing them from him was so much worse. 

“Moira, listen. There’s cash in the envelope. You can go anywhere you want but please, just go. It’s not safe for you anymore.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Jimmy.” Moira said darkly, her voice quivering with rage. She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Your mum gave me orders to attend the festival which means she expects trouble. A lot of fuckin’ trouble, and I don’t blame her. Ye can’t trust McCarthy not to go back on his word. This is my fuckin’ home, Jimmy.” 

Jimmy stared at her, then closed his eyes shaking his head slowly. “I figured I had to try.” Then he opened his eyes again. “Ma set up a meeting for me today. Rich family. They have a daughter she likes.” 

Moira snorted with laughter. “You gonna do it? Tie the knot?” 

“Hell no, this is America. I’ll find my own rich wife.” 

Remmick snorted at that, but said nothing. Jimmy glowered at him. 

“All this shit started the night you showed up. All of it. I’ve tried to convince them. None of this shit matters, does it? We’re all fighting over street corners while you and your kind are out there killin’ us. So I’m sure you don’t care. About any of it. But, you do seem to care about her.” Jimmy’s eyes settled on Moira. “You’ve changed. I bet you don’t even see it, but I do. I’ve known you a long time. You’ve never been a player, Moira. You’ve always been content. So I don’t know what kind of fucked up shit he’s putting in your head, but-“

“Did you just come here to judge my fuckin’ character?” Moira was staring at Jimmy’s hands, thinking about how clean they were. Qian’s precious son had never been asked to kill a man on the docks at the dead of night, had never taken a life or disposed of a body. All that dirty work had always been left to her. For the first time in her life, she resented him for it. 

“No.” Jimmy replied bitterly, then reached into his jacket pocket. Moira stared at it with an ominous feeling growing in her gut. It was a wooden stake, intricately carved, no larger than her father’s knife. She knew he’d had it made for her, to keep concealed in her sleeve. “I just came to remind you.” 

“Ahh Jimmy.” Remmick purred with amusement. “If ye wanted me dead, why not pick that up and have a go yourself?” His smile was a slow, wicked thing. “I’ll tell you why, little man. Goin’ against yer ma’s wishes is a child’s notion of bravery. Go on, grab yer little pea shooter.” He laughed when Jimmy did indeed reach for the gun concealed in his coat. 

Jimmy was about to leap to his feet in anger, but it was Moira who got there first, surprising both men. She placed herself between them, and shoved Jimmy back a step, her teeth gritted in anger. Tears were still threatening to leak from her eyes but she held them back. Rage was rising in her throat like bile. How fucking dare he? The image he’d painted of her was a goddamn insult to her pride.

“Go home, Jimmy. Run back to mummy. Tell her I’m doin’ what she fuckin’ says.” Moira watched as Jimmy’s face turned red, and when he went to grab the envelope she snapped, “Leave it. Consider it payment fer bein’ a cunt.”

Jimmy looked like he wanted to fight with her, to take the money back and tell her to go fuck herself. 

Remmick gave him an infuriating smirk. “You heard the lady. Go on now.” 

“Moira can’t you see what’s fuckin’ happening?” Jimmy leaned close to mutter softly, as if Remmick couldn’t hear every syllable. “He is dangerous. If you keep this up, they’re gonna find you in the river, and I don’t think I can take that, Moira. He’s right about one thing. I’m a coward, but only where you’re concerned. Keep the money, and just…just think about it. Ok?” Jimmy pressed a kiss to her forehead, something she could not recall him ever doing before. 

She stood there, dumbly, her hands clenched into fists. 

“Jimmy.” She managed to say, making him turn his head. “Tell yer mum…” the words caught in her throat. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I never meant to make her life harder. Tell her I love her. She inhaled slowly. “Tell her that when I was in prison, the guards told me that she made the call. The Irish think she snitched. Tell her that.”

Jimmy’s brow furrowed for a moment, then he gave her a bemused little grin. “That’ll make her laugh. Mom would rather chew glass. You know how she feels about rats.” 

Moira only nodded, and watched him leave. Behind her, she heard the soft hiss of a match being struck as Remmick lit another cigarette, and when she turned to look at him, he handed it to her with a sardonic smile curling his lips. 

“What do you think that was?” He asked with some amusement. “I’ll tell ye what it was. They’re afraid of you, girl.” 

Moira glared sourly, plucking the cigarette from his fingers and taking a long draw, coughing a bit. “Don’t be an arse.” 

“Think on it. Qian has always kept you close. Real close. Maybe she even has some affection for you. Moment you become unpredictable, what does she do? Keep you locked in. Rely on all that training she spent fifteen years workin’ on to put you back in your place. And what does Jimmy do?”

“Please shut up.” She began to rub at her temples, feeling the start of a migraine. 

“Jimmy ain’t her only heir, Moira. He may be blood, but he’s weak. He can’t make hard choices. He’s happy to sit pretty while everyone else does the shit work. That wasn’t a plea, babygirl. He wasn’t askin’ you to leave for yer own safety. It was a fuckin’ bribe.” Remmick reached over and prodded the envelope with his fingers. “A real shit one by the looks of it. Should have brought a whole damn suitcase.” 

Moira sighed, suddenly exhausted. “I know what it was, Remmick. I’ve been livin’ in this world a lot longer than you.” 

“Nah it’s all the same. I grew up in a world of fiefdoms and clan wars. Rich people doin’ whatever the fuck they want while the poor fight over scraps. Ain’t nothin’ changed, honey. Then there’s you.” 

“What about me? Please enthrall me with yer little psychoanalysis.” She gestured vaguely with the cigarette. 

“I know why you wanted Market street, baby. You wanted to protect the nice lady who made yer clothes. You think Qian would have given two shits? You think Jimmy gives a damn about the Chinese comin’ in every day? See I know you, sugar. You wanna use what little you’ve got to make what’s around you just a tiny bit better.” His expression was strange, almost pained. 

Moira shrugged, but his words were doing something odd to her insides, making her feel oddly vulnerable in a way she wasn’t familiar with. She had considered herself to be rotten, for the choices she’d made in the constant need to survive, no matter what, but god he was looking at her now, really looking at her, and she knew that in some twisted way, he was seeing himself.

How odd that the powers that be should send her the one person who might paint her in such light, and that he would be a goddamned killer. 

****************************************

“How the fuck did you steal this?” Moira gaped at the little wooden Crosely radio. “And why?”

Remmick shrugged. “Pure impulse.” He scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. 

He’d returned with blood on his chin, and Moira had decided she was too world weary to even question who he’d eaten, deciding she was too invested in self preservation to stay locked in with a starving vampire. Instead she’d snapped at him for being so damned messy. Hundreds of years old, and ye haven’t learned how to not get blood on yer shirt? And then she’d rolled her eyes and proceeded to teach him how to use peroxide to get the blood out, making it violently clear that she would not be doing his damn laundry. Ever. 

“Why didn’t ye just buy it with that money Jimmy left?” She asked with amusement. It’s not that she cared. What were the cops going to do? Arrest him? 

“Dunno. More fun this way.” Remmick was eyeing the radio with interest, listening as Jack Benny talked about Lucky Strikes, the number one doctor recommended cigarette. 

Moira couldn’t help but smile as she watched him fiddle with the dials, until he found something that perked his interest, a cheerful jazz melody with a heavy baseline. She reached over and turned up the volume, making him quirk an eyebrow. Fuck the neighbors. 

“You dance, Remmick?” She gave him a challenging smirk. 

The look on his face was priceless, equal parts surprise and delight. “You didn’t seem to like our last one.”

Moira scoffed. “Didn’t count.” 

“Oh I see. Think you learned a thing or two in those speakeasies in Bronzeville?” 

“Maybe.”

Remmick didn’t ask twice. He pulled her into a devilish spin, and held her to his side, perhaps a bit too tightly, looking at her expectantly. She began slow, letting him watch her feet as she rocked them both into a three step, and then, heaven help her, they were moving. Fast and feverish double tuck turns and dizzying switches, his eyes roaming over her as she swayed her hips in a fashion she’d learned from a woman who sold handjobs under the table for fifty five cents. An astronomical price, but clearly worth it. 

They were laughing as they attempted a barrel roll, their height difference making it amusingly awkward, and she actually giggled when he pulled her into a double kick slide, synchronizing with her movements beautifully. The sound made him trip a little, making her giggle even harder. 

“Oh my god, please don’t throw me!” Moira gasped with alarm when he seized her beneath her knees and quite literally swept her off her feet. She’d witnessed firsthand how high some energetic dancers could vault their partners. 
The glint in his eye was telling, as if he’d been planning on doing exactly that, but instead he swept her into a low dip, her head nearly touching the floor, then scooped her back up, making all the blood rush to her face, but goddamn it all, she was smiling so hard it hurt.  “Where the fuck did ye learn to Lindy-hop?” She asked incredulously. “It only just started catchin’ on here!” 

“From you, babygirl.” He growled playfully, and she thought he might lean in to nip her throat. 

“It’s incredible. The way ye can learn things by drinkin’ blood.” She admitted. 

“Do ye think so?” He was frowning a little. “I hate it.”

This shocked her. “Why? You probably know hundreds of languages by now. Hell ye learned how to drive a car by drinkin’ Qian.” 

“I hardly know which parts are me, anymore.” 

They were still dancing, moving slowly she realized, while Bing Crosby sang of paradise on the radio, his deep, crooning voice washing over them. Somewhere along the way, Remmick had drawn her in so close, holding her hand as delicately as if he’d trapped a baby bird and didn’t want to harm it. Moira couldn’t have said why she did it exactly, but some instinct made her adjust their fingers so that they interlocked, and the sensation made his eyes darken ever so slightly. Fascinating. 

“Goddamn you, Remmick.” Moira shook her head, still smiling. “It’s all you. Shit, if I live to be a hundred I bet I’ll have learned all sorts of things. Doesn’t take anythin’ from ye.” 

His face suddenly grew serious, and he shook his head. “I’ve taken so many lives, Moira. Not always because I had to.” 

“I know.” 

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“It does.” She replied honestly. “It terrifies me.” Then she tilted her head. “Terrifies me even more how much it doesn’t. I’m surrounded by monsters, Remmick. Somehow ye don’t feel like one of em.”

His fingers were lifting her chin, and he was staring into her eyes with such intensity it rooted her to the spot. 

“You’re not a monster either, Moira, though ye’ve done monstrous things.” 

Moira scoffed. “This goddamned prohibition. I could just be an artist livin’ on top of a normal fuckin’ bar.”

“You could never be normal.” He was tracing her lower lip deftly with his thumb. “Too much of a pain in my arse.” 

She laughed, then reached up and gently mussed up his hair. “Fuck you.” 

“Promise?” He watched her face carefully in amusement, then his own expression grew annoyingly serious again. “Tell me you don’t hate me.” He licked his lips, from nervousness, she realized. “Please god Moira tell me you don’t hate me.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why does a centuries old vampire care what I think?” 

“I just do. Just…please tell me. If you do hate me, truly, I will walk out of your life and never torment you again. No thrall will ever set foot on your doorstep, I can promise you that.”

She pulled back a bit, startled by this, her mind reeling. A few weeks ago she would have given anything to be rid of him. Now the idea seemed incomprehensible, for reasons she refused to give voice to. 

“I don’t hate you.” She said softly, and as she said it she understood how true that was. Then her eyes narrowed at his look of overwhelming relief. “I really fuckin’ should though. But I don’t hate you, Remmick, even though I want to. And I don’t want you to leave, because I’d miss our conversations. And I like yer stupid, floppy hair.” She grinned, and ruffled the hair in question. 

“Did you know…” Remmick breathed, “that you have freckles?” 

“I do not!” She snapped in mock offense. 

“You do. You’d have to be pretty close to see em. But they’re there. I’ve tried countin’ them. You never stay this close long enough so I’m only up to one hundred and three. “ 

She shoved him playfully, but then again, he was far too busy counting to notice. 


****************************************

Moira awoke breathless that night, and sat up straight, her fingers already curling around her knife, which she kept beneath her pillow, eyes wide as adrenaline shot her through the chest. Her eyes darted around the dark room, landing on the dark shapes of furniture and clothing she’d haphazardly left strewn on the floor because she hadn’t been able to bring herself to give a shit. Her mind expected intruders, policemen, red headed Barry who was already long dead, but still plagued her dreams. 

That had definitely been a scream, but just as Moira was about to decide that the scream was in her head, it happened again, sharp and mournful. She fell out of bed, a tangle of limbs and twisted bed sheets, and clumsily pulled on an oversized men’s shirt, forgoing pants entirely as she staggered to the bedroom door and padded down the short hallway, bumping painfully into an ugly accent table which made her say some very uncouth things about its mother. 

She didn’t hesitate. A vampire was screaming in a darkened bedroom and she didn’t even pause to reconsider, simply rushed in like a madwoman, heart pounding, imagining all sorts of horrors. She’d left her knife. Stupid. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe he’d dragged some poor hapless victim in there and would laugh at her for being worried. But it was him. 

Remmick was twisting, his fingers partially elongated, gouging the sheet that barely covered him, his skin glistening with sweat, and he was trembling, seizing terribly with whatever it was that was tormenting his dreams. Moira did not want to know what could possibly terrify him. He was speaking gibberish, an indeterminate mix of languages pooling together until none of them were recognizable, his face twisted, his fangs half emerged. Something in the back of her mind warned her to stay away. He could hurt her. He could do worse than hurt her. She ignored this voice that held her best interest, and told it to fuck off. 

“Remmick WAKE UP!” Moira’s voice cracked from sleep as she lunged for the bed, thinking to shake him from whatever was tormenting him. She tried not to think about how hot his skin was, how his tattoos stood in stark relief, or how he apparently liked to sleep without a stitch of clothing. 

Remmick released a terrifying wail, sharp and deadly, like a predator’s howl and she immediately knew she’d made a grave error. He was so fast, and god he was strong as he threw her to the bed, and had her pinned before she could blink, the air leaving her lungs. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Could only stare wide eyed into his vacant face, half lidded, still deeply in slumber. His arms were wrapped around her, squeezing her arms to her sides. She could barely even scratch at him, couldn’t reach up to slap him awake like they did in the movies.

His head dipped low, and she squeezed her eyes shut, expecting those fangs to finally pierce her flesh, the way he’d threatened to do a hundred times. She could feel his breath, hot and moist on her skin, and he was making a sound as he inhaled her scent, like something between a growl and a purr. A flash of memory echoed in her mind, of a dream she’d had. No one can save you now. His entire body trembled on top of her, twitching like a demon had just perched on his shoulders. She whimpered. It was the best she could do. 

At the sound of her fear, Remmick’s eyes snapped open, and he lurched back, staring with wide, unseeing eyes into her terrified face. Then he blinked, and they were blue again, sharpening as the realization of what was happening finally dawned on him, spreading across his face, pale and devastating. 

“I’m…I’m sorry.” He choked. 

Moira nodded breathlessly, and found to her enormous surprise, that she was suddenly far more concerned by the horror in his eyes and the tension in his furrowed brow. She waited, breathing slowly until her heart stopped rattling around in her ribcage. 

“I’m fine. Just gave me a start, that’s all.” She murmured. 

“I’m sorry fer all of it, Moira Domhnall.” His voice was thick, his true accent shining through. “Fer bein’ a selfish bastard. Fer bringin’ this ugly mug into yer life.” He gestured vaguely at his own face, and the gesture annoyed her. 

She frowned in confusion, and maybe it was her sleep addled mind that loosened her tongue. Maybe it was the look on his face, so full of desperate yearning. 

“I think you’re beautiful.” she murmured, then bit her lip as if she could steal the words back. 

They stared at each other for a long time.

Something finally snapped within him, and he crushed her wildly, desperately, kissing her with fire and hunger. The sheer intensity of it was enough to shatter all reason, all sanity and when he held her to him, she felt heated flesh and remembered, oh god he was completely naked. She felt his hands drift lower, cupping her ass in his strong grip, and when she managed to wriggle her arms from their place pinned at her sides, she was finally free to explore him, feeling the taught muscles of his back and his shoulders. Then, feeling bold, she grabbed his arse as well, smiling when she heard him grunt in surprise. 

He growled, and his hips jerked reflexively, pressing his engorged cock desperately against her belly. His tongue was so hungry, tasting her mouth with urgency as she dragged her fingernails down his abdomen, feeling him twitch. When she wrapped her hand around him for the first time, he threw his head back with a low, guttural moan that made her throb so hard it hurt. Unable to resist, she kissed his throat, flicking her tongue, tasting the salt of his skin. 

“Moira…oh god.” He whimpered with such torment, such sweet, pathetic need that she had to clench her thighs together as she squeezed him. Fuck he was bigger than she remembered. It was a powerful feeling to hold him like this.

“I want it, Remmick,” she sighed. “I want you.” 

“Tell me.” He groaned. 

“I want ye to fuck me. Please. And I want it hard.”

“I don’t want to hurt ye. I don’t want ye frightened.” He was shaking his head but his eyes were closed, languishing in her touch as if it brought him the most exquisite pain. 

“I don’t care.” She nipped at his lower lip, then lowered her mouth back to his throat, suckling gently at first, then biting him sharply, making him hiss. “Please, Remmick.” 

“You achin’ for me, babygirl?” He wrapped an arm around her waist, and dipped a hand between her thighs, making her tremble. “Oh fuck darlin’ you are so goddamn wet.” He smacked her ass sharply, making her cry out. “Say it.” He hissed. 

“Please, Remmick.” Her body was on fire, desperate to be touched. 

Snarling he reached up and tore the shirt down her shoulders, tossing it aside like a worthless rag, an impertinent obstacle. His mouth was on her throat, her shoulders, the tops of her breasts. She murmured her approval, gasping when he captured a hardened nipple between his teeth and sucked hard enough to hurt. 

“Beg all ye want.” He released her with a wet pop, and glowered up at her with almost frightening intensity, his eyes appearing black in the dim light. “Tell me how much you fuckin’ need it.” 

“Please,” she gasped. “God, Remmick it hurts. Please, I need to be fucked.” 

His fingers dipped lower, plunging inside of her, and it was sweet, but not enough. Not nearly enough. His thumb was circling her clit, those talented digits curling, teasing a release she would never feel unless she gave him what he wanted. He seized her throat, viciously, the veins in his forearms popping, just enough to force her to gaze up at him as he pumped his fingers hard, feeling her slickness soak him. Remmick was moaning softly too, watching her writhe in his cruel grasp. 

“Look at me.” He murmured. “I want to hear you fuckin’ say it.” 

“I’m…” The words formed in her head, lingered on her tongue, but he was looking at her with such want, such devastation that she was suddenly nervous. She reached up and drew her knuckles gently over her jawline. “I’m yours. I mean, if…” she hesitated. “If ye want.” She had never heard herself speak this way, so breathy and delirious with need.

A sort of calm, dreamy expression settled over him, and he tilted his head just enough so that his words caressed her lips with their heat. 

“Took you goddamn long enough.”

To her enormous shock, he lifted her bodily, and with his impossible strength, stretched himself back onto the bed, pulling her up with him. His hands locked around her thighs and he dragged her roughly, almost violently higher until she was straddling his face. 

“Holy fuck,” She gasped, her voice high pitched.

He growled so deeply in his chest and latched his mouth firmly over her throbbing cunt, his hands roaming as he fucked her with his mouth, his tongue sliding feverishly over her aching clit, sucking her into madness. She threw her head back, tossing her hair, screwing her eyes shut, then felt another sharp smack against her ass. He wanted her to watch. 

Remmick’s eyes were hooded as he ravished her with his tongue, flicking it rapidly over her center, his hands roaming over her hips, her thighs, her ass, bringing her close. He reached up to cup her breasts, pinching her nipple, silently urging her to swirl her hips, to ride his devilish tongue, watching her body undulate above him. Moira watched his eyes, the way they shone, the barest glint of red in a storm of blue. He was holding her so firmly, so eager to keep her exactly where he wanted her, his lips sucking her clit so deliciously she knew she wasn’t going to last. 

Worried that he would stop, she whimpered, “Please let me cum.” 

Remmick’s eyes rolled up into his head with pure pleasure at hearing her beg for him, unprompted. His hand reached up, and his long fingers wrapped around her throat as she fucked his mouth, rolling her hips feverishly against his flickering tongue. Her own fingers sank into his hair, gently at first, then curling into a fist as the first wave of an orgasm broke across her body, electrifying her, pulsating in her cunt so sweetly. Remmick slowed the motions of his tongue, lapping her up with heady moans of his own, savoring the very essence of her. 

When he seized her hips again, he slid her back down, and sat up, wrapping her tattooed legs around his waist, holding her upright against him, forcing her to rest her weight in his arms. This kiss was not like the others they’d shared. This kiss was heady and slow but still punishing in a far different way. She could taste herself on his lips, and the desire felt like madness and made her belly clench with need, her orgasm still pulsating inside her. This kiss was dangerous. It felt like he was somehow dripping opium through his lips, so sensuous and affirming. Every damn nerve ending in her body was electrified, his gentle touch along her spine making her shiver. 

Suddenly the room was spinning. He had flipped her onto her stomach so fast she saw stars, blood rushing in her ears, his hands biting into her thighs, pulling them roughly apart, dragging her close as he hunched over her. She tried to look back at him to see what he was doing but he snarled and roughly grabbed her hair, pressing her deeper into the pillow. Moira bit her lip, trembling as she felt his eyes on her naked flesh, so vulnerable, and so very exposed. 

“You taste fucking delicious.” He purred into her ear, making her writhe. God there was no denying it. She loved it when he spoke like this. “You gonna take all of me, babygirl? You gonna take every inch of me?” She nodded as best she could. “Good girl.” 

Then she felt it. The tip of him, guided by his hand, slowly teasing her, parting her lips, tapping cruelly over her overly sensitive clit, still pulsing from his mouth. The sound he made was feral and she knew that he was tormenting himself every bit as much as he was tormenting her. He muttered something in Gaelic that she couldn’t quite make out. She bit her lip so hard, and his hand fisted her hair, the sharp pain making her whimper. Without realizing it, she wriggled against him, so desperate to feel more. 

“Hold. Fuckin’. Still.” His growl resonated deeply and she felt a small twinge of alarm. “Now. Tell me again. Tell me again that you’re mine.”

“Oh god.” She wailed. 

He was sliding his cock inside of her, slowly. So painfully slowly. She could feel herself stretching to accommodate his girth, little by little and oh good lord it was too much. 

“Say it.” He snarled viciously. There was an edge to that. His voice broke a little, nearly a whimper. His hand was smoothing down her spine. “Oh god, say it for me. I want to hear it again.”

“I’m yours.” She murmured, desperate to feel more of him. 

“Mmmm fuck darlin.” That hiss became a moan of rapture, of pure fucking ecstasy. “Ohh my god Moira. Oh my god.” He slid himself deeper and Moira cried out with every inch. “Baby, you have the tightest, wettest cunt.” 

“Remmick…” she whispered his name like a prayer, as he wrapped an arm around her belly, holding her possessively in place, and sheathed himself fully inside of her. The sound he made was the most devastating thing she’d ever heard. Pure, delirious, and sensual, as if he were dying with pleasure, finally feeling her wrapped tightly around him. 

“How…how the fuck do you feel so good?” He moaned. “So…fucking… good…” His hips rocked into her, and she could feel his body tremble, desperate to remain in control and failing. 

Moira had never felt so deliciously full, his cock  was so engorged, so perfectly hard and thick and agonizing, every minuscule movement, every twitch felt completely, with no escape. Her own pleas were spilling wantonly from her lips, her moans almost animal in nature, her pussy gripping him, practically milking him with the soft tremors of her inner walls. She arched her back a little, ignoring his command for her to lie still.
The hand that had been fisting her hair released her, and his arm was wrapping around her throat, his lips pressing to her ear, her cheek, her temple as he slammed his hips into her, so hard she cried out in sweet agony. He grunted viciously, and pounded into her again. 

“Aw, is it too much, babygirl?” He crooned, his tongue flicking cruelly against a pulse point beneath her ear. “Yeah, it’s too much, huh?” He thrust again, harder, making her voice raise an octave. “That’s too fuckin’ bad, honey. This cunt feels too good to give it up now. Mmm fuck baby.” Remmick whimpered in pleasurable anguish when she pushed back against him, swallowing him completely. 

It hurt, but oh how it hurt. Moira’s wail was soft and piteous, her skin flushed, her thoughts muddled by the sheer size of him, and god she wanted more. Her hips moved, swirling wantonly, so eager to feel all of him. He spanked her hard, making her twitch convulsively, his fingers biting into the softness of her hips. 

“God you’re so greedy. Look at you.” Another punishing thrust, making her moan. “You like bein’ fucked like a whore? Is that what you want? Hm?” She tried to wriggle closer again, and she heard him snatch something off the bedside table, heard the clink of a belt, her eyes widening when she felt him wrench her wrists back, folding her arms behind her back. “This is what you get for not holding still.” She felt him loop the belt around her forearms, and gasped when he drew it tight. 

Remmick pulled back and slammed into her so ferociously she saw daylight, forcing a heavy groan to tear from her throat. He was holding her wrists in place, using the belt as leverage as he fucked her, hunching over her back, withdrawing almost completely before thrusting hard enough to rattle her. He was reaching beneath her, his fingers roughly circling her clit as he fucked, his hips making her ass wobble and god she was so wet she could feel it slipping down her thighs. The pleasure was building like cresting waves, threatening to crash over her, to pull her into sweet oblivion. 

“No. Not yet, baby.” He paused, breathing hard, then chuckling at her whimper of frustration. “I need more from you.” 

Moira’s mind was so addled with pleasure, she had no idea how to decipher his meaning. 
“I’ll do anything. Please…” 

He spanked her so hard, it jolted her, and she felt her orgasm retreat, even though the pain was delicious. 

“Beg for it. Lie to me.” He sank deep inside of her and swirled his hips, making her eyes roll up into her head. “Tell me you want only me. Tell me this cunt is mine.”

“It’s yours. I’m yours. All of me.” She pleaded.

“Fuckin’ liar.” He snarled, and when he fucked her, it was inhuman, his speed and strength unmatched. Her voice failed her, her mouth hanging slack as he ravaged her, his hands clawing down her back, grabbing her ass, their flesh making deliciously wet impact again and again, until she felt it once more, the need to cum so badly, rising swiftly, making her pussy twitch around him, her belly clenching. But he stopped, and withdrew completely. 

Moira sobbed, the emotion making her irrational, the pleading in her voice so pathetic as he shushed her gently. She felt him remove the belt, and gently massage her wrists. She hadn’t even noticed how much they’d ached, and she hissed in pain. A soft kiss at her temple, and with surprising care, he tucked an arm beneath her legs and flipped her over, easing her onto her back. There were tears in her eyes. 

“None of that now, babygirl,” he murmured softly, his hands caressing her breasts, and down her stomach. “When you cum around my cock for the first time, I want to see that pretty face.” 
He looked like a god in the dim moonlight, his tattoos glinting with sweat, his face carved in soft relief except for those eyes, fuck they were shining like a cat’s. 

“May I touch you?” She murmured with strange reverence. 

When he nodded, she smoothed her hands up his belly, tracing the tattoos on his chest, and down his biceps, making him shiver. Then she delicately dragged her nails up his back, loving the way he trembled at the touch. His body was so tense, but his face was so beautifully etched with pleasure, it fascinated her. She placed a hand at the nape of his neck and eased him down to kiss her, and he smoothed her thighs open with his hands. 
He pressed his forehead to hers, screwing his eyes shut when she wrapped her fingers around his cock and felt it twitch at her touch, so hard it must have pained him, every ridge and vein of him defined beneath her fingertips. 

“I would set the entire fuckin’ world aflame, Moira Domhnall, if you asked me to.” He whispered. 

She grinned at him, but felt a small twinge of pain in her chest. Men would say anything when they needed to cum. Cupping his face gently with one hand, she guided him back to her entrance, desperate to feel him again. 

“You don’t believe me.” He murmured, lips curling in a wicked grin. “Here then. Let me show you.” He wrapped an arm beneath her waist and slid inside her in one long stroke, gazing down at her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted. She threw her head back and moaned with wanton pleasure, raking her hands through his hair, holding him close as he nuzzled her throat, kissing her there, teasing her with sharp teeth. So close to death. 

Licking his lips, he hoisted one of her thighs around his waist, resting his weight on one elbow as he rolled himself into her, undulating his hips, ensuring that with every sensuous stroke her clit felt the pressure of his abdomen. Moira saw stars behind her eyelids, enraptured by the sensation, and then she felt his lips wrap around her nipple, sucking hard, and she felt it again, the slow, torturous climb to completion. She had never been fucked like this, with such deliberate thoroughness, and it felt like every pathway in her mind was alight. 

“Look at me.” He growled softly against her flesh, raising his head to gaze up at her. “You’re so close, honey. You have my blood in ye, and it fuckin’ sings to me. Ride it out, babygirl.” 

Moira gasped, feeling a surge of heat flooding her veins, setting her flesh on fire. She was shaking, her thighs trembling around her as he sank deeper. 

“Remmick please.” She had no idea what she was begging for. Eyes half lidded, he thrust harder, chuckling softly as he rolled his shoulders a bit, telltale signs of a man catching himself before he loses control. Moira didn’t want control. She wanted to see him undone. 

“Look at me while I fuck you.” He demanded, his eyes fixated on her, watching everything from the way she bit her lip, to the way her breasts jiggled with each heavy thrust. “I’m a jealous cunt, Moira. Now that I’ve felt this tight…wet…pussy,” he emphasized each word with his hips, making her gasp with each one. “I will slaughter any man who touches you like this. Do y’hear me? It’s my goddamn nature, baby and I don’t fuckin’ share.” She didn’t care. Nothing mattered as long as he kept doing whatever it was he was doing, drawing out this torture as much as he possibly could. “Look at you. So fuckin’ desperate, you sweet little whore.” 

“Fuck you,” she breathed, but she felt the sharp arousal in her belly from his words.

He rewarded this by pounding into her in quick, hard thrusts, smirking when she cried out, then slowing down again. Feeling a surge of frustration, she wrapped both legs around his waist, and they both moaned in ecstasy at this deeper angle. Using this new leverage, Moira raised her hips to meet his thrusts, circling her hips, loving the fullness of him. 

Something broke in Remmick. He snatched her hands away from him, and pinned them above her head, his lips curling in a luscious sneer as he lost all semblance of control. He was an animal, growling in pleasure, punishing her slick cunt until she was screaming, dragging her toward the inevitable. 

“Oh god that’s it baby. Fucking cum for me.” 

It rushed through her like a chorus of devils, rippling through her body in waves, unending and merciless, her muscles tensing as she cried out a word, his name perhaps. Somehow she managed to tear her hands free from his grip, and in a moment of madness, pulled him down to hold her close, as if he could keep her tethered to this mortal coil. Her ears were ringing, her pussy tightening convulsively, her inner walls pulsating so hard it must have hurt him. It felt like dying. It felt like everything. 

Remmick’s own voice was reaching a soft crescendo, and he was clutching her back, his face twisting in the most beautiful expression of pure pleasure that she knew she’d never be able to capture. She had never been with a man so vocal, so unafraid of showing her exactly how good she felt. He was fucking her through her orgasm, drawing it out with every stroke, but his cock had become impossibly hard, and she could feel his pulse, her cunt still squeezing him, milking him until finally he choked out a rough, guttural cry, a sound almost like it pained him. 

And she was holding him. Squeezing him tight, kissing him hard as he came. She could feel him emptying inside her, and then he was staring down at her with wide, blue eyes. God they were so blue. But her sanity was slowly returning, and she didn’t know what that gaze meant, didn’t want to interpret the war that was waging behind them, so she pulled his head down to rest on her chest, and ran her fingers through his hair, listening to him hum softly with pleasure at her touch. 

They stayed silent like this for a long time, until Moira couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“If ye knock me up, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” She murmured.

Remmick chuckled, then gently rolled off of her, leaning his head on one hand as his eyes drifted lazily down her naked body, his fingers deftly tracing the tattoos on one shoulder. She mourned the loss of him inside of her, and now felt strangely empty. 

“Don’t worry, baby. All my swimmers been dead for hundreds of years.” He snorted with amusement. 

“You sure?” She lifted an eyebrow. 

“Pretty sure I’d notice if there were a bunch of little Remmicks runnin’ around.” He said wryly. Moira felt a sharp, ugly stab of jealousy, her emotions so raw and unfiltered after what they’d just done. He must have seen it because he tilted her face to his and swiped his fingers gently over her cheekbone. “Oooh that face, honey. I’m sorry, darlin’. Poor choice of words.”

“Don’t you worry. Yer hardly my fuckin’ first.” 

Remmick laughed darkly, and kissed her, making her smile. “Alright. Consider me put firmly in my place.” His fingers were making little patterns on her chest, then toying gently with a nipple, watching it harden. He licked his lips, and his eyes slid to hers. “Point is, I’m going to fuck you so good, baby. I’m gonna fill that sweet pussy all fuckin’ night, and honey you best believe I can go all night.”

She shivered, feeling warmth pool in her belly once more, his words alarming and exciting her, but she smirked at him. 

“So can I.” 

Chapter Text

When Moira’s eyes fluttered open, she knew it was daytime from the sunlight that streamed in through the gaps in the boarded up window. Little particles of dust were floating in those sunbeams and she turned her face to look at Remmick, concerned that one might touch him. Her brow furrowed as she watched him. She’d never seen him like this, so calm and peaceful, the half moons of his lashes resting on pale cheekbones. His chest was rising and falling, just like any living man, his body half turned to her, curling around her frame protectively, or perhaps possessively. The motion made her chest ache, so heavy with affection, and it was in that moment that she knew. 

She was so fucked.

His arm was around her, and when she tried to readjust, the arm tightened and he groaned in sleepy protest. Then to her amusement, he snored a little, loudly, almost waking himself, a tiny line appearing between his brows. She found herself wondering about his body. There was light stubble on his face. Did he ever need to shave? Could he grow a beard if he wanted? 

“Yer staring at me.” Remmick grumbled, opening one eye to glare at her. Then a slow, sleepy smile spread across his lips. 

“Mmhm.” She agreed, placing a hand on his chest, and dragging it lazily down his belly. 

He flinched, then chuckled. “That tickles.” 

Fascinating. She watched his face carefully as she dragged her hand lower, under the sheet, and gently caressed his cock, feeling the weight of it in her hand.  It responded instantly to her touch, and she loved the way it pulsed, growing hard beneath her fingertips. She lingered on the veins that protruded along his shaft, marveling at how soft his skin was. 

“God, woman, you tryin to kill me?” He groaned softly. 

“I’ll stop.” Moira murmured, jerking her hand away. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” He warned. 

She smiled lazily, wrapping her fingers around his engorged flesh, squeezing gently, watching his lips part with a sigh of longing. He made to pull her close, but she delicately dragged the sheet from his body, and lowered her mouth to his cock. At the sensation of her lips on his flesh, he jerked his hips reflexively, making her chuckle. Moira loved it when he was desperate. She closed her eyes as she tasted him, swirling her tongue around his swollen head, flicking it hard against the tiny opening. She suckled reverently, moaning softly around him, and when she opened her eyes again he was staring down at her in agony. 

“Oh my god.” He whispered, reaching up to toy with a lock of her hair. “You look so fuckin’ pretty with your mouth full.” 

She sucked the head of his cock hard into her mouth, giggling wickedly when his hands shot to the bed, fisting the sheets convulsively, a ragged moan tearing from his throat. He threw his head back as she slowly took more of him into her mouth, stretching her lips carefully around his girth. She watched the veins of his throat, the way his adams apple bobbed, lips pulling back in a snarl, knew he was considering grabbing her by the hair and fucking her throat, but this was for her pleasure this time. 

She smoothed a hand up his belly, then wrapped it around the base of him as she sucked, slowly, enjoying the feel of him throbbing against her tongue, swirling that tongue around his head each time she reached it. Moira could feel his balls already tightening, and she withdrew, slowly drawing out his torment. Revenge was so sweet.

“Goddamn it,” He hissed, then smiled a little when she smirked. “Guess I deserve that.” 

She raked her fingernails down his thighs, considering him for a moment. Then she eased herself on top of him, straddling his hips, watching him lick his lips and gaze up at her with such pathetic yearning it made her chest ache again. 

“You sure, honey? I know you’ve gotta be sore, after…” 

“I’m sure.” She murmured. He was right. Her thighs ached, and it felt like she’d ridden a horse all night, not that she’d ever done that in her life, but she wanted to feel him again, wanted to experience the fullness of him, and fuck she was throbbing. Moira couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken like this, already aching so much. His cock was twitching against her, and she undulated slowly, rubbing the length of him, letting him feel how hot she was, how ready. 

“Moira don’t fuckin’ tease me.” He hissed through gritted teeth. 

“Shh.” She hushed him, reaching for his hands and placing them on her hips as she rocked slowly, rubbing her swollen clit against him. It felt incredible for her, and was absolute torture for him. 

“Girl I swear to god if you don’t put me inside you, I will tie you to this bed for a week.” He growled. 

She chuckled, leaning over to kiss him, her dark curls becoming a curtain as they framed his face. The kiss was slow, and sleepy and he whimpered into her mouth, fucking whimpered, making Moira feel tiny shivers of warmth. God, she loved the noises he made for her. He took advantage of this new position,  molding her breasts with his fingers, licking and sucking her nipples, still sore from so much attention, his eyelashes fluttering closed as if the mere taste of her skin brought him pleasure. 

Moira moved her hips, slowly, languidly, the tip of his cock brushing her entrance, and she felt it twitch against her. Remmick craned his neck to capture her lips, gently drawing her bottom lip with his teeth, savoring her before tilting her chin, coaxing her to look him in the eyes. 

“I swear if you keep this up, I’ll bend you over this bed and you will never walk properly again. Ye hear me?” 

Moira chuckled, kissing him again, lowering her mouth to press her lips to his throat, flicking her tongue down his Adam’s apple, making him growl in frustration. She bit her lip, and wrapped a hand around his cock, positioning him exactly where she wanted him, watching his face contort with need. Oh, he was going to beg. She swirled her hips deliciously, his tip caressing her just barely. 

“Ye promise?”

“Fuck,” Remmick breathed, licking his lips and arching his back just a little until he rested on his elbows. It thrilled her to know that it would take nothing for him to take her, to use his strength to get what he wanted, but it thrilled her more to know that he wouldn’t, that he would allow her to take the time she needed. Although she did enjoy his threats. “Moira…god don’t make me ask again, girl.” 

Her lips twitched into a feline grin as she closed her eyes, and slowly sank onto him, hissing softly as he filled her, inch by inch. A ragged moan poured from his throat, and he was panting, his chest rising and falling, muscles tensing as he fought the insatiable desire to seize her waist and pound her aching cunt until she screamed for him. Moira reached out to caress his face, his hair, his throat. God he felt so good. 

She sank deeper, relishing the fullness of him, until he was completely surrounded by her warmth. She moved her hips, rocking in slow, sensuous circles with him buried so deep, no part of her inner walls untouched. There was pain too, a slow deep ache from his punishing thrusts the night before, but she loved that too, even as it sent ripples of electricity down her spine. 

Remmick was stretched before her, the great dangerous predator, gazing up at her, pleading so desperately with his eyes even as they feasted on her, roaming over her breasts and belly, fully exposed in the dim light. Nowhere to hide. He could see all of her, though she supposed he always could. Fucking vampires. His fingers were smoothing up her thighs, biting into her hips, and she knew how badly he wanted to thrust into her, but she gently placed a hand on his chest, a silent request to let her take her pleasure. 

She moaned softly, rotating her hips, encircling him , making him growl her name in soft warning. Then she leaned forward, placing one hand on the bed beside him, and gently fucked him, so deliciously slow, swirling with every motion. He was murmuring her name. Her name. It spilled from his lips so damn prettily. She loved the way it sounded in his accent. His hands roamed her body hungrily, and she loved how rough they were. 

“Lean back for me, baby.” He commanded gently, and she did, rolling her neck when she felt his fingers teasing her clit in slow circles. “Now fuck me.” God his voice was husky. “Ride that cock, baby. Mmm that’s it.” 

She placed her hands on her thighs, and moved, undulating her body, bouncing up and down while he pleasured her, coaxing her gently. Moira gasped, feeling the first tremors but she bit her lip and slowly ravaged him in gentle pursuit. 

“Take it, baby. Take what’s yours.” He murmured reverently. 

And so she did. Lips pulled back in a faint snarl, she let herself come undone, climbing and climbing, thrusting and swirling her hips against him exactly the way she wanted, seizing his hand and drawing two of his fingers into her mouth, tasting herself, making him moan pathetically as he watched her. When she locked eyes with his, he looked pained. She ground herself into him, her clit so swollen, so damn sensitive, and felt the orgasm build so sweetly, so deep in her core. She arched her back, tossing her wild curls as she came, pleasure seizing her muscles, making her clench so hard around him, that it was simply too much for him, and with an astonished gasp of surprise and a deep, manly groan of pleasure, he came too, his hands clinging to her hips for dear life as he thrust upward, so hard she cried out. 

Moira’s lips parted in a deep sigh of immense satisfaction, relishing the sensations inside of her, his cock twitching in the final throes of his orgasm as she milked him, gently with her own. The come down was delicious, like her soul was settling into a warm blanket. No drug she had ever taken would come close to this. 

When she opened her eyes again he was looking at her strangely. 

“That…that was…” he blinked, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Goddamn, Moira.” He whispered. Giggling softly, she unsheathed him gently, hissing in pain as she did. “Easy, darlin.’” He crooned, then moaned softly when she slid her body over his and settled next to him, nestling dreamily in the crook of his arm, resting her head on his chest. He blinked down at her in surprise. “What are ye doin’?” 

She frowned in annoyance. “The fuck does it look like?” 

“It looks like yer snugglin’ me.” He said this as if it were somehow beyond the realm of possibility. 

“Mmhmm.” She mumbled drowsily. 

“Jesus Christ Moira.” He whispered, mostly to himself. “I have imagined takin’ you a thousand different ways. Not one time did I picture this.” 

“Hm. Maybe ye lack imagination.” 

He chuckled. His fingers were stroking her spine, lulling her gently back to sleep. 

When she awoke, it was to the sound of running water. Assuming Remmick was taking a shower, she stretched, slowly, hissing in pain. Then suddenly he was at the bedside, smirking at the way she jumped in alarm. 

“Come on. I drew a bath.” He reached out a hand. She frowned up at him, making him chuckle. “God, that fuckin’ face. Here, let me help you.”

“I don’t need…” A sharp sting of pain between her thighs made her gasp. “Ah, fuck.” She snorted at his look of amusement. “Don’t look so proud of yerself.” 

“Here…” Remmick grinned as he placed his thumb against one sharp tooth, and bit down. 

“Jesus.” Moira blinked in surprise. 

“Open.” He commanded gently. 

She looked at him skeptically, but curiosity won out, and she took his thumb in her mouth, tasting his blood. Her pupils dilated. His blood was dark, and thick. It tasted strange, not quite the same bitter iron of human blood. The effect was immediate. She could actually feel the blood inside her, spreading to her nervous system, working its molecular magic on her muscles, easing the pain in her thighs and groin. This was not like opium. It sparked with life, so at odds with what she knew of vampires. 

Remmick watched her with dark interest. 
“Better?” 

She nodded. 

He watched her bathe, head resting on his arm, his fingers trailing lazily through the suds, deep in thought. At first she was slightly annoyed by the lack of privacy, but the way he was looking at her, like he was afraid she’d disappear, gave her pause. She flicked water at him, making him scowl. 

“You just gonna stand there, or are ye gonna join me?”

He furrowed his brow in surprise. “That tub ain’t nearly big enough.”

“We’ll get creative.” She sat up on her knees, and began lifted his undershirt over his head, leaving no room for argument. 

When he was naked, she let her eyes roam over him, the softly defined muscles of his body, the archaic symbols inked in his skin, the little trail of soft hair that trailed from his belly button to his cock. How nice to be able to do this without shame, enjoying the sight of him every bit as much as he’d enjoyed her. 

“I don’t think a woman has ever looked at me like that.” He chuckled somewhat nervously. 

“Course they have. I’m just not bein’ discreet.” She scooted forward, and he climbed in behind her, stretching his legs around her, not giving a damn that water was pooling over the sides of the tub. 

He wanted to wash her. She wanted to let him. God his hands felt delicious on her skin, rubbing shampoo into her scalp, massaging her back and shoulders, then cupping hot water into his hands to rinse her clean. This was a drug, she decided.

 
“These healed up nicely,” he commented, touching the scars on her back from where she’d been attacked by a new thrall. “Lucky for him you killed him before I got my hands on him.” 

She shuddered. For a moment she’d forgotten what he was. Frowning slightly, she reached over to the safety razor and popped it open, sliding the blade free. 

“The fuck are you doin’? Moira don’t. I can hunt later.” He growled. 

“Here.” She handed him the razor blade. “Pick a spot.”

“Moira, no.” 

“Quit bein’ a baby. You’ve been feedin’ me fer days. Now pick a damn spot.”

He hesitated, torn between hunger and the desire not to hurt her. She turned her face to look at him. 

“Better pick a spot before I do. I can be a bit clumsy, so…” 

Growling, he plucked the razor from her hands, and swept her wet hair over one shoulder, muttering to himself. 

“Just one nick. Alright? Just enough to get me through till tonight.” 

She murmured in agreement, feeling a pang of nervousness in her belly, already regretting this. It wasn’t the pain that worried her, it was the memories, but hell, Remmick had already seen plenty of those. 

“Go ahead.” She urged gently.

Moira barely felt the blade, he was so quick, just enough to puncture right at the dip between her throat and shoulder. Remmick growled deeply, sending lovely vibrations up her spine, which arched involuntarily when he latched his lips to the tiny injury. She closed her eyes, and let her head loll back to rest on him as he drank. 

The memory flashed behind her eyes as he tasted her. She was fifteen, and so desperately hungry she’d resorted to digging through a trash can, when a hand stopped her, and a giant was frowning down at her. Jun. God how she missed him. Then he was shaking his head, speaking a language she didn’t understand. It didn’t matter that she knew Cantonese now, she hadn’t known any then and the memory showed her confusion, but the words sounded kind. She took the giant’s hand and let him lead her to the speakeasy. God, it had been smaller then, but the apothecary was the same. 

Madam Qian had looked her over with a sour expression, and nodded as she circled her. Then she’d said something. A few numbers, perhaps? Moira recognized the cadence. She barely remembered this,  or the maid who led her away to be inspected for lice, cutting her hair fashionably short. The maid looked familiar. 

Remmick paused here, with a grunt. “Are you alright?” 

Moira frowned. “Keep going.” 

He snarled, and latched on to her once more, moaning with pleasure. 

The memory continued. The maid had barked something at her, which had alarmed her, then she’d realized she’d wanted her to get undressed. Moira recognized her then. 

Her eyes snapped open. Remmick was panting, staring at her in horror. 

“What the fuck was that, Moira?” He growled. 

Moira shook her head. “I’m…I’m not sure. Is this…is this Mrs. Chen’s house?” Remmick stared at her, then nodded. “Did you fuckin’ kill her?” She snapped. Her heart was pounding. Mrs. Chen had been their elderly neighbor. Last she’d heard of her, she was throwing a fit over the goat Remmick had slaughtered. Moira was still annoyed by that, and gave him a glare that told him so. 

“No.” He muttered. “Never set foot in here until yer boss told me to. Didn’t need an invitation. Means no one lives here now.” He was staring into her eyes, and she knew he was desperately trying to read her expression. “Do ye believe me?” He swallowed, and she realized she was making him nervous.

“I believe ye.” She murmured. 

“Yer not gonna make a run for it? Now that you know where you are?” He asked carefully, then breathed a sigh of relief when she shook her head. “Good. Because I’d chase you. Ye know that?” His fingers brushed a wet lock of hair out of her eyes. “I’d have to hunt you down, babygirl. And as much as I might enjoy that, I’d rather not when there are men out there lookin’ for ye.” He grasped her beneath her chin, and leaned in close so that his next words caressed her skin. “Because if anythin’ happened to ye, these streets would flow with blood, darlin’. I’ll follow ye straight to hell, and I will slaughter any man, woman or child that gets in my way.” 

A sense of foreboding settled in Moira’s stomach, dark and twisting like a serpent. She was unsettled by the memory he’d unearthed, and even more unsettled by the way he was looking at her, like he meant every word. The things he wasn’t saying terrified her. 

“I’m going to ask you this one time, babygirl. And I want the truth, alright?” He was still holding her chin, tilting his head as he stared so intently into her eyes that she could see the red begin to shine in his pupils. “In that memory, did anyone touch you? Anyone at all?” 

“I don’t think so.” She whispered truthfully, but there was disgust there, and uncertainty. 

Remmick’s nostrils flared as he slowly exhaled.

“Alright…alright, Moira.” His face settled into a lazy grin, but his eyes were still hard, still searching her face for any sign of deception. 

****************************************

Remmick had passed out. Moira was reading in the tiny living room, smiling at the thought that she had managed to wear him out, though she knew it was most likely because he naturally kept night time hours. That was when she heard it. The soft click. A muttered curse in a soft, manly voice. Not Remmick’s voice. 

Moira stilled, her gut twisting in warning. She may have been hotheaded, may have made plenty of mistakes in recent days, but this she knew. Whoever had just picked the lock, did not have her best interest in mind. She palmed the kitchen knife, its weight woefully different from her father’s, and hefted it with grace as she pretended to read. 

Footsteps. God he was clumsy, whoever he was. She could hear him trying to stifle his breathing. Pathetic. These wooden floors were terrible for sneaking. So terrible that if she were ever to case houses, she would avoid this one entirely, which is how she knew that the intruder had no interest in robbery. He was there for her. 

An arm circled her throat, but she had already tucked her nose into her shirt, having scented the chloroform the moment he stepped too close. He didn’t have to soak the damn rag that much. Idiot. He had not been expecting to find the sharp edge of a knife instead of her throat. Clearly he had not been warned about her. Too bad. His arm sliced open on the knife, and he cussed loudly. Far too loudly. He had a thick Chicago accent, which surprised her. American. She’d been expecting anything else. 

Moira leapt over the back of the tattered couch, hefting the knife skillfully, blade pointed downward, ready to slash with barely an effort. The intruder was young, and stupid. His eyes wide with fear. Clearly he had not expected this to happen, hadn’t thought for one minute that she would fight back. 

“Who paid ye, dumbass?” She cocked her head in amusement. 

“N…no one.” He stammered. 

Moira placed her hands on her hips. “They didn’t even give ye a gun?” She shook her head. “I’m fuckin’ insulted. God, ye work fifteen years at it, and when ye finally earn a reputation, they send a fuckin’ amateur.” 

He lunged for her, desperate to regain the element of surprise, not that he’d ever had it to begin with. She moved quickly, ducking in a way he did not anticipate, grabbing him by the wrist, and slashing downward. Two of his fingertips fell to the floor, and he screamed, clutching the ruined hand to his chest, the shock the sudden loss making him stagger back, falling on his ass as he gaped at the blood in horror. 

“I’m sorry.” Moira said. 

“Fuck you, you Irish cunt.” The man spat. 

“Wasn’t talkin’ to you.” She replied with a weary smirk. 

“Ah that’s alright, darlin’. Wasn’t gettin’ much sleep anyhow.” 

The intruder stiffened, and found himself staring  up into very red eyes. 

Remmick cleared the kitchen table while Moira used the man’s own chloroformed rag to knock him out. When they lifted him onto it, she frowned down at him. They’d managed to stop the blood flowing from his fingers with a dirty dish rag. She’d been worried she’d have to sew the tips shut and she had no idea where to find a kit in this house. If he’d been lucky, she’d have taken the whole digit and he could have bled out peacefully on the floor, blissfully unconscious. No such luck. 

“Do we really need to do this?” She asked, chewing her bottom lip. “Yer hungry, and you’ll see his thoughts anyway. Awfully convenient.”

“Aw, was that a compliment?” Remmick smirked, as he drew the length of rope beneath the table, binding the man’s wrists and ankles down until he was trussed up like a damn turkey. Then he glanced up at her in all seriousness. “This one broke in and tried to hurt ye. So you’d best be sure I’m takin’ my goddamn time.” 

Moira shrugged. “I’m alright.” 

“True, but I don’t see you stoppin’ me.” Remmick’s grin was devilishly charming, earning him a smile in return, in spite of herself.

“Goddamn, girl you keep lookin’ at me like that we’re gonna get nowhere.” 

Moira tested his knots in approval, thinking perhaps Remmick had spent some time as a sailor at one point, or at least eaten one. She glanced up at him, to see if he was ready, then leaned over the unconscious man and slapped him as hard as she could. 

“Oof. Keep that up, I might get jealous.” Remmick teased. When the man stirred, furrowing his brow, Remmick leaned over to leer in his face. “Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence, darlin’.” 

Moira sat at the table, resting her chin on her elbow as she watched the intruder blink, and groggily take in his surroundings. When he saw them he immediately panicked and began to strain at the ropes. They let him struggle, watching the terror and despair slowly creep over his face. 

“That’s it, let it all sink in.” She purred. “Really I can’t think of a worse house to break into. Suppose ye didn’t know that, whoever ye are. Care to put a name to yer face?” 

He spat at her, but she’d seen that coming, and evaded it easily. Remmick backhanded him so hard it knocked a tooth loose and his mouth began to bleed. 

“You cut off my fingers you fucking bitch!” He howled. 

“Ye don’t need em now. Truth be told, I don’t really care what yer name is. “ Moira mused thoughtfully. “Thought ye might feel better tellin’ me. Most people think if they say that much, it reminds us they’re human and maybe we’ll go easy on em.” She watched his eyes widen. Moira didn’t feel one hint of guilt. He’d tried to kill her. He’d interrupted her reading. “It’s not really your name that matters anyway. Just the name of the cunt who paid ye.” 

“I didn’t get a name.” He choked out. “Didn’t see a face.” 

“Ah well. That’s a shame.” Moira glanced up at Remmick, who was eyeing her strangely. “What is it?”

“You’re glowing.” He answered with an amused grin.

She scoffed. “Fuck off.” But her lips were curling and she could feel a blush in her cheeks. 

“Yeah, you are.” He reached across their struggling prisoner to swipe his thumb across her lower lip. “You on cloud nine, baby? Did I fuck you that good?” 

She laughed and swatted his hand away. Truth be told, this was the most relaxed she’d felt in years. She was grateful for that. 

“Stop embarrassing me in front of the prisoner.”

“Oh my god.” The restrained man whined. “You people are crazy.”

“Yeah well next time,” she flicked him hard on the nose. “Do a little research before doin’ a fuckin hit, yeah?” 

“She’s just bein’ funny.” Remmick had picked up the lancet, the same one he’d used on himself to heal her. “Ain’t gonna be a next time. You know that.” He smirked down at their terrified intruder, and his eyes gleamed red and ferocious in the cheap kitchen lighting.

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you?” He wailed, his voice gaining pitch. “How the fuck are you doing that with your eyes?” 

“Oh, you really did pick the wrong house, luv.” Moira purred, ignoring Remmick’s look of annoyance at the term of endearment. 

She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, and watched almost lazily as Remmet held the lancet to the man’s straining arm, piercing a vein deep enough that a stream of bright arterial blood hissed out in a stream of red. He captured that blood in a chipped coffee mug. 

“I’m not washin’ that out.” Moira looked pointedly at Remmick’s now stained wife beater.

He gave her a rakish grin as he drank. God he was beautiful. She loved the thick muscles of his shoulders, the veins in his neck as he swallowed. A mad part of her wanted to lick the little trickle of blood that slipped down his throat. She bit her lip, thinking maybe she could do with some time in a looney bin. Maybe they could hook her up with a little electro shock therapy. But fuck he looked so good with his tattoos exposed, his suspenders dangling at his hips. 

“You better stop that, darlin’” Remmick purred, licking blood from his lips. “Or I’ll have to bend you over our friend here. Doubt he’d appreciate it.”

“This is fucked.” The man cried shrilly. “You’re both fucked.” 

“Ah yeah, that may be true.” Moira had to concede . 

“His name’s Benjamin Cohen.” Remmick remarked idly. 

“Oh. Benny! May I call ye Benny? Nah of course I can. Don’t know why I’m even askin’. Listen Benny,” she leaned in close. “My er…associate…” Remmick grunted in amusement, “is going to drain you. Slowly. Over the course of many hours. Now there’s nothin’ ye can do to stop him. But he might quicken things up, if I ask him nicely.”

“Anythin’ fer you, babygirl.” Remmick agreed.

“Don’t ask me why. He has shite taste in women.”

 
“I resent that.” Remmick snapped. 

“My point is, the people who sent ye to find me? They don’t give a fuck about ye. They knew what would happen. So, they’re not really worth protectin’ are they?” 

Benny shook his head. “It’s not about me. Money’s for my family.” 

“Ahh here comes the sob story.” Remmick rolled his eyes. 

“Oh Benny.” Moira’s mouth twisted in distaste. “That just means ye were cheap. Desperate and stupid. When yer dead, I can assure ye, they’re not gonna give two fucks about them. I’ve been playin’ this game a long time, luv. Ye can trust me on that. Yer family’s destined fer the streets. And there are more like him on those streets.” She nodded at Remmick. “So right now, I’m yer best chance.”Benny stared wildly at her, gritting his teeth as Remmick pricked him with the lancet again. He screamed, crying out for help. She snorted. “No one’s comin.’ This is Chinatown you dumb fuck. No one’s callin’ the cops.”

Remmick frowned at he drank again. “Well, he ain’t lying. Rookie here got hooked up on West Adams. Fancy place. You sure yer hurtin’ for cash?” He took another swig of blood. “Nah never mind. Nice car picked him up. Right by a restaurant.” 

“Ah. The Berghoff.” Moira snorted. “What, they ply ye with near beer and fuckin’ soda pop?”

“I never saw his face.” Benny insisted. “We just drove around. He was in the front seat. Roll up window. 

“Ooh that is swanky.” Moira chuckled, inwardly agitated. 

Remmick nodded. “Chicago accent.”

“Well fuck, Benny ye got me there.” She ran a hair through her curls. “Is someone new tryin’ to kill me?” 

Benny barked out a laugh, making her frown. He choked a little, his face already a shade grey from blood loss. 

“No. Not you.” His eyes turned to Remmick. “Now I know why they made me drink all that holy water.” He said this with a surprising air of triumph.

They stared at him for a long time, Moira feeling the dread twist in her stomach. Oh fuck. She looked at Remmick long and hard, searching for any signs of illness. The implication terrified her, gripping her heart with long, icy fingers. Remmick only threw back is head with laughter. 

“Ahhh I see. Oh Benny. You think no one’s tried that before? You think I’d survive this long if I could be killed by a little water? Even water a man in a funny hat muttered over?” He leaned in close, and showed him his teeth, slowly elongating before Benny’s horrified face. “They’ve been tryin’ to be rid of my kind fer centuries, boy. Ages and ages. Crosses, prayers, Taoist talismans, hell, scattering seeds, thinkin’ I’ll stop to count em, like I’d give a shit. Still, it was nice of em to slake yer thirst. Makes the blood flow smoother.” 

“Remmick,” Moira intoned quietly, and when he looked at her, she knew he could see the concern on her face. The method wasn’t important, only the attempt. Someone had put a hit on him, and how many people in this city even knew what he was? The list was short, as far she knew. 

Remmick shook his head at her, smiling. “You worried about me, babygirl? Warms my damn heart.” 

“Course not. Only that I’m the fuckin’ collateral.” She growled.

Remmick quirked a brow, telling her he was far from persuaded. “There’s coffee on the stove, still. Want some? Feels bad drinkin’ alone.” 

Moira felt that ache in her chest again. “I’ll get some. You go on.” 

Remmick snaked an arm around her waist as she moved to turn the stove back on, smirking ferociously as he stole a kiss, just a quick peck at first, but of course he required a second, slower one after that. He tasted like pennies but surprisingly she didn’t mind. Benny was whimpering on the table, possibly weeping. Fuck him. She watched with interest as Remmick continued to puncture him, in strategic places, bleeding him little by little, tasting his memories, and reading them out to him, a different sort of torture. 

“Ah Benny! What a sad little life ye’ve led. Remember that time ye gave the neighbor girl a nut goody to show you her cunny?” 

“I was eight, you Dixie son of a bitch.” Benny growled. 

Moira snickered at the look on Remmick’s face. “Haven’t heard that one in a while. I forget about the accent sometimes.” 

Benny stared hard at Moira. “I wish I’d cut your goddamned throat. I wish I’d never seen your ugly, mulatto…”

She poured hot coffee on him, right on his face, making him howl with pain. “A lot prettier than you now. Though I’ll give ye credit. Most people can’t even guess.” She sipped what was left of the coffee in her mug. 

Remmick sat down and crossed his arms in front of him. “I know why you’re insulting us. Yer a smart man, even if you made a stupid choice. You think you’ll get us to end this faster if ye can rile us. But oh, Benny,” he stroked his hair, in mock affection. “I intend to draw this out. A little hot liquid to the face ain’t nothin’ compared to what I’ll do to you if you insult her again. Look at her Benny. Go on. I’ve tasted your blood now. I saw what ye thought when you saw her reading. You hesitated, because she looked like a painting you saw once. I can appreciate that.

‘I know when your momma started losin’ her memory, you stole money out of her purse. I know your wife is angry at you because you bet your son’s school money at the dog races and fuckin’ lost. Now he uses rubber bands to keep his shoes together. I know your knee is busted because you got a blowjob from a gilly over on Levee but couldn’t pay her, but you told your wife you fell down some stairs. Shameful. Here’s the truth, Benny. You’re a bad husband. Not the worst one I’ve eaten, and certainly not the worst man. But still a bad husband.’” He titled his head in fascination as he watched all the miniscule changes in Benny’s expression. 

“You got a cigarette, Benny?” Moira asked. Benny didn’t answer so she helped herself to the contents of his jacket until she found them. “Pre rolls? Goddamn yer kids need shoes but ye won’t roll yer own  smokes?”

“Only god can judge me.” Benny whispered, staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at either of them. 

Remmick snarled, and seized his face in both hands, his nails digging into reddened flesh where Moira had scalded him. As their prisoner was forced to look at him, he shifted his own face, fangs growing sharp, inching from his gums, his eyes bleeding red. A demon’s face. 

“Maybe he sent me, Benjamin. You think about that? Maybe he has judged you and he sent me to deal with you as I see fit. Who are you to say? Look at me.” He shook the man’s head viciously in his vice grip. “You tried to take her from me. I ain’t had her long.”

“Remmick…” Moira placed a hand on his upper arm. “I’m alright.” This new flavor of possessiveness alarmed her. 

“Devil’s whore.” Benny spat at her. 

Remmick’s face twisted into one of pure malice, and it was the most disturbing thing Moira had ever seen. His fingers had elongated into claws, and he was digging those claws into Benny’s eyes. The scream that tore from his throat was so ear piercing that Moira had to grab a dish towel and shove it into his mouth. Even in Chinatown, that scream may have inspired the neighbors to make a call to the police. 

Remmick sat back, chest heaving as he sneered down at his victim, wiping the back of his hand on his mouth, leaving a trail of blood. 

“Maybe it’s time to end it.” Moira said softly. 

“I ain’t finished.” Remmick grunted, his eyes glinting dangerously. 

“I’ll leave it to you. But I think we got everythin’ we’re going to.” 

This seemed to surprise him, the fact that she was making no demands, but simply offering her input and leaving the decision to him. After all, it was clear now that Remmick had been the intended victim. Fair was fair. Although she couldn’t say she’d ever witnessed an interrogation quite like this. Moira had a thick skin, but she’d be lying if she said it didn’t bother her. She always had hated this side of her life. But there was a darkness in her too, and it relished this, purring like a cat to witness this man’s suffering. He’d come for Remmick. Her Remmick. 
The thought made her pause. 

“What is it?” Remmick looked dismayed by whatever was showing on her face. 

“Nothin.’” She replied too quickly. 

“Am I scarin’ you?” 

“No.” Yes. But not the way he meant. 

“Want me to turn him? Could be nice havin’ an errand boy.” Remmick asked with a wince. 

“Nah ye said you didn’t want any more children.” Then she looked at Benny’s ruined fingertips. “If ye did though, would those grow back? Would other parts?” 

Remmick laughed. “You are dark, babygirl. No, they’d heal but they wouldn’t grow back. His eyesight might though. Not sure about that.” 

“Oh my god please. Please stop flirting and kill me.” Benny whined. 

“Mind yer business.” Remmick snapped. 

“You’re crazy. You’re both fucking crazy.” 

“Oh I’m sorry.” Moira growled. “Were ye hopin’ to find two little old ladies? Someone nice and defenseless? Fuck you, Benny.” 

“Tell my wife…tell her I’m sorry.” Benny whimpered. 

“Oh this is good. Fuckin’ love this part.” Remmick rolled his eyes. 

“Tell my son, I wish I could see him grow up.” 

“God yer a piece of shit, Benny. Why do they do this? Act like everything happens to them?” Moira pinched the bridge of her nose. “How about, ‘tell my son to make better fuckin’ choices than his dad’ yeah?”

“Hey. Hey Benny.” Remmick jostled his shoulder. “Look at me. Oh right, you can’t. Benny. Think of better last words.”

“Fuck you, and your whore. I hope they get you both you fucking scum.” 

“Better.” Moira’s lip twitched with amusement.

“Not fuckin’ poetry, but I guess that’ll do.” 
Remmick pricked him with the lancet, in the crook of his elbow this time, forgoing the coffee mug and drinking straight from the source.

“Fuck!” Benny hissed, despair lacing his voice. “Jesus Christ just get it done!”

“Nah we were just fuckin’ with ye. I guess ye weren’t paying attention, huh?”

They remained like this for hours. Hours and hours until finally, Benny was too weak to scream. He barely even twitched when Remmick stuck him with the lancet. Finally, Benny was barely responding at all, his skin now an ashen grey from blood loss. 

“Well, I’m full Benny.” Remmick gave Moira a twisted grin. “I’ll get a head start diggin’ a hole for our friend here. I’ll give this to ye, you’ve been wildly entertaining.” He shot Moira a salacious look, waggling his eyebrows comically. “Would you consider this a dinner date, babygirl?” 

She rolled her eyes, but she was grinning to herself as Remmick walked out back to the tiny yard, where Mrs. Chen had once kept her goat tied up. She waited a few moments, making sure he was gone before leaning over Benny, listening for breath. 

“Ye still in there, luv?” She shook him a little, nodding when he grunted. “Normally this is when I’d ask for yer final words. For real this time. I like to give em the chance to tell me what they’d leave behind. Now, I don’t want to give you that chance, so instead I’ll give you somethin’ else.’” She leaned close, to hiss in his ear. “You tried to fuck with me and mine, Benjamin. You’re lucky this little plan failed, or yer family would be right here with ye.”

“You love him? That monster?” Benny croaked. 

“That’s fer me to worry about. But I avenge my own, little man. So I’ll give ye this chance. A name. Any name. If ye can give me that, I’ll end it now. Otherwise I’ll bury you alive.” 

Benny stilled, and for a moment Moira thought he was already gone. Then he parted his lips. 

“J…Joanie…there was a woman. Her name was Joanie.” 

“Thank you, Benny.” Moira said darkly, before picking up the lancet, and driving it straight into his carotid artery. 

When Remmick returned, filthy and covered in dirt, she was ready for him with a frown, her face and chest splattered with blood. 

“What happened?” Remmick eyed her curiously. 

“I got a name. But yer not gonna like it.” 

With Remmick’s vampire strength they made quick work of the body, burying him in a shallow grave but deep enough that no stray cats would come digging. He’d gone very quiet when Moira relayed their prisoner’s final words to him. Sullen, even. She didn’t like it when he was sullen, she realized. 

“I can clean the kitchen if you’d like to shower first?” She offered helpfully, giving him a half smile as if that might cheer him up. 

Remmick frowned at her, eyeing her up and down. “He really told ye that? About Joan?” 

“He did.” She replied solemnly, her mouth twisting to the side. “If ye don’t believe me, I’ll give ye more of my blood.” 

He stared at her in bewilderment. “No. I believe you.” He shoveled one last pile of dirt onto Benny’s grave and tossed the shovel aside with a touch more feeling than she’d expected. “That was smart. Offerin’ a quick death when ye did.” 

She shrugged. “Told him we’d bury him alive.”

“Nah. Wouldn’t risk him recovering enough to crawl out. Humans are capable of wild things when death is on the table.”

“He didn’t know that.” 

Remmick laughed bitterly. “You’ve got a black streak in ye, Moira.” His eyes softened a bit when he saw the look on her face. “That’s not a criticism, darlin’. You wear it on yer sleeve. It’s honest. Most people pretend they don’t have it. But I also know yer plannin’ on finding Benny’s family and sending that money Jimmy left. Don’t deny it,” he added when she opened her mouth. “Because deep down, you’ve a soft heart. You want to protect good people. Which is why there’s somethin’ I need to tell you.”

“What? What is it?” She snapped, dread tying her stomach in knots. 

“It’s somethin’ I need to tell you. But I can’t.” He was looming over her, the scent of blood and earth clinging to his skin, but his eyes were blue and there was a look of pain and desperation in them. “I need you to understand somethin’ about my kind, Moira. Our pacts are binding. You knew that, I think, the day ye found out I was destined to shadow you. When I make an agreement, I have to keep it. Do you see? I have to find a way to tell you without tellin’ you.”

Moira bit her lip, deeply troubled by what he was saying. “Could you write it down?”

He shook his head. “It’s not that easy. This one’s got me locked in real tight, baby. I’ve been trying to untangle it for a long time.”

“Alright. Alright Remmick.” She sighed, and was about to scratch her nose then realized her hands were filthy. “We have to clean up first. We can’t let it wait.”

As they scrubbed the floor with bleach, both wearing violently yellow dish gloves, Moira peppered him with questions, her curiosity driving her mad. 

“If I ask about it, can you say ‘yes’ or ‘no?’”

Remmick grimaced. “I can’t say anything that would reveal the particulars. Even ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Ah.” Then she decided to try. “Is it about me?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Somethin’ I did?” 

“No.”

“Somethin’ someone else did?” She raised an eyebrow. Remmick did not answer, or could not answer. She grinned in triumph. “Alright. There it is then. I can ask questions, and figure somethin’ out based on what ye can’t say.” 

Remmick looked relieved. His eyes practically sparkled. “So goddamned clever.” 

“You sure yer not fae?” She teased, thinking of the lore from her homeland. “Some sort o’ trickster spirit that haunts the cairns?” 

Remmick only shrugged. “Been called a lot of things, sugar.” He kept scrubbing, not looking at her. “So. We gonna talk about it? Once yer done thinkin’ up loopholes?”

“Once we get all this cleaned up, I doubt anyone will come lookin.’ Just remember that cops can’t come in without papers unless you let them. Kinda like you.” She smirked. 

“Not what I meant. And you know it.” His lip twitched. 

Moira grinned, wincing inwardly. “What should I say? That you’re a good fuck?”

Remmick snorted. “Well as endearin’ as that is darlin’, I think we both know that what we did this mornin’ was not fucking.” 

Her face was heating. She wanted desperately to change the subject. “I need a shower.” 

“You and me both honey.” He smirked. “Be a lot more efficient to go together. Since you’re so worried about cops.” 

She threw a yellow glove at him, making him laugh, then she gave a cry when he lunged for her, snapping playfully in her face. Moira felt impossibly light, yet so very twisted inside, particularly as he hoisted her violently over his shoulder and began to make manful strides up the stairs, smacking her arse when she tried to protest. 

They showered together, for efficiency as Remmick had said, and she even went so far as to shampoo his hair, loving the way he purred beneath her touch, even though all manner of dirt and blood was streaming from him in rivulets. He couldn’t stop kissing her, as if tasting her lips was the only thing on this earth that he wanted to do, only stopping when the stream of hot water got to be too much. She felt high. She couldn’t remember ever receiving so much physical attention. It enthralled her almost as much as it terrified her. Moira felt she should say something, but couldn’t.

“I know baby.” He murmured against her lips. “I can hear that heart poundin’. It can wait. I won’t push. I got all the time in the world.” 

Chapter Text

“Moira.” A voice was saying, cold and assertive. She opened her eyes. 

They had slept together. She hadn’t meant to, but there had been such painful awkwardness last night as they’d gone to their separate rooms, then as soon as she’d shut her door, she’d flung it back open to find him standing there, looking lost. He’d taken her so roughly, squeezing her tight as he’d fucked her again, and again, claiming her. He’d wanted something else from her, she could feel it. 

But it was not Remmick’s voice that woke her. 

“Get up.” Qian’s voice was hard, her eyes cold steel, in spite of their warm color. “And cover yourself.”

Moira blinked up at her, confused for a moment. Then she realized she was completely naked and pulled a sheet around herself, looking around the room to see where her clothes had ended up. Her stomach clenched with foreboding. Remmick was nowhere to be seen. 

“Has somethin’ happened? Is everyone alright?” 
In spite of the dread, Moira felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Her landlady’s presence meant that she had not been thrown to the wolves, though she was staring at Moira with an inscrutable  expression, eyeing her up and down. 

“Not as good as you, perhaps. You seem all but mended.” 

“I’m fine.” Moira winced. 

“I see that. How is that possible? You had fractured ribs and half your face was ruined.” Qian was frowning.

“Looked worse than it was.” Moira shrugged, trying to brush it off. The words stung. So she’d seen her injured, yet only now came to check on her?

“Apparently so.”

Qian moved closer, placing a hand on Moira’s cheek, and she smiled, her sleep addled mind thinking that she meant to embrace her, even though she’d never done so before. She did not. Instead, she struck her across the face, hard enough to make Moira stagger and grab the side of the end table. It was not just the sting that bloomed across her cheek that brought tears to her eyes. She whirled back, staring up at her boss in shock. Her mentor had never struck her like this, not even when she was a rebellious teenager. Qian raised a hand to hit her again, then hesitated, her hand clenching in a fist, still raised. 

Qian was seething in sharp Cantonese, her voice terrifying and piercing. “Thirteen dead cops, Moira. Do you have any idea how lucky you are you weren’t seen?”

“I…I didn’t…” She stammered, fumbling over the words, completely tongue tied. How could she possibly explain? 

She was going to hit her again. She could see it in the tension of her jaw, the slight pulse of a vein in her temple. Moira closed her eyes, awaiting the blow, ready to take it with all the grace she could muster. But when she reopened them, she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes round with alarm. Remmick had caught Madam Qian by the wrist, and she knew that his grip was iron, that he could snap the hand clean off. His footsteps hadn’t even made a sound. There was a crash as the coffee mug he’d brought her fell to the floor. 

Qian whipped her head back furiously, her dark eyes flashing, but her skin paled at least two shades lighter at the sight of him. Moira realized then, that this was the first time she had ever seen Remmick in this form, the form that stayed hidden, the one that had once made her bolt upright in a cold sweat. She was used to seeing those shark’s teeth behind a feral grin. Not so, now. Those lips were pulled back in a snarl, a vicious dog ready to render flesh. His pretty blue eyes were so red, even the whites of them were stained. His chest was heaving slowly, saliva dribbling down his chin and onto Qian’s unprotected face. She looked so small next to him. This was perhaps the first time Moira had ever seen her truly and utterly afraid.

She moved, placing a firm hand on Remmick’s shoulder. 

“Remmick, don’t.” She pleaded. 

“Do you remember what I told you? That I would kill anyone who laid a hand on you?” He was speaking in Gaelic, his eyes locked on Qian with such hatred it staggered her. 

“Please.” She murmured.

“Give me a reason not to.” His voice was so low, so guttural behind those teeth. 

“Because I’m askin’.” Was her only reply, the only one she could think of. 

Remmick stiffened. Then he relaxed his grip, glowering down at her.

Qian was shaking, but still she tried to smooth her hair, attempting to shift back into the cool and collected mafia boss she was, and doing a remarkable job. Her dark eyes fixed on Moira, and there was disdain in them. It punctured her gut like a bullet. For so long, she’d wanted nothing more than to make this woman proud. To be gazed at with such disgust shook her to her core. 

“An entire police station full of bodies, Moira? How could you let yourself be taken like that? Foolish girl.” She spat, but the venom was lost. 

“I’m sorry.” It sounded stupid. She wanted to look at the floor, but she made herself look the empress in the eye. “I was cornered. There was no way out.” The truth, and yet not the truth. 

“You should have stayed put.” Qian snapped bitterly.

“McCarthy’s men were there.” 

“We were watching, girl. I would have pulled you out the moment they took you. Instead we saw you. And him.” She jerked her chin at Remmick who scowled. 

“They said you made the call, Qian. Is that true?” Moira couldn’t help but ask. The question had been haunting her. 

“She didn’t.” Surprisingly it was Remmick who answered, with a bluntness that said he knew it for a fact. “And she doesn’t know who did. That’s why she’s bein’ such a raging bitch. Qian hates not bein’ in control, ain’t that right?” Remmick smirked at Qian’s murderous expression, then leaned down and spoke in perfect Cantonese. “Why don’t you grow a pair and tell Moira who the fuck you are.”

“Fuck off, jiangshi!” She snarled. 

“Moira,” Remmick turned his wide, feral gaze to her, rooting her to the spot. “Ask me more questions, Moira.”

“I…I don’t…” She gulped, torn between his desperation and Qian’s cold fury. But Moira was not stupid. Things were clicking into place. “You made a deal with Qian, that you would follow me, and that you’d report to Nico Farino. The alternative was turnin’ me over. Was there more?”

She watched Remmick’s face harden. 

“Enough.” Qian spat. “Of course there was more, stupid girl.”

“What did you do?” Moira stared at her boss, feeling the ice creep into her veins. “What the fuck did you do, Qian?” 

“I’ve done a number of things. I would do anything to protect what my father built. What I have built. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I owe you a single thing, Moira.” Qian sniffed imperiously. “I have done only what needed to be done.” 

“Tell…her…” Remmick gritted his teeth, and to Moira’s dismay, his nose began to bleed. 

Qian snorted with amusement. “Tell her yourself, if you can stand it. Makes no difference to me.” She brushed herself off, and shot Moira a discerning look. “I expect you at the Autumn Moon. That is if you can manage to keep your damn legs shut long enough.” 

Moira scowled, but the words hurt all the same. Remmick wiped the trickle of blood from his nose with the back of his hand, and snapped at Qian, who glared imperiously as she saw her own way out. They stared after her, listening to her footsteps and the gentle swish of her dress, until finally they heard the front door downstairs. 

“Should have let me kill her.” Remmick muttered, then turned furious eyes on Moira. “Why the fuck do you let her speak to you like that?”

Moira didn’t know how to answer that. She never knew how to answer that. 

Remmick continued. “No, don’t bother. I already know. She got you when you were young and scared and desperate, and my god, she gave you a home, an education, filled your belly, and all she asked for in return was blind fuckin’ obedience. I get it baby, I really do. But that ain’t love, honey. Mamas ain’t supposed to treat their daughters like that.”

“Please stop.” Moira felt exhausted. Her head was pounding. 

Remmick knelt on the floor in front of her, and was holding her face, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “You had a mama, sweetheart. I’ve seen her in your blood. She was warm and beautiful like you.  And yes, you are beautiful Moira so don’t look at me like that. She took care of you when you were sick and you followed her around like a stray kitten, baby. That woman…” he pointed viciously at the door where Qian had left, “…she ain’t it, Moira.” 

“Fuck off.” She snarled, but the tears kept coming. 

“No. I know you won’t say it, and neither will I. We’re both too damn stubborn.” He quirked a grin. “But it’s too late to be rid of me. So here’s what I propose. You and me make a damn good team, honey. Last night proved that. There’s only one thing standin’ in our way, and it just left through that door.”

“STOP IT.” Moira wanted to cover her ears, like a child. 

“And they call me a monster.” Remmick grimaced. 

“Stop fuckin’ talkin’ about her like that! You don’t know what she’s been through! What she’s sacrificed!” Moira hissed. 

“Girl, how do you think monsters are made?” He was looking at her in a way that she hated. That was pity hovering in the corners of his mouth. 

“Fuck this.” Moira spat, then began digging through piles of clothing, pulling things on without really giving a damn which ones were hers and which were his. “And FUCK you!” 

“The hell do you think you’re doin’ girl?” He growled dangerously. 

“I’m gettin’ the fuck out of this house,” she snarled over her shoulder. “And away from you.” 

“The hell you are!” Remmick roared, heated and furious. He sounded like a demon, straight from the pit. The sound startled her so much, she froze, then realized he was wrestling her to the ground. She tried to slap at him, but he was straddling her and he caught her wrists with far more ease than she would have liked “You’re a slave, Moira.” He growled. “And I can’t fuckin’ stand it. Watchin’ you grovel and take orders from that cunt. I’ve watched you stare down men twice yer size. Fuck, you’ve stared me down, but her? One look from her and you’re a simperin’ little-“ 

“FUCK YOU.” She screamed in his face. This was the last thing on earth she wanted to hear. 

“Why, Moira? Why won’t you open your eyes and see what’s right in front of ye?” He bared his teeth. “Fucking ask me.”

“I ain’t askin’ shit! I don’t fuckin’ care!” She howled.

“Ask me about the fa…the fam…”

As soon as the words slipped from his tongue, he went rigid, and pale, his eyes rolling up into his head. Moira scrambled out from beneath him, and gaped in horror as his body seized, going rigid. Remmick fell back, his limbs twisting at awkward angles. Black bile was bubbling from his lips. Moira released a loud stream of cusses, afraid to touch him at first, then she realized, oh god he was going to choke. Using all her strength, she rolled him onto his side. Fuck he was heavy. Was this what happened if a vampire stepped inside uninvited? Was this the price of a bargain unfulfilled? 

“Shit fuck FUCK son-of-a cocksucking WHORE!” She babbled, panic moving her limbs, setting her in motion. “Fuck Remmick what the FUCK do I do?!” She grabbed a pile of discarded clothes and tried to put them beneath his head. Moira was at a loss. She grabbed one of her discarded shirts and tried to stuff it into his mouth without getting sliced by those razor sharp fangs, worried that he’d bite his tongue in two. “Remmick SNAP OUT OF IT GODDAMNIT!” 

It was futile. She had no knowledge of vampire remedies. Except one. In one wild moment, she almost lowered her wrist to his mouth, then yanked back, horrified by herself. She’d be damned if she’d end up as one of his bloody thralls. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” She growled to herself as she lurched for the bedside table, to the knife she always kept nearby. “Fuckin’ vampire bastard, makin’ an arse of himself, FUCK.” 

She scrabbled back to him, practically sliding on her knees, smarting them as she sliced her palm open, far too clumsily, far too deep, the pain making her cry out. Shit. At least it was her left hand. She ripped the shirt from his mouth and held her bleeding hand over it, squeezing it into a fist reflexively, trying to make the blood trickle between his lips with somewhat pathetic results. 
Eyes still rolled back, he pounced, his nostrils flaring at her scent, his mouth latching to the angry wound like a hungry dog, sucking lasciviously, and then he was upon her, teeth snapping wildly, ready to sink into flesh. 

“Just DRINK ye fuckin’ cunt!” She screamed. He didn’t seem to hear her, barely acknowledged her at all. He was wild. Untamed like he wasn’t even there. Fucking Christ he was going to bite her. Terror rose in her chest, and she screamed. Too late. She felt slick teeth on her, his mouth widening, far too large, his drool collecting in the hollow of her throat. Oh god. She was going to die. “Remmick…please.” She sobbed. 

The mouth snapped shut. A low growl rumbled in his chest. Hesitation. She pushed him back as hard as she could. He scrambled back from her. She stared at him, chest heaving, her heart ready to burst from her chest. 

“Go.” Remmick was pale and shivering as he cracked his neck, his fangs retreating into his gums. “Go. If that’s what ye want.”

“Will ye follow?” Her words were shaky. She licked her lips, then pinched the bridge of her nose.

“No.” He growled, then caught himself and sighed. “Yes. I don’t see myself stayin’ away. Too fuckin’ weak.” 

Moira pursed her lips, but felt a small, selfish pang of relief. “What happened just now?” 

“Lost control, sugar. Nearly broke my word.” 

“Alright…” she exhaled slowly, letting her head fall back to rest on the wooden floor. “Alright, Remmick. I yield. My landlady has done something so repulsive that were I to know of it, I’d abandon her completely, and then what? Run away with you?” She turned her face to him, and saw the stricken expression on his face. He would not answer. “And do what, exactly?” 

“I don’t know.” Remmick grinned a little, but only a little. “Figured persuading you would be the hard part. You and me? We could take on the whole goddamn world.” 

She shook her head at him. “Leave? Just like that? Christ does everyone want me out of Chicago?” 

He quirked his head. “Who else? Besides Jimmy boy.” 

“Mary. And Stack.” 

A light feathering in his jaw. “Without me, I take it?” 

“Your children don’t like you very much.” 

“With good reason.” 

“At least they get to be young and pretty forever.”

“So could you, ye know.” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Ah. There it is.” Moira felt the twisting in her gut.  “You don’t give a fuck about Qian. You just want me to trade one master fer another. You want me to let this place drown in blood, and fer what? So you can have yer fun with me right up until…” she stopped, seeing the murderous glint in his eyes. 

“Until what?” He growled. “Finish it.” 

“Until ye get bored and fuckin’ abandon me just like yer thralls.” She spat. 

“That what you think?” Remmick’s lip twitched. Oh he was mad. His nostrils flared. “Better do somethin’ about that hand.” 

She glanced down and scowled at her bleeding fingers, then grabbed a shirt and wrapped it around her injury, yanking tightly with gritted teeth. It was throbbing with her heartbeat. 

“If you think fer one minute that I’m runnin’ away from a fight, ye don’t know shit.”

“You been runnin’ yer whole damn life.” He snapped.

Moira barked out a laugh. “Bloody hypocrite.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You can walk away from yer responsibilities all ye want. They’ll hound ye anyway. Yours are slinkin’ around the docks as we speak. One of em tried to kill ye last night. Fuckin’ holy water.” She shook her head. “Give me some credit. At least I’d have the stones to do it meself.” She rose to her feet, and finished buttoning up the shirt she’d haphazardly thrown on. It didn’t fit right, because it was his. 

“You are cruel, Moira.” His voice was harsh and ragged. 

“Oh please.” She laughed. 

“You’re lashin’ out because you don’t want to face the truth.” He stood, and moved close to her. 

She backed away a step, placing her hands on her hips. “What truth? The one you can’t even say without havin’ a fit and tryin’ to kill me?” 

“Nah, sugar. Not that one.” He dipped his head lower, as if to kiss her, but instead he snarled. “You tremblin’ baby? You finally scared of me?”

“No.” She lied. Of course it was a lie. 

“Such a goddamn liar.” He smirked. “Ask me more questions, Moira. Let’s settle this.” 

“I don’t…” she winced. There was discomfort there, the feeling that whatever secret he was holding, it was one that she desperately did not want to know. “Why are ye pushin’ me like this?” She hated the way her voice cracked. 

“To set you free, darlin.’” His eyes darkened. “That’s all I want.” 

She sighed. “Can I have coffee first?”

“It’s already waitin’ for ye.” 

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table, Moira sipping her impossibly strong brew, which she was quickly growing fond of, while Remmick toyed idly with a teacup lid. She watched it slowly flip between his fingers, noting to herself that he had beautiful hands, like they were carved lovingly from marble. He was watching her closely. 

“Alright. Let’s test this theory.” She said slowly. “What color are my eyes?” 

“Grey, like a stormy sky.” He answered instantly. 

“Fine. I’m guessin’ that when Qian made her pact with ye, there was fine print. Yes?” She asked carefully. He nodded slowly. “I don’t think it takes much to assume it included what would happen if you were to see somethin’ she didn’t want ye to see?”

Silence. 

“That’s it then.” She sighed. “Alright. You managed to let it slip that it involved the families. Do ye mean the mafia families?” Nothing, save a slight twitch in his fingers. “Is that a ‘yes’?” She could sense his growing frustration. “Alright, maybe not.” She glanced around at their surroundings, her eyes landing on the basement door, still locked. “This is Mrs. Chen’s house. She used to run the spice stall. Her daughter’s runnin’ it now. Not sure why she wouldn’t want to keep this house…unless?” Her eyes snapped back to Remmick. “She knows somethin’.” 

She rose, suddenly intent on leaving, on speaking with her herself. Remmick rose too, in warning. Moira grimaced in annoyance. “God, fine. No goin’ outside. Got it. Fuckarse.” His lips curled in amusement. 

“Keep goin’.” His jaw was tense. 

“It’s to do with the liquor?” 

“No.” 

“Opium?” 

“No.” 

“Well fuck Remmick.” She sighed, feeling immensely frustrated. “I think maybe we’re goin’ about this the wrong way.” Her eyes settled on a small stack of magazines, and a sudden thought occurred to her, one so painfully obvious that she felt like an idiot. 

“Ooh I know that look.” Remmick tilted his head as he looked at her. 

“Madam Qian keeps a ledger. It’s in her office. When we went to the docks that night, you made fun of me because I can’t read Chinese.” She gave him a hard look. “Can you?” 

“Maybe.” He winced. “You’re thinkin’ about steal in’ it?”

“Shouldn’t be difficult. I could do it on the Autumn Moon.” 

Remmick shook his head. “I can’t do anythin’ to help you. Not even translate a book.” 

“Fuck.” She chewed her lip. “I can’t think of anyone who’d do it. The moment I ask, they’ll turn me in.” Remmick was looking at her with such a soft look that she snapped, “what?” 

“I’m just glad you’re even tryin’.” 

She exhaled slowly. “Look…do ye think ye can meet me halfway? Could ye do that?”

“I could meet you anywhere.” He said this with such seriousness that she knew it wasn’t a joke. 

“If I tell ye that I will figure this out, somehow, will ye be patient with me? Can ye trust me to do that? On my own?”

She was thinking about how she’d felt so alone in that cell, how those men had brutalized her, hitting her again and again, and how although Qian claimed she’d been ready to get her out, Moira knew. In her gut she knew. The woman who’d raised her had never planned to save her. She’d been ready to let her die. And it hurt. Oh how it hurt. In fact it hurt so much, that without any warning whatsoever, it bubbled out of her, bursting free as if it had been ready for just one morose thought, one whisper of heartbreak, to set it free. 

“Oh shit, Moira.”

He was at her side in an instant as the sobs wracked her body. She’d pressed her face into her palms, elbows on the table, and then she was burying her tears in her folded arms, her head down as her body shook from the effort of holding it in. 

“Fuck, Moira tell me what to do. Please. Please, I…no. Fuck that.” He was muttering to himself and she could feel the panic in his voice. 

It was a similar panic, she realized, to the one she’d felt just minutes ago, when he’d been struck by whatever malediction prevented him from breaking his word, when she’d felt so helpless and stupid with no idea how to act. Terror struck her then, far too late. He could have died. The thought overwhelmed her, left her stricken with guilt. 

She threw her arms around him, making him grunt in surprise. Then for a moment he seemed powerless, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Then, he melted, and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace that was large and warm and perhaps a touch too tight for her human frame. She didn’t care. It felt good. It felt so good to weep in his arms. He smelled like earth and moss and cold stone. He smelled like heather and storm and salt kissed rain. Remmick smelled like home. She buried her face in that scent and fucking wept, like the day she’d fallen off her bike and skinned her knee. 

He was lifting her out of the chair, moving her out of the kitchen, his arms hooked beneath her knees like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the living room and sitting himself on the sofa with her still firmly in his arms. He was murmuring something in Gaelic, making small circles on her back. 

“Níl uasal ná íseal ach thuas seal agus thíos seal”
There is no noble or lowly, but up for a while and down for a while. In other words, this too shall pass. Fuck that. Moira didn’t feel that was true in this moment, yet somehow it was still nice to hear it in his voice. “I’ll stop pushin’ ye, darlin’. I didn’t know it was hurtin’ this much. You can take yer time. I can wait. For you I can wait. We’ll figure out a way, a chuisle mo chroí.” 

That gave her pause. She stilled, her breath shaking. Surely he hadn’t meant to say it. Pulse of my heart. Moira wanted to pull back to stare at him in disbelief, but didn’t. He felt too good like this, holding her so tight to his chest, stroking her back. 

She cleared her throat a little. Then spoke, in their mother tongue. 

“Do you love me, Remmick?” 

He went impossibly still, like a stone settling down in dark waters. She felt the heat ripple through her, heard his heartbeat, usually so steady,  begin to pound a rhythmic tattoo. 

“How do you want me to answer that, Moira?” He finally answered softly. “Do you want me to tell you that when I saw you that night, dancing the mudras in your makeshift sari that I wanted you? That it frightened me so badly, I ran like a coward? That I made deals that damned and enslaved me only to be near you? That I would set the world aflame to keep you warm? Is that what you want to hear?” 

“That’s not an answer.” She murmured. 

He chuckled darkly. “I’ve considered cutting my own heart from my chest. No dead lump of flesh should bleed the way it does.”

“You talk in riddles. It’s annoying.” She finally sat back to look at him, straddling his lap, knowing that her face must have looked ruined from crying. “Let me help.” Moira did not know what it was about this moment that broke her, cracking her chest and exposing her so easily, but she raked her fingers through his hair, mussing it up to her satisfaction. The way he was looking at her made her heart ache, like a starving man. “I knew when we were in the diner. When ye held my hand. That’s when I knew, Remmick.” The words were on her tongue, and he was kissing her so deeply he must have tasted them there. 


****************************************

“Is that what you’re wearin’?” Remmick’s stare was almost comical. He gave a low whistle. 

Moira scowled, but was inwardly pleased. The cheongsam had appeared via a terrified delivery boy that morning, and Moira had struggled to squeeze into it for nearly half an hour. It’s not that it didn’t fit, but she’d be damned if she’d ask Remmick to zip her up. So she’d struggled. They had not spoken about her tearful confession, and frankly she was relieved for it. 

“I look like a damn lap cheong.” She wrinkled her nose at the dress. It was a deep, bloody red with a light smattering of gold lotus blossoms to symbolize purity for the autumn moon. Qian’s sense of humor, perhaps. The dress was exactly her type of apology. Here’s a gift instead of saying sorry. And it was so tight. How the fuck was she supposed to act as security in this? Luckily the skirt was slit deeply enough along the thighs to allow for movement if she needed to move quickly. 

“Hush.” Remmick commanded, his eyes darkening as they roamed hungrily over her curves. Silently, he raised a hand and made a twirling motion with his fingers. Trying not to smirk, she turned for him, then gestured vaguely at herself. 

“Fuckin’ high heels. Is she crazy?” 

“Uh huh.” He muttered, raising an eyebrow. 

“What’s that look for? Think I should change?” She felt suddenly self conscious. 

“Lot of men are gonna be lookin’ at ye.” He said casually, but his jaw was tense.

She gave him a hard glare. “That shite isn’t cute, Remmick.”

“Nah. I want them to look.” He licked his lips. “I want them to see what’s mine.” He raised his gaze to hers, and gave her a salacious grin. “You know what you look like?” 

She rolled her eyes. “No. What do I look like?”

“You look like you wanna get fucked, babygirl.” His smile was feral. 

“Cut that out.” She snapped, feeling her face flush red. They hadn’t so much as kissed since her embarrassing confession. It was too new, too awkward for her, even though she’d often caught him gazing at her longingly. “Here.” She tossed him the mask. It was made from delicate paper, and shaped like a white rabbit, designed to cover the upper half of his face, leaving his mouth and jaw exposed. 

“The fuck is this for?” He frowned at it, puzzled. 

God he looked delicious. She’d given him her favorite black hanfu jacket, and was annoyed by how well it fit him. It had always been large on her. The way he wore it with such casual grace was agonizing, half unbuttoned, with the white cuffs of his dress shirt peaking out. And had his pants always been that tight? Damned if she knew. He’d raked back his hair but some of it still fell into his eyes. He tossed it back and gave her a look that said she’d forgotten to answer. Too busy ogling him. 

“Some bit of anonymity I suppose. Not traditional, but we should fit in just fine.” A joke, really. Her tattoos were already on display. Everyone on these streets would know who she was. 

“Why the bunny rabbit?”

“It’s YuTu. He lives on the moon.” 

“Right, right. Why does he live on the moon?” 

“Someone has to make the elixir of life for Chang’e. She lives there too.” 

“Ah. How foolish of me.”

She gave him her hardest side eye. “Says the vampire who’s been alive fer hundreds of years.” 

“Touché.” 

“Odd that you’ve been around so long and ye’ve never seen a Mooncake Festival.” 

“I see that as a good sign. Still things to experience.” 

Moira realized that the little leather strap on her shoe was unbuckled, and rather clumsily tried to bend over to fix it. He was there in an instant, kneeling before her, his deft hands making quick work of it. She bit her lip, feeling his hand on her calf, the other wrapped around her ankle. When he grinned up at her, she felt  a shiver of anticipation. 

“God, you are gonna be the death of me,” he purred, hand drifting up her stocking clad thigh until he found flesh. A light touch that made her hum softly with delight. She could have said the same. His head tilted, and he gave her that look again, like he was considering eating her alive. “You strapped, honey?” 

She nodded. Unfortunately, the lines of the dress would be somewhat ruined by the long black coat she now pulled on. She needed somewhere to conceal her gun. Fuck it, it was going to be chilly anyway. There had been a sigh of relief when Qian had sent her father’s knife to her as well. She felt naked without it. 

“Good. You got that stake that Jimmy gave you?” He asked softly. Her chest tightened. What kind of vampire made sure to include the weapon designed to kill him? She’d made something for it, tailored from an old belt she’d found in the closet. Moira had always been clever at making things. It wrapped discreetly around her wrist, looping across her palm, and in one flick, the wooden stake was securely in her hand. She demonstrated this now, and smirked a little at Remmick’s shiver. “That shouldn’t get me goin’ but it does.” 

“You ready?” Moira lifted an eyebrow, then made for the door. 

His vampire speed startled her only a little, but he was there in a blink, already holding the door for her. She blushed, a little uncomfortable with this type of attention, but the blush was quickly concealed beneath a white rabbit mask of her own. 

She felt a touch guilty for not being present to help prepare, but had to admit, it was awfully nice to be able to simply appreciate the full effect of the work that had been done during the day. Chinatown had been transformed, a visual feast of lights and colors. Everyone had the night off, and was wearing their best, opulent colors and costumes, paper lanterns carried on long poles, many of which contained riddles that Moira could not read. This was a time for families. Mooncakes were being exchanged, provided mainly by Madam Qian for a small fortune the residents were happy to pay. For them, the delicacies stuffed with lotus paste tasted like home. 

Remmick held out a hand to her, looking every bit like the mad fae prince, slightly disheveled, annoyingly handsome. She took the offered hand, feeling him squeeze her fingers gently. 

“We’re here for security, not fer fun.”

“Whatever you say, darlin’.” His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her in tight. 

“We should really split up. Cover more ground.” 

“In that dress? I ain’t lettin’ you out of my sight.” He growled playfully, leaning close to give her throat a gently nip. “And in case you forgot, I’m bound to shadow you.”

“Aw. Like a little lost lamb?” She smirked. 

“Like a fuckin’ wolf, babygirl. Don’t let the mask confuse ye.” 

They began on the sidewalks, encircling the perimeter of Cermak street, navigating the crowd which parted just enough for them to pass easily. She’d been right. The mask did nothing for her anonymity, but she kept it on just the same. Remmick seemed far more interested in the celebration itself, watching with amusement as families gathered to gape up at the full moon, supposedly the fullest of the year though Moira couldn’t really see much difference. 

“Ah. I see him, now. Little bunny rabbit makin’ a potion.” Remmick pointed at the celestial body, and indeed the dark spots did somewhat resemble a rabbit, wielding a mortar and pestle.“So why does he do it?” 

Moira furrowed her brows, her sharp eyes never leaving the crowd. There were already a few drunks staggering around, but they all seemed to be in high spirits. Nothing to be concerned with yet, so she humored him.

“Alright, well there used to be ten suns.” 

“Ah yes, I recall.” He answered with such serious seriousness that she gave him a wide eyed look.“Just kiddin’. I ain’t that old. Don’t remember a garden with a snake in it, either.” 

“Well an archer shot down nine of ‘em.” She continued. “He was Chang’e’s husband. And the gods rewarded him with two elixirs of immortality.”

“And then what?” 

“Depends who ye ask. Either, she stole ‘em both and drank ‘em, or she was attacked and drank ‘em in a panic. Or to keep ‘em safe. Either way, the elixir made her float all the way up to the moon with her little rabbit friend. Now she’s the goddess of the moon, and Yutu crafts the potion for her while she waits for her husband.” 

“And what about him?” 

“He killed himself.” 

“Ah.” 

“Unless yer talkin’ to children. Then he carves wood until his wife returns.”

“I think I prefer the children’s version.” 

“Don’t we all?” 

“Well it sounds to me like he was a weak fucker.”

Moira made a face at him. “Rude.”

“Just sayin.’” He shrugged. “If my wife was trapped, I’d risk hellfire to get her back.” Remmick snatched a slice of sweet osmanthus cake from a nearby vendor with a light handed thievery that made her jealous. Teenaged Moira would have killed for that kind of skill. Still, as he handed it to her, she dug some change from her pocket and went back to pay, earning her a look of bewilderment from the seller. “Soft heart, babygirl.” Remmick winked and gave her that funny little smile she liked. 

“I’d say ye’ve done that.” Moira mused. “You said the sun burnt ye black first before ye found her again.” She did not say this with any sort of malicious intent, but somehow she still managed to hurt her own feelings a bit. Stupid. 

He gave her a strange look then, as if he didn’t quite comprehend, then watched her place the sliver of cake between her lips. 

“What’s it taste like?” He asked curiously. 

“Like honey, and flowers.” She answered, licking syrup from her fingers. 

“So do you.” He smirked. 

“Ha! Liar.”

They were buffeted suddenly by a wave of small children, waving colorful lanterns shaped like carp. They giggled and apologized politely, and Moira grinned at them, ruffling hair as they went. As much as the adults tended to avoid her, or give her wary glances, children seemed to like Moira until they were old enough to know better. They liked the colorful pictures on her skin, and the curls in her hair. It had once shocked Moira to learn that in Chinatown it was common for mothers to tell their children that if they were ever in danger, or lost, to find the tattooed woman for help. She would keep them safe. It was a point of pride. 

Remmick watched this interaction with interest, his lips twitching in a small frown. 

“You like children. I thought ye didn’t want any.” 

She shrugged. “Course I do. They’re funny. Doesn’t mean I want to squeeze out my own.” 

“I can’t give them to you.” He said in an oddly emotionless tone.

“All the better.” 

As the night progressed, the crowds grew rowdier, forcing her to be more alert. She had to break up a few intense arguments before they became something more, but that was all. The matchmakers were out in full force tonight, making introductions, which was always bound to attract some hotheadedness. This seemed to amuse Remmick greatly. 

They progressed through Cermak and Wentworth street, then Market, which was perhaps more colorful and festive than the others. It filled her with pride to see it and each time they walked it she hoped to see Priya, the seamstress, but if she was enjoying the festival, she might have blended right in with her colorful sari. The thought pleased her, and made her smile. 

“You are the most stunnin’ creature I have ever seen.” Remmick murmured, mostly to himself. 
Moira snorted, feeling a wash of heat across her face, making her incredibly grateful for the mask.

“You have shit taste in women.” 

“No. I don’t.” Remmick replied in a tone that surprised her. 

He was moving behind her languidly, mischievously running his fingers through her curls, which she’d worn half up. The heat of him intensified and she could feel his breath on the back of her neck as he moved the hair aside. 

“Give me some damn credit, Moira.” He breathed. Moira inhaled sharply when she felt his arm wrap around her from behind. “If nothing else, believe this. If it were you, trapped up there in the heavens, I’d build a tall fuckin’ ladder, babygirl. And believe this. It is takin’ every. Fuckin’. Ounce of strength…” he was growling in a low, husky voice, through gritted teeth. “Not to pull you into that alley, hike up this flimsy dress and fuck that sweet, wet cunt until the only god you pray to, is me. Now I have you. And I will burn everything to keep you.” 

Fireworks lit up the sky, making her jump terribly. She hadn’t been ready for it. He grabbed her upper arms, keeping her still, as he reached around to lift her chin towards him. The fireworks lit his skin in a beautiful array of colors. Golds and reds bathed the contours of his face. Why did he have to be so devilishly handsome? 

“Tell me what yer thinkin.” He murmured.

“I’m thinkin’ ye look like a painting.” She admitted. 

He laughed. “Like the one we saw? The giant cock?”

“That’s the one.” She agreed. 

He was kissing her, and this kiss was different. This kiss was soft and surprisingly gentle, yet sad somehow, and he lingered on her lips for a long time. 

“I think I love you, Remmick.” The words slipped out of her, tumbling softly into reality like she hadn’t been paying attention, allowing them to escape. “Just…just in case ye weren’t sure.”

She couldn’t quite tell what his face was doing beneath the mask, but quite suddenly he was whirling her around to face him, and kissing her hard enough to bruise her lips but she didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t fucking care. It was impossible to tell whether that was real fireworks bursting behind her closed eyelids or a hallucination from the intensity of such a kiss. Oh how ripe in show thy lips, those kissing cherries tempting grow. The words drifted lazily through her mind. Another burst of fireworks, so loud it startled the crowd around her, but she barely noticed, because her heart was swelling, ready to burst. For a moment she felt so free. 

Another bang. Quicker than the last, and louder. So much louder. And those were screams echoing in the street. Who the fuck was setting off fireworks on the sidewalk? A grunt of pain from Remmick, and he was spinning out of her grasp, falling to the pavement. A moment of shock, and sheer dumbstruck stupidity. The street was lighting up in unnatural spurts, and chaos erupted. 

In later days, Moira would not remember much more than sheer sensation. A cacophony of noise and flesh and colors. Terrified faces charging toward her. Mists of blood with every shot. She recognized Jia, the pretty barmaid who used to water down her drinks for her discreetly when she asked. She was running. A bullet tore through her and Moira watched her fall, never to run again. These were faces she knew. Faces she loved. 

Moira did not think. Her ears were ringing. She heard nothing over the sound but the dull thud of gunfire. She knew people were screaming, stampeding around her and she flung herself across him, across Remmick, the panic overhwhelming her good sense. Someone in their panic stomped on her back, pushing the air from her lungs. Remmick was bleeding. Oh god he was bleeding thick black blood. It bloomed across his chest far slower than any human’s. 

He was reaching for her, caressing her cheek and he was saying something, but she couldn’t hear it over the ringing, only able to stare at his lips as they formed words.

“Go, baby. I’ll be fine.” 

Another shot rang out. Moira barely felt the pain as it grazed her arm. Lucky. So damned lucky. She probably wouldn’t even need stitches. Remmick roared something, and she saw his fangs gleaming in the gunfire. He was on his feet in one terrifying rush of strength, and in an instant he’d found the gunman responsible. Oh god, a boy, Moira thought. He’s only a boy. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen.

Remmick punched a hole in his gut, and steadied him with one hand as the other reached up past his ribs, and squeezed. The boy’s face was a mask of pure shock, mouth agape, his eyes so round she could see the whites. Remmick snarled something, and tore his hand free, showing him the bloody lump of flesh before sinking his teeth into it. It was the last thing her assailant saw. 
She screamed, but not for him, not for the young man who’d died. She screamed because Remmick was running, consumed by sheer bloodlust, ready to tear the gunmen to shreds. Something seized her too. A cold rush of fury. She kicked off her high heeled shoes, and she too was running, her gun flying into her right hand, her father’s knife in her left. Her screams became orders. Get inside. Get back to Cirmac. Go now. She grabbed a fallen woman by the jacket and threw her behind her, snarling at her to run as she pointed her gun and shot a man wielding a Winchester in the head. 

Blood. So much blood. Looks like we painted the fuckin’ town red, Remmick, she thought, a manic giggle bubbling from her lips as she shot another. And another. Someone shouted in Cantonese. Jiehong. Qian’s favorite general. He was wearing a traditional hanfu, somehow still managing to look impeccable as he flung something at a gunman. A hatchet. Where the fuck did he get a hatchet? Then she remembered. Jiehong was a relic of the fucking Tong wars. His legacy was already soaked in blood. He was screaming at her again. Protect the Empress. He was gesturing wildly. 

She was running, through blood and bullets and broken glass, not giving a good goddamn about her stocking feet slicing open. Some of Remmick’s blood had splattered her face, had gotten into her mouth, and she could feel her injuries already healing. Her foot crunched something. An orange and blue lantern in the shape of a carp. No time to think. No time to scream. 

But it was not Qian’s name on her lips. He had gone. Disappeared into the chaos, the scent of blood too much, far too much for his vampire senses. She’d seen the madness in those eyes. 
And when she found him it was relief that swept through her, swift and dizzying. It was so palpable that what she saw made no sense. None whatsoever. Time slowed. Maybe it was making up for the moments lost in the slaughter. The night grew still around her, or maybe she just wasn’t hearing right. 

Jimmy was standing before her, his eyes round and full of fear, and he was holding both sides of her face, saying something. Don’t look, Moira. Just look at me. Don’t look. He was trying to block her from sight and she was staring at his face, her brow furrowed in confusion, feeling nothing, feeling everything. There were other men in the alley. She saw the glint of their weapons. They were beating someone. 

“Remmick?” She murmured. 

The vampire stopped fighting. He turned to look at her, his face ghastly and pale, his front saturated with blood. He’d ripped off the white rabbit mask and she could see his wide, red eyes as they looked at her without a hint of madness. Remmick hadn’t lost control after all. 

“Moira don’t look, honey.” Jimmy was pleading with her. 

She held up a hand, and gently pushed him to the side. The alleyway was lit only with a dim, yellow street lamp. Qian’s men were hauling Remmick to his feet, but he wasn’t fighting back. Why wasn’t he fighting back? He was staring at her, hard. Not even opening his mouth to explain. 

Qian’s eyes were empty, wide and still a beautiful brown, seeing nothing, but still staring straight through her. Suddenly Moira felt oddly embarrassed by the state of her dress and tried to smooth it out. She dropped the gun. She placed her father’s knife back in her coat. It wasn’t real. Maybe there had been some drug in that cake Remmick had stolen for her. Honey and flowers. 

She didn’t remember falling to her knees, couldn’t recall smearing the blood from her mother’s beautiful face. She always took such pride in her appearance. Maybe she could ask someone to mend the tear in her quipao where Remmick had torn her throat open.  Deep enough to nearly decapitate her. At least she wouldn’t have to plunge a stake in her heart. A small kindness. Moira felt nothing. And everything. Gone. 

“Why?” 

Her voice was small. An innocent question, like a child’s. He didn’t answer. Only stared. 

“Moira.” Jimmy’s voice broke when he said her name, and it broke her too. 

She screamed. Loud and hard like an animal, the way she’d screamed when Jun had died, the way she’d screamed when her true mother had died, the way she’d screamed inside for years and years. She didn’t care that the men surrounding them flinched from her, discomfited by a woman’s pain, as they always were. Hands were reaching for her, pulling her away. 

“Don’t FUCKING touch her!” She howled. “NO ONE touches her but us!” Us. Her children. Moira and Jimmy. 

But then it was Jimmy pulling her away, gently by the elbow, saying something in Cantonese. Empty words. And Remmick was still staring, his eyes hollow. Unfeeling. Monster. 

Fury leapt in her throat. She scrabbled for her gun, but no, she’d dropped it. But she still had one weapon at the ready. Crying with grief, she flicked the stake into her waiting hand, and punched it into Remmick’s gut, finally, finally, wrenching a goddamn reaction. He doubled over in pain, but didn’t fall. There were too many hands on him to let him fall. He didn’t scream. Didn’t make any sound, until he lifted his head to look at her. 

“You missed, mo ghrá.” Black blood dribbled from his lips. But the wound was already healing. 
My love. How dare he? How fucking dare he?

“I know.” She whispered, glaring down at him imperiously. Then she turned with surprising grace, and locked eyes with each and every man standing in that alley. When she spoke, it was in Cantonese, the most perfect Cantonese she’d ever spoken, with no concern over her accent. “We clean these streets. We avenge every man, woman and child. We will be methodical. We will find who did this and we will have a death by a thousand cuts.”

“And him?” Someone asked, jostling Remmick, who snapped at him. 

“What about him?” She asked indifferently. Then she looked at Jimmy who was watching her with a pained expression. “You have every right as her son to avenge her in the way you see fit.” She made herself look Remmick in the eyes. They were blazing, so pretty and blue again. “It makes no difference to me.” 

Chapter Text

Jimmy had encouraged her to go home. So she did. But it was not the speakeasy she went to. It was the little house they’d shared for a time. Her and her vampire. 

Grief has a funny relationship with time. They are certainly not friends. Time moved strangely for her as she wandered the house feeling everything.  Nothing felt focused, as if she were somehow contained in a bubble while the world moved around her. It smelled like him. That was the worst bit. But she couldn’t face the speakeasy right now, didn’t want to think about Qian’s delicate fingers counting bottles of shaoxing, or adjusting the glasses she pretended she didn’t need, or smoking those long cigarettes. She didn’t want to remember learning maths at the bar while Qian ticked her abacus, or learning how to put her wet hair up in a twisted towel, or which teas would make her beautiful. 

Of course she remembered those things anyway. Grief has a funny relationship with memory too. 

They’re all just food to me. 

Hadn’t he said that to her? Hadn’t he told her exactly who he was? 

Moira did not eat. She didn’t want what he’d made for her, with such odd reverence and fascination as if the concept of eating had been lost to him. So she let it rot. She let herself rot. 
It was impossible to say what grieved her more. The loss, or the betrayal. It was all so muddy. The worst perhaps was how badly she wanted to bury her face in Remmick’s chest and cry. There was guilt here, oh such guilt. If only it had been someone else. A selfish thought that made her hate herself for even having it, as if Qian’s death would have been fine if only it had been someone else ripping her throat open.

Someone came by at least once a day, pounding on the door. She didn’t have the energy to answer. Not those days, and not this one. 

“Moira please.” Ah. That was Jimmy’s voice. Jimmy boy. He’d lost his mother. He was alone. Perhaps she was being selfish. Perhaps she should have pushed her own grief aside to care for him.

Fuck that.

Maybe she should have let him in. She didn’t. Finally he let himself in, just as she was staring blankly at the front door, unmoving. Apparently he’d found the keys. How annoying. His face was a picture of grief. She didn’t want to look at it. He looked just like her. How had she never noticed that his features were so similar, that those were Qian’s eyes staring out of a man’s face? 

His nose wrinkled. “You need a bath, Moira.” She had no answer for him. Only looked at him blankly. “Shit, you’ve lost weight. Mom would have thrown a fit.”

No, Moira thought. She would have told her to lose more. The thought made her feel bitter, then guilty for feeling bitter. So many goddamned feelings.

You had a mama…That woman ain’t it.

“What do you want?” She asked slowly. Her voice was dull. Monotonous. 

Jimmy was staring at her with that hurt puppy face. “I can’t…” he sighed raggedly. “I can’t do this without you, Moira. There’s so much to do. And I don’t know where to start.” 

“Where to start?” She repeated as if the words were foreign to her. 

“Everyone keeps telling me what to do, but they all have their own agendas and I…” he swallowed. “I just want to put mom to rest.” 

“She wanted to be cremated. She wanted her ashes scattered on the Si-Kiang. The river near where she grew up.” Moira said immediately, finally feeling a flutter of…something. Of action. “She wanted to go home.” Her eyes burned. Then another question. One she didn’t want to ask, didn’t even want to acknowledge. “Is he dead?” 

“We took care of it.” Was his only answer. A non-answer. 

“We?” She repeated sharply. 

“He can’t hurt you.” 

Can’t hurt you. Can’t hurt you. Can’t hurt you. 
But he’d already done that. What else could Remmick possibly do besides kill her? And she was weeping, again. Not sobbing, but she could feel tears slipping down her face.

Be calm, my girl. Be still. 

Would she ever get that voice out of her head? 

“Moira. I’m…fuck, please don’t cry. I need help.” Jimmy stammered, running his fingers through his hair. So handsome. So fragile. God the generals would eat him alive. “Please. Come home. I need you.” 

Do my dirty work for me, Moira. Take my burdens so I can grieve and drink and fuck. 

She could hear Remmick now, imagining what he would say. 

And what about what she needs, pup? 

“When’s the funeral?” She asked. 

“Two days. I can have something white sent over.” He said this as if it pained him. “Moira. I want you to be my second.” 

That shocked her. Finally, an emotion that wasn’t grief. 

“Jiehong…”

“Was mom’s favorite. But he’s old, Moira. And tired. He doesn’t know me like you do. The men listened to you. Sure, they might not like it, but they listened.” Somehow she doubted that. 

“Any word from the Italians? The Irish?”

“Nothing. Neither are claiming responsibility.” 

“Not surprising. How many were there?” 

“Seven at least. We took care of ‘em.” As if that was a point of pride. We took care of Remmick. We took care of the gunmen. Look at little Jimmy go. Always so helpful. Always taking care of things. 

“And ye didn’t think to leave one alive fer questioning?” She snapped. 

“I…” He blinked, startled by this reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think… god damn Moira, it was a massacre! What were we supposed to do? Shit, you killed some yourself!” 

“You didn’t think? Christ and all his saints.” She exploded. The words rushed out of her like feral poetry. “WHAT was the point of it? Qian’s fuckin’ DEAD and what was the point if she didn’t teach ye nothin’?!” Oh she was angry now. She relished the feeling, the fire in her veins. It felt so good to be mad. “YOU don’t apologize. NOT TO ME. Not to ANYONE. Ever.” She snarled. Jimmy stared in disbelief when she shoved him, and pointed a finger in his face. “If anyone asks you again you tell them that YOU made the order. That YOU have a plan. I don’t care that it’s not true. You send flowers to the families of all who were lost. You make sure they’re taken care of. You assure them that the monsters who did this are DEAD, that you ordered their deaths with no mercy and NO chance fer a deal, because it wasn’t just an attack, they insulted us. They shot us down on one of our sacred holidays and they will get nothin’ from ye. THAT’S how ye fuckin’ spin it.” She ran a hand through her own hair and found it was a tangled mess. “We clean up. We mourn our dead. But we keep our eyes open. No more deals. Not with ANYONE. No more outside trade until we find the bastards who did this. See who comes crawlin’ first. Put our runners to work for the businesses here. On our streets. They can wash fuckin’ dishes fer all I care. Put em to work fixin’ windows and patchin’ up bullet holes and cleanin’ the fuckin’ blood off the sidewalks. Your people need ye. So that’s where you start, Jimmy. Everythin’ else is noise.” 

“See, Moira? This is why I need you.” There was desperation in his voice, and damn it that face was so earnest. His naivety was going to get him killed.

Moira sighed and rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speakin’ to ye like that. She was yer mum.”

“Yours too.” He looked as if he were about to weep. She hoped he wouldn’t. She didn’t think she had the capacity to give comfort to anyone at that moment. “She loved you, Moira. I know she never said it. Hell, she never said it to me. But she was proud of you. I know things were tense between you, at the end…” 

“Don’t. Alright?” She did not want to think on that right now, how things were with Remmick, how he’d threatened Qian and how all the signs were there but she’d been too blinded by lust. By love if she cared to admit it. Which she didn’t. Of course he’d killed her. They had loathed each other. Then she blinked. Why was that, exactly? Fuck, Remmick had tried to tell her. Couldn’t get the words out. Had that changed now that she was dead? She didn’t care. She told herself she didn’t care. The words came out anyway. “Jimmy. Did yer mum have secrets?” 

He snorted. “You could probably fill a book with them.”

“Remmick said…”

“Don’t even talk about that fucking bloodsucker.” It was perhaps the most venom she had ever heard in his voice. Hell, she was almost proud. “You can’t keep dwelling on him, Moira. He’s a fucking monster. That’s it. End of story. Whatever he said to you, whatever he did to you? It was all an act. All of it. So forget about him. Don’t even think about him. We got him, alright? You’re free now.” 

You’re free now. Free. Was that true?

She nodded, and waited for the tell tale sign in her gut that he was right. It didn’t come. What did give her pause was the way Jimmy said it, so quickly and with such bluntness, as if she’d been under a spell this entire time but had been too dumb to see it. But Moira was not a shrinking violet. She’d fought Remmick every step of the way, kicking and screaming. She didn’t trust Remmick. She didn’t trust a single living thing. Except herself. And Moira trusted her gut, implicitly. There was something she needed to know. 

But she was also heartbroken. Underneath the grief, the heart had splintered. 

She smiled a little. Small and painful. “I thought he cared about me.” A truth, and a lie. Jimmy’s harsh expression melted immediately, and he gave her shoulder a light squeeze. Pitiful.

“It wasn’t your fault. He is a charming son of a bitch. I’ll give him that. But all of that? It’s designed to lure you in, Moira. He’s had years and years of practice.” 

Is. A tiny slip up, but an important one. Deep in the crevasse of her soul, Moira breathed a little easier. Remmick was still alive somewhere. 
Something did not sit right about any of this. That boy Remmick had killed had been too young, too green to be one of Aiden McCarthy’s. Maybe they’d all been killed in the fight. Surely Jimmy wasn’t actually so stupid as to not leave at least one alive. McCarthy was the obvious puppet master, which meant she had to rule him out first. 

For the first time in days, Moira felt a sense of purpose, even though she gave Jimmy another fake, watery smile. Revenge. Moira would have her fucking revenge. 

****************************************

The Levee  was already a relic of vice. Not too long ago it had been a notorious hub of temptation and what the prohis called sins of the flesh. There were still signs though. Still there were weary stragglers who clung to its rags like hungry dogs. The saloons and brothels were closed by all appearances, but Moira knew better than anyone that you could board up as many windows as you liked, but people always found a way. Prohibition had perhaps hit this place the hardest, and with one clear reason why. One thing this country couldn’t seem to tolerate was black success. She missed the dance halls the most. 

Only one person said a word to her, a piano player she recognized. He spat at her shoes. She kept walking. In this place, Moira looked white, and they gave her a wide berth, casting wary looks in her direction. None of it shocked her. Moira didn’t fit in anywhere. Once, an Irishman had loved a Desi woman, and now here she was. Both and neither. Belonging to two worlds and embraced by no one. She thought about Mary. Us mixed girls ain’t got an easy time of it. She snorted. 

She knew the address. Remmick had seen it in blood. There was a secret buried here, in this little townhouse, far nicer than the others. A passerby gave her a startled glance, looking like he wanted to warn her off, but then seemed to think better of it, opting instead to mind his business. Moira had to respect that. 

She knocked on the door, painted a sage green. Then she rang the doorbell. After several long minutes, a woman peeked out, her pretty brown eyes wide and cautious. 

“Yes?” 

She was beautiful, this woman, her hair tightly coiled in soft ringlets that brushed high cheekbones. Fashionable and lovely, though perhaps not able to maintain her usual standards because she was very, very pregnant. Her voice was low, and soft and every bit as gorgeous as her face, but she looked tired. 

“Yer Millie?” Moira tilted her head, and tried to smile. 

“Mildred.” The woman corrected with a faint frown of mistrust. 

No time for niceties then. That was fine. Moira jerked her chin. 

“Is he in there?” She asked a bit too sharply. 
Millie tried to still her face, and failed. Moira was far too good at reading people. 

“Who?” 

“It’s alright luv,” A man’s voice, low and calm but beleaguered. “She’s here fer me.” 

The door swung open a touch more, and there was Aiden McCarthy. She blinked at him, watching with an unsettling feeling in her chest as he placed a hand protectively on Millie’s swollen belly. How odd it was to see him like this, in a thick woolen sweater, with no hat or gun. She half expected a dozen men in coats to pop out and shoot her down. His face was strange. That was sadness in his usually cold steel eyes. 

“Heard the funeral’s today.” He said gently.

Moira stiffened. “Yes.” 

“Does she have family here?” 

“Just us.” Us. Did Moira even count as family? 

“Shame. Deep fuckin’ shame.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s alright, Millie. Ye can go lie down.”

“She has a gun.” Millie warned, giving Moira a hard look. “I saw it on her hip.”

“It’s fine, darlin’.” 

Moira felt a sharp sting at the term of endearment. 

“Baby…” Millie pleaded. 

“I brought ye somethin.’” Moira reached slowly into her pocket and withdrew a satchel. Millie looked at it like she’d just produced a coiled snake. “It’s red date and ginger. Ye boil it like tea. Helps with lady’s pain.” God, what was she saying? She sounded like a child in the face of this woman who was already placing a protective hand on her belly, ferocious and beautiful and ready to do anything to defend her man and her unborn child. She didn’t take it. Moira sighed and placed the satchel on the foyer table. 

“Come in Moira. Let’s talk in the kitchen. Ye look like ye could use a drink.” 

She followed him. Millie did not go back to bed as Aiden had suggested. Instead she went with them, her eyes never leaving Moira as if she expected her to produce her gun at any moment. It was possibly the most ruthlessly clever decision Moira had ever witnessed, and this woman was not even a criminal. She was a lounge singer. Somehow she knew that Moira would never endanger a pregnant woman. Fearless. 

Moira had enjoyed imagining that she would confront Aiden McCarthy with fire and brimstone. She’d liked thinking that she would bring fury and terror to his doorstep. At the end of the day, she was simply too tired and too heartbroken, and the sight of him now, in this warm little home, with a woman who clearly loved him enough to stand in her way, was simply too powerful for her frazzled nerves. 

He poured her a coffee, from a percolator and not boiled on the stove. Then he pulled out a flask and gestured with it meaningfully. She nodded, and didn’t even care that she hadn’t seen him take a swig first. If he meant to poison her, now would be a stupid place to do it, and he wasn’t the type of man to shit where he ate. He made one for himself as well, and gave Millie a sweet peck on the cheek as she scowled with her arms crossed.

“No need to look so sour, luv,” he chuckled.“Moira’s a good lass. And I’ve done her a bit more harm than good.”

“Don’t sell yerself short.” Moira sipped her coffee and she had to admit it was bloody good. “Yer men did a number on me.” 

“Ah yes. That they did. Yer lookin’ alright, though. Now they’re nothin but a stain on a cell floor.” He eyed her curiously. “I have a hard time believin’ that was you.” She noticed that his accent was thicker here in the safety of his own home.

She shrugged. He didn’t need to know details. 

“What’s a few busted ribs between friends, yeah?” 

Aiden chuckled sourly. “Would it help to say I regret it? I was almost relieved. Don’t go spreadin’ that around though. A sweet Irish rose like you? It’d be a damned shame to prune ye so early.” He eyed her curiously, then shook his head. “So…are ye here to kill me, Moira?”

She gazed at him curiously over the rim of her coffee cup, seeing Millie tense from the corner of her eye. She’d picked up a kitchen knife, thinking she hadn’t noticed. 

“No.” She answered truthfully. 

Aiden’s brows rose in surprise. “Figured ye’d pin the massacre on me. Nasty stuff.” 

“Not yer style. Not yer men. They were too clumsy. Too stupid.” But her eyes hardened. “But yer not innocent either. There wasn’t a policeman to be seen. Because you ordered yer men to stay away.” 

“Aye, that I did. Yer a sharp one, Moira.” His face twisted with something like pity, making her clench her coffee reflexively. She didn’t want his fucking pity. “And before ye ask, it was an anonymous call that tipped me off. Nothin’ written. Ye’ll just have to take my word on that.” 

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. 
“I believe ye. Don’t know why I fuckin’ believe ye but I do.” 

Aiden’s eyes softened, in an almost fatherly way. So strange to see him like this. “So why are ye here, Moira?” 

She could not quite meet his gaze. “Did ye know Qian well?”

Aiden was quiet for a moment. It seemed he suddenly understood exactly why she’d come. Then he snorted, and drained his coffee to the dregs. “As well as anyone, which is to say, only as much as she’d allow. She was always a queen, even when we were young. Her father’s precious pearl. Beautiful. Mysterious.” His face soured. “Things took a turn after they found him like they did. She was never the same. Colder.”

For damn good reason. Qian’s father had been taken by a rival gang, and slowly dismembered over long, agonizing months, his body parts sent to Qian in barrels of vinegar. She’d never spoken of it. Not once. But people had whispered of it when she was a girl. Qian had been seventeen at the time. Only a little older than Moira had been when she first came to this city. It had made her see the stern woman in an entirely new light. Admittedly she’d been a little intimidated at first. 

“Did you and her…well,” Moira’s eyes flickered to Millie who had set the kitchen knife back on the counter. She didn’t want to bring up anything painful, for her sake. 

Aiden smiled sadly. “A youthful interest. That was all. My own father would have tanned my hide bloody.” He wasn’t telling the entire truth, but Moira did not press. It wasn’t really any of her business. “I admit…when I die, I’ll have much to atone fer where Chinatown is concerned.”

“Why wait? Ye could atone now, McCarthy.” She lifted an eyebrow. 

“Careful Moira. I like ye just fine, but watch where yer steppin’.” A flash of that frosty demeanor that she expected from him whenever he made a threat. Something must have revealed itself on Moira’s face, some flash of hidden emotion, because he softened once again. “What would ye have of me? Within reason of course.”

Moira shrugged. “I’m not the one to ask. I’m just a soldier.” 

“Just a soldier.” McCarthy nodded solemnly. She didn’t quite understand the way he was looking at her. “Where’s yer man at?” 

“Mind yer fuckin’ business.” She snapped darkly. 

“Ah.” He lifted an eyebrow at her thunderous expression. “Well, as a man who may very well be expecting a daughter very soon, allow me to practice some words of fatherly advice. You never needed him.”

No, she thought bitterly. But she’d wanted him. The secret place tucked away in the chambers of her heart had wanted him. Desperately, and completely. And to make matters worse, she’d been starting to like who she was around him. How often had Remmick held up a mirror and forced her to look at what she’d never seen before? But McCarthy was right. Those things had always been there. It didn’t make his betrayal hurt any fucking less. Had she been right all along? Had this been his plan? Mary’s warning floated to the forefront of her mind. 

He will destroy you and take everything you love. 
And hadn’t he fucking done just that? 

“At the risk of bein’ patronizin’ Moira Domhnall, I will speak to you bluntly.” His cool blue eyes were piercing. “Qian’s son is not fit to run his mother’s empire. I see that you don’t wish to hear it, but it’s the truth. I know it. The Italians know it. Chinatown is an island. Qian was the only thing standin’ in our way. What’s to stop us from swoopin’ in while it’s vulnerable?” 

Moira’s knuckles were turning white from gripping the coffee cup hard enough to shatter. 

“I’ll tell ye what’s stoppin’ us.” He gave her a half grin. “Thirteen dead cops, Moira the Mauler. We are all waiting to see what you will do next. Just a soldier.” He snorted. “You walked into my office with a gun and a hair pin, and walked out of it with an expanded territory. You walked into my home, remindin’ me ye have me by the balls. I don’t know how you know about us,” he jerked his head at Millie “but I’ll thank ye not to tell. Name your price, Mauler.” 

She stilled, and considered him carefully. 

“Chinatown will cease trade until the person responsible fer the attack on the Autumn Moon has been strung up. You will not touch us. Yer cops will look the other way. Jimmy runs our streets, but I speak fer him. Terms will be re-negotiated.”

“Is that all?” 

“No. You will owe me a debt. To me personally.”

“Shall we shake on it?” 

Moira stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, then shook it, expecting him to pull her in with another thinly veiled threat. He did not. Instead he breathed a sigh of relief. Then he shook his head. 

“It should have been me that found ye, Moira. Ye should have been raised by yer own people. If I have any luck at all I’ll have a daughter half as cunning as you.” 

Moira laughed bitterly at this. “If ye have a daughter ye’ll be lucky if she avoids half the mistakes I’ve made. Though I think her mother will prevent that better than you, McCarthy.”

****************************************

Moira barely slept. She barely ate. For the next few days she threw her entire body into the work, barking orders, speaking to grieving families, and trying to fix anything she could get her hands on, because Moira liked working with her hands. Building instead of destroying. She ran the numbers. Mrs. Wu needed a new window. She pulled the money from the speakeasy funds, not giving a good goddamn because she knew that Jimmy wouldn’t even look at them. 

The funeral had been a public one. Moira had made sure of it, in spite of the protests. Qian did not go alone. Her body was accompanied by the others who had fallen, a reminder. Look at what they did. Look at what they took from us. The turnout had been a surprise. People had lined up to watch the procession of Qian’s body as she made her way to the little temple on Cirmac, and Moira had stayed right by her side, wearing white with the rest of them. She’d burned the clothes later. It was bad luck to wear them again. She hated the way she looked in white anyway. It made her feel like a damned ghost. 

Some women wailed, and beat their chests, tearing their hair. Theatrical grief, but it was welcome. Moira’s eyes had remained dry the entire time, even as she burnt the joss papers and sent her prayers to whatever god was listening. Revenge was all she asked for. 
Jimmy was drunk again. He’d been drunk at the funeral, too. She didn’t have the energy to scream at him. 

So instead she walked the streets, surveying the damage, seeing what little progress had been made. There were very few people compared to the usual bustling crowds. To her surprise, no one shied from her. No one averted their gazes or avoided her. Instead they stared, haunted and reverent. She walked until she found the little dress shop on Market, sighing with nervousness. This task may have seemed trivial, but it was important to her. 

Priya did not answer right away. Moira suspected she did not want to answer, and the look in the old woman’s eyes told her she was right. She was looking at her now, wide eyed and terrified. 

“Pranam, auntie.” Moira said softly, feeling her heart break as she said it. Priya only nodded, her brow furrowed as Moira stumbled pitifully over the Hindi. “I only came to return these.” Her fingers trembled as she held up the brown paper parcel that contained the silver jewelry she’d lent her, carefully cleaned. “I’m sorry.” She said in English. 

Priya stared at her for a moment, then slammed the door in her face. The message was clear. Keep it. And stay away. Fair enough. After all, a massacre had taken place just outside her shop. It was a miracle she’d answered the door at all. Moira vowed to find some way to help her, whether she wanted it or not. Perhaps she’d send someone to repaint that chipped door. Hell, maybe she’d do it herself. 

Moira cried silently the entire walk home. 

The speakeasy was not empty. Far from it. To her enormous dismay, Nico Farino was sitting idly at the bar, surrounded by his men as theirs watched from the tables, cold steel in every face. They all looked at her, and for a moment she felt like a mouse that had just stumbled into a lair of cats. Jimmy was behind the bar, pouring drinks, drunk off his fucking rocker. No. This was bad. This was worse than bad. Had Jimmy learned nothing? Hadn’t his own mother made him read Sun Tzu’s writings again and again? Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak. 
She shot a furious glare in Jiehong’s direction, silently accusing. Why the fuck didn’t you stop this? He only stared stoically ahead. 

“Moira!” Jimmy hiccuped. “You remember Nico?” His eyes were glazed and his face was red. Jimmy shut the fuck up. She didn’t say it of course. “Nico’s offered to help rebuild!”

Farino’s smile was dazzling, if a bit forced. “This is what friends do.”

Moira raised an eyebrow at him. “Did yer father send you?” 

Nico took a sip of gin, watching her carefully from the corner of his eye. “He was killed. They found him in the river two days after the raid.”

Moira could not keep the shock and alarm from her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Fucking hell. Two heads of two families dead in so short a time. The implications were catastrophic. 

Nico sighed, sadly. “We paid a lot of money to keep it out of the papers.” 

“And yer brothers?” Moira knew he had at least three older ones. There was a hierarchy to these families, especially when power was involved. 

As if sensing that she was fishing for information, his mouth twisted, the smile growing a little less sincere. “Still in mourning.” 

Foreboding was gnawing in her belly like a caged rat. She did not like this one bit. Jimmy looked like he could barely stand. Had he been cutting deals? Ignoring everything she’d said this morning? 

“Moira’s gonna be my second! Ain’t that right?” Jimmy slurred, spilling drink on himself. 

The entire room shifted. She could the air itself growing dense and oppressive as every single general and foot soldier stared at her. Jiehong stiffened, but did not appear surprised. It was as if she could hear their thoughts. Mongrel. Not even blood. Not even one of us. 

“Only until a more suitable replacement is found,” she said carefully, knowing that these words may be the only thing preventing a knife in her back. “I care only for the security of Chinatown.”

“And that is what I’ve come to offer, Miss Domhnall.” Nico purred. “I can help you.” 

She did not like the subtle emphasis he placed on the word you. Moira had not forgotten what he’d said to her at the soirée. We will back you. And lord knew they needed the help. With the heads of both families gone it was only a matter of time before the Irish swarmed them both. It was a vulnerable position, and they needed a show of strength and solidarity. 

But good lord this was not the time. Moira could feel what tiny amount of control she’d had slipping through her fingers like grains of sand. 

“This is a day of mourning.” She shot Jimmy a furious look. How could you do this on the day of your own mother’s funeral? At least he had the good sense to look guilty. 

“I came only to pay my respects.” Farino said, not sounding very respectful at all. “And to extend an olive branch. After all, we too have suffered a great loss, if you’ll recall.” 

There was a hidden meaning behind the words. Where was Chinatown when Stella’s was hit? Where was your offer of aid? 

The glare she sent him had meaning too. You tried to pin it on me, remember? Your cousin attacked me, killed Jun and tore a man’s face off. Forgive me for not sending flowers. 

“What are you offering exactly?” She shot Jimmy another dirty look as she said this. 

“My men can help defend your businesses.” We have firepower. 

“One thing we do not lack is people.” She snorted. 

“You lack soldiers.” He pointed out. 

Moira raised an eyebrow, then glanced meaningfully at Jiehong, who slowly rose to his feet, along with a dozen others. The workers present laid down their glasses, their dishrags, their laundry baskets. They stopped folding napkins and paused their inventory counts. All of them stopped. And turned to look at Nico Farino. His self important smirk melted from his face, as he realized his mistake. Appear strong when you are weak. 

“No,” Moira said coldly. “We do not. Keep that in mind next time you visit a factory district or Chop Suey house, or have your nice clothes sent to the laundry for pressing. Keep it fresh in your mind. We thank you for your generous offer, and must respectfully decline.” 

Farino finished his drink, never taking his eyes off her. To his credit he did not blanch or turn to look at his own men, who all seemed to realize at once just how deeply fucked they were should things turn ugly. 

“I see that the rumors were largely exaggerated.” He said briskly. “It would appear Chinatown is in good hands,” he glanced at Jimmy who looked dumbstruck, and strangely sad. “If not the hands I was expecting.” 

Moira watched him get to his feet, and jerk his head at the door, a silent motion for his men to follow. 

“Nico,” Moira added as he left. He turned his head to look at her. “I look forward to our next game of briscola.” 

“Buona giornata, Moira.” He replied with a handsome grin that did not meet his eyes. 
Silence followed when they’d left. 

Moira turned to Jimmy. He was staring at her with drunken fury, then he was saying something about allies and new beginnings and why the fuck did you say that in half English, half slurs. 

“Get him sober,” Moira snapped in Cantonese.

Her hands were clenched. It took every ounce of control not to storm over and slap him. He’d let a rival gang into their home. He’d let them see how vulnerable they were. Fucking idiot. To her surprise, Jiehong actually listened, and rose to put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, murmuring something in his ear that made him turn even redder than he already was. Even more surprisingly, he let himself be led away, to the bathhouse or maybe the kitchen. She didn’t care. 
She felt eyes on her. Dozens of eyes. She whirled on them, the soldiers, the generals, and the workers and snarled. 

“Don’t you all have somewhere to be?”

****************************************

She should have stayed at the speakeasy. She knew that. They needed someone to keep an eye on things, to keep an eye on Jimmy while he drank himself to death, and at the moment it appeared she was the only one who could do it. But Moira did not want that responsibility. She never had. All she wanted at the moment was to be left alone, in her tiny house. 

For the first time she allowed herself to go into Remmick’s room, the one they’d made love in that first time, and it nearly brought her to her knees. The bed sheets were still tangled, and oh god they smelled like him. Finally, the dam broke and she grieved once more. Not for Qian this time, but for him. For what they’d shared, and for what might have been. Perhaps she was grieving who he’d pretended to be. Perhaps she was grieving the person she was around him. 

Moira hugged a pillow to herself, feeling shamed and somewhat embarrassed even though there was no one to see. He was probably dead now. She didn’t know. It seemed unlikely that Jimmy would have killed him right away. Then again, it seemed unlikely that he wouldn’t have, given the state he was in. Remmick had said nothing when they took him. Only stared. 

Then she was enraged again. Why had he only stared? He could have torn every one of them to shreds with his bare hands. Why hadn’t he fought them? Fought her? Stupid fucking vampire. 
The worst part was that she missed him. She could admit that, in the privacy of this bedroom. She missed his crooked grin and his dumb floppy hair and that accent that sometimes slipped when he got angry. The way he seemed to approach everything with that boyish curiosity even though he was hundreds of years old and surely had seen everything by then. Remmick had known things about her that no one else knew. True, that was mainly from the blood, but not entirely. It was devastating to be known like that. It was everything to be known like that. Why the fuck hadn’t he fought back? Wasn’t she enough? 

You sent him off to die. You didn’t even give it a second thought. The question is, why didn’t you fight back, Moira? 

It wasn’t Qian’s voice in her head. It was her mother’s. Her true mother’s. In true grieving madwoman fashion, she answered back, trying to reason with herself.

He killed her. That’s why I did it.

The reply came to her with alarming clarity, this time with a syrupy southern drawl. Liar. You were scared. You fell in love and it terrified you. 

Fuck you. God, she was arguing with herself. 

Baby girl, there’s only one thing in this world worth killin’ and dyin’ for. 

She threw the pillow. Stupid. There were plenty of things to kill and die for. Self preservation. Survival. Hell, family.

But hadn’t Remmick become family too? Hadn’t he come to her aid when she was attacked in that alley? Hadn’t he stood outside screaming her name when that thrall had wounded her? Hadn’t he carried her to safety and nursed her back to health? And had he ever once expected anything beyond what she’d been willing to give? 
He’d murdered Qian. Ripped her to shreds. Apparently she’d forgotten to protect herself when she’d made that deal with him. The thought made her pause. 

A soft knock at the front door made her leap to her feet, frantically, stumbling over herself as she whipped herself down the stairs, feet flying across the ancient floorboards. Her heart was pounding. It made no sense. But that knocking, and at this hour? It was him. Somehow she knew it was him. He’d gotten away. Maybe he’d come to exact revenge. She didn’t care. 

She threw the door open. 

Moira’s face twisted with disdain. Immediately she felt her heart sink, then hated herself for it. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, looking Joan up and down, her lip curling in a faint snarl. The vampire had cleaned up well, and had found herself a nice dress for the occasion. Conservatively cut, but far nicer than blood soaked rags. Her wide eyes glinted gold in the dim porch light. 

“Go on then,” Moira gave her a faint smirk. “Hand it over.” She made a vague gesture with her fingers. 

Joan’s brow furrowed. She fidgeted uncomfortably beneath Moira’s cold gaze. Amusing. “Hand what over?”

“The bullshit ye brought with ye.”

“Moira I…” 

Moira pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ye already know I ain’t lettin’ ye inside. But go on, give it yer best. I’m fuckin tired.” 

“He’s in pain, Moira.” Joan was staring at her like she was the monster. 

“Who?” Moira decided to play dumb and indifferent but her insides clenched terribly, an icy dread tickling her chest where it ached the most. She felt sick.

“He’s screamin’. Please Moira, whatever yer doin’ to him, please stop! Just kill him already! I can hear it in my head! It won’t stop!” Joan was begging. Begging. 

And it sounded so real, that begging. Her eyes were so wide, so desperate and manic like a frightened horse, like a person who hadn’t slept in days, her eyes rimmed red. Moira did her best to still her face. It was difficult. Panic was rising from deep inside her, clawing at her. 

“You can hear him?”

“We’re all connected. And he’s powerful. Please just make it stop.” Joan sobbed. Pathetic. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know! That’s just how it works!” She screeched in frustration. 

“No. Why should I?” Moira lifted an eyebrow.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Didn’t you try to have him killed?”

“Well, carry me out with the goddamned tongs, Moira!” She growled. “I ain’t stupid! I knew a little holy water wouldn’t hurt him! Just wanted to get his attention!” 

Moira blinked, more bewildered by the colorful declaration than anything else. But she knew Joan hadn’t acted alone. 

“So who put ye up to it then? Hm? Who bought ye that pretty dress Joanie?” 

“I don’t remember his damn name.” She grumbled. “Caught me feedin’ one night. Paid me some good money to give him the dirt on my kind.” 

“And did you?” 

“Hell no. Just told him some bullshit about holy water. Told him a couple true things to make it sound good. About garlic and whatnot.”

“How’d he know where to find us?” Moira’s eyes narrowed. “How did you?” 

“Jiminy crickets just kill him already if yer gonna do it!” Joan lunged, her fingers extended into claws. She didn’t reach within an inch of Moira before flying back, landing hard on her backside. 
Moira glanced down at her, and pretended to inspect her fingernails, unimpressed. 

“Answer my questions first.” 

“God, I don’t know! I only found out where you were just now. This place reeks you know. Smells like death and sex in there.” 

“Fine. Then who was it? The man who paid you?”

“Don’t know his name. He insisted on that.”

“Tell me about him. In detail.”

“Dark hair. Nice teeth. Pretty shoes, too. Said somethin’ about how he wanted a vampire pet since Qian had one.”

Moira felt the pieces falling into place, and gave her a grim smile. 

“Was he Italian?”

“Maybe.” Joan shrugged. 

“You ate all those people at Stella’s, Joan. I know how the blood works, so don’t lie to me. You know who he was. I bet yer pretty fluent now.” 

Joan flinched. “I can’t tell you his name.” 

“I see. Nico Farino’s been gettin’ far too comfortable for my liking.” She studied Joan’s face for a reaction, and saw none. It was enough. “Thank you, Joan. That’ll be all.” 

“Please! Please you have to end it! It’s cruel!” Joan’s voice cracked. 

“Oh. I don’t have him.” Moira shrugged. “No idea where he is now.”

“But…”

“But what?” She snarled. “You think I give a flyin’ fuck how much he’s sufferin’? He killed my mother. You think I give a fuck about you? Ye tried to kill me. Twice.” 

“Then find him! For God’s sake, find him!” Lord, her voice was shrill. 

“He’s hundreds of years old!” Moira exploded. “He could snap a man’s spine with his bare hands! I saw him rip out a boy’s heart and suck it dry! Wherever he is, he’s there because he fuckin’ wants to be there! So why the fuck should I go and find him?” Her voice echoed with fury. It felt good to have an outlet for this and Joan was an easy target for her rage. 

Joan looked stricken by this. “But I…I thought…”

“I don’t care what ye thought. Truth be told, I haven’t given ye much thought at all till just now when ye decided to drag yer bony arse to my doorstep.”

“Tell you what, Moira,” Joan growled, finally beginning to show her fangs. “You better watch yer back. No Remmick to protect you now.” 

“Oh honey, that ship has sailed. Go on luv. Ye tried. Failin’ to kill me once was bad luck. Twice is a pattern. I’m done with yer fuckin’ kind.”

“He chose you.” Joan echoed the words she’d spoken that night she’d chased her through the streets. This time felt different. Less ominous, and more of a plea to Moira’s humanity. “He chose you. That means somethin.’ And you lived here with him. That means you chose him too.” 

Moira slammed the door in her face. 

****************************************

To her surprise, the house was not empty the next morning. Jiehong had sent maids over to help her, and they were a godsend. The house she slept in but barely spent any real time in was a nightmare of mess and smells. Moira was far too tired to be embarrassed. They’d cleared all the rotting food out, washed her clothes for her, and Remmick’s because for whatever reason she wasn’t ready to burn them. One of the laundresses was so upset by the loss of Madam Qian, that Moira tried to comfort her with questionable results, making her sit and drink tea, then sending her home. 

The laundress in question left her keys on the table. Moira sighed with exhaustion, and went to grab them, thinking to follow after her. Then she paused, and stared at them. Three keys. One for the front, another for the back, and a third. Oh fuck. She snatched up the ring, and immediately ran to the basement door, which had been locked since the first day she’d been here. Time to see what was so damn important that even Remmick had refused to open it with his vampire strength. Refused.

She placed the key in the doorknob, then paused. A wave of nervousness washed over her, making her feel suddenly and inexplicably nauseous. It was probably just old cans and rusted tools like any other basement. No need to be wary. But her gut was telling her otherwise. No need to see. Just walk away. It’s just an old house where a crotchety neighbor used to live. A neighbor who had once worked in Qian’s house. A neighbor who had once barked at Moira to remove her clothes. Moira was so desperate for anything to mitigate her grief. The key turned. She pushed on the door, but it had been locked for so long, the frame was swollen with time. 

Snarling in frustration, she kicked it. Then she kicked it again. It splintered slightly. One more shove and it bowed a bit before finally, finally opening for her. 

The stench was abhorrent. It flooded her nostrils and made her gag. Her heart clenched in her chest. She knew that smell. It was the smell of something dead and rotten. Amazing that she hadn’t noticed it. Then again, the house had already stunk. It was dark, and something clear and billowing shifted at the bottom of the stairs, making her gasp in alarm, the child inside of her thinking of ghosts and ghouls. But it was only a clear tarp strung up, preventing the majority of the smell from wafting up into the kitchen. Fuck, she thought bleakly. 

She inched her way down the stairs, bracing her hands on either wall, with only the kitchen light as guidance. The smell was getting worse, and her heart was pounding frantically against her breastbone. Moira had faced uncertainty before. She’d been stabbed, shot, and clawed by literal monsters, yet nothing had ever filled her with terror and dread the way this basement did. She told herself she was being childish. The smell was probably from dead rats, or maybe a stray that had gotten trapped down here. It certainly wasn’t fresh, whatever had died. 

Moira’s hands were trembling as she pushed the tarp aside, seeing nothing but the vague forms of decaying furniture. Something touched her face, making her shriek. Thinking it was a spider web, she frantically motioned to brush it off her, but found that she was instead holding a long, thin chain. She tugged it, and a single lightbulb flickered on. 

Her mind had been conjuring images of corpses, of Mrs. Chen rotting away down here, of demons crawling across naked flesh. What she hadn’t expected was a child’s room, or something like that. A tattered rug covered in tigers was moth eaten on the concrete floor, and several beds had been pushed together. A moldy plush toy in the shape of what may have been a cat, or possibly a bunny with the ears chewed off was flopped over on one of the stained coverlets.

Moira stared. She stared for a long time. She stared at the dirty blankets, stained with what she knew to be urine. She stared at the mountain of discarded things mouldering along the far wall. Children’s things. Clothes and books and toys, abandoned by their owners for years. None of Moira’s thoughts made sense. They were crashing around her skull like drunks. Did Mrs. Cheng have more kids that she didn’t know of? Then she saw the rusted shackles at the foot of each bed, and it made too much sense. 

Mrs. Chen had been a goddamned flesh peddler. The fucking spice monger had been holding children down here, for how long? And where were they? Whose were they? 

Moira doubled over, and fell to her knees, puking up what little contents remained in her stomach.

The memories were returning. A cruel wave of them spilled across the lobes of her brain. Images and sounds and smells. People speaking in a language she hadn’t known back then. She knew this room. She’d fucking been here before. She’d slept here once, and then…? 

She remembered Jun, standing at the foot of the stairs. Remembered him taking her by the hand, and leading her out, back into daylight, back to… 
No. No. No. 

Something snapped into place. All the little pieces rearranged until they formed a single, terrible truth. 

Jun had found her. Her gentle giant. And he had taken her back to Qian, and the Empress had been planning to sell her. After all, what good was she to her, a half starved mixed girl with no family to protect her? Why had she changed her mind? 
I see a little of myself in you. 

How many times had she said those words? Enough that she’d cherished them. Enough that they came to her, unbidden through a fog of repressed memories. She looked at the beds again. This room had not been for her alone. How many girls had been kept here under Mrs. Chen’s stern eye? How many had screamed for their parents, for anyone to save them before being taken to god knew where? Guilt crashed into Moira like a goddamned train. Why had she been spared whatever fate the others had suffered? Surely any one of them might have been taken in, educated and raised to be a soldier. 

And Jun had been there. Jun had seen it all. Jun had found her. 

Remmick knew. Remmick had seen it in the blood. He knew, and he’d been so desperate to tell her. 

No. No. Fuck him. He’d butchered Qian, nearly tearing her damn head off. 

I want to set you free. 

Moira screamed. 

The rush of emotion felt like more than her body could handle. Pure shock and grief and terror. Disgust and guilt and a horror that she felt in her bones. Here it was. The secret that Remmick had begged her to discover on her own, the one the Qian had bound him not to tell. She was weeping but it felt more like dying. How could she? How could she have done this? There was denial here, too. It was impossible. The woman she knew, the one who’d raised her could never have done this. But the denial felt hollow, even to her. And then it began again. The circle of hell. 

But she was not done. She had to know. She had to know with absolute certainty. And so she picked herself up off the concrete floor, and went upstairs to brush her teeth and clean herself up. 
Because the only thing she knew for sure was this, that in the end, she had herself. 

No one questioned her when she went into the apothecary and let herself into the speakeasy through the hidden storeroom entrance. No one blinked when she strode up the stairs with grim determination, and into Qian’s office. It didn’t surprise her that Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t care. 

The desk was beautiful and elegantly carved. Qian had always had expensive taste. She used her knife to pop open the lock, not giving a fuck how much wood she had to chip away in the process. There it was, heavy like a tome that one might use to summon an ancient evil like in the movies. Everything questionable that Qian had pursued financially in the past twenty years was detailed in this monster of a ledger. 

She flipped through pages, recognizing the characters for alcohol and opium. Irrelevant to what she was after. She was looking for dates, and stopped when she reached pages that might have been names, but she couldn’t be sure. Sweat was dotting her brow. God she did not want to see this. She wanted to crawl back to bed and forget this whole thing, but she couldn’t stop. She had to know.

Then she saw it. The characters that she knew represented her name. And it was dated. March twenty fourth, exactly nineteen years ago. She was looking at the day she’d been found and catalogued. 

“What are you doing?” 

Her gun flew into her hand without a moment of hesitation. Jiehong, to his credit, did not so much as flinch, only studied her for a moment before glancing down at the ledger open on the desk. 

“Close the door.” She commanded.

He obeyed, and she swiftly moved toward him, roughly patting him down with one hand until she found his gun, and tucked it into her own coat. Then she motioned for him to sit, grateful when he did. She did not want to kill this man in cold blood. Moira respected him, a relic of his time, and he’d been Qian’s favorite. She pushed the open ledger in his direction, and pointed with her gun. 

“Read it. Out loud.” 

He cleared his throat. She watched his eyes dart across the page. 

“Moira…” 

“READ. IT.” She snarled. 

“This place is swarming with soldiers, Moira. All of them armed. Don’t be foolish, girl. Qian wouldn’t have wanted you to throw your life away.” 

She pulled back the hammer, meaningfully. 
And so he read. Names. So many damn names. Mostly girl names. 

“What the fuck is this, Jiehong?” She hissed. 

“It appears to be a list of refugees.” He said simply. 

“Do NOT play games. My name is on that list. Now tell me why.” 

He sighed, and she thought she saw sadness somewhere in the normally stoic planes of his face. 

“Your mother saw it as a necessary evil at the time. An unfortunate byproduct of her father’s reign.” 

Her heart stopped. She’d so desperately wanted it to be something else. Anything else. 

“You sold children. To whom?” 

Jiehong blinked, but did not cower. “To whoever had the money. Pimps. Rich white people. Black market merchants. Made no difference. She had no choice.” 

“No choice…” she repeated slowly. Bile was rising to her throat, kindled by fury and disgust so absolute she saw spots of red in her vision. “How many?” 

He shrugged and looked away. If he felt any remorse, he did not show it. “Count them yourself. Her father had other ledgers with more names.”

“And Mrs. Chen?” 

“That woman.” Finally a note of disdain. “One of Hàorán’s whores. She threatened to go to the police. Only fear for her own daughter put her back in her place. No goddamned loyalty.” He shook his head. “Not like you, Moira. You have always been impeccable.”

“Nah. Not like you. Tell me why.” She aimed the gun directly between his brows. 

“That was the deal, Moira. This country forces us to remain confined to these streets. There simply wasn’t room. So we told the families that came here. We will find you homes, and put you to work. We will protect you. But nothing in this life is free. So you see, you can stand there all high and mighty, but those families were all ready to make sacrifices. The American dream.” He snorted. It was like he’d been waiting for this moment to let all these hateful thoughts run free. “It’s a fucking lie, but one people are ready to sell their children for.” His eyes flickered to hers. “Then you came. A sewer rat scrounging in the gutter, with only that instrument on your back.” Jiehong chuckled softly. “I remember you wielded it like a club when they tried to cut your hair. Seeing you fight back…it broke her. You were the last, Moira. I think she admired you. I think she wanted to raise you differently from the way her father did.” 

“And look at us now.” She sneered. “One big happy family.” Her voice hardened, and she pressed the tip of her gun to Jiehong’s forehead. “I have another question, and the way you answer will determine whether you die quickly, or slowly.”

“Go on, girl. Ask your question.”

“Where is Remmick?”

Jiehong snorted with amusement, and perhaps a little disappointment. “Why don’t you ask the prodigal son where he is?”

She tilted her head, considering him. “I will.” 

In a flash, her knife was protruding from his neck. Blood spurted in a harsh stream, frightfully red. The gun would have made too much noise. Jiehong’s eyes were round as she stared into them, drinking in the last feverish glimmers of life. His mouth gaped. No sound came out but awful gurgling wetness. The blood splashed across the ledger. How appropriate. She twisted, and yanked the blade free, grateful that she’d worn black. No need to change. 

She didn’t bother hiding the body. Moira no longer cared. She waited at the door, listening for footsteps. None came running. When she opened it, a laundress scurried by, her eyes averted. Such a diligent worker. The office locked from the inside. She turned the latch before she closed it, to buy her some time. 

An entire empire built on the bones of children. How crass the elegantly decorated speakeasy looked to her now. How garish. She remembered how diligently she’d once washed these floors, on her hands and knees, how particular Qian had been about their cleanliness. What a fucking joke. 
As bad luck would have it, someone put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched at the smell of booze sweating from the body. Of course Jimmy would pick now of all times to show up. 

“We’ve been summoned, Moira.” He said when she turned to look at him. He looked terrible. Hardly the pristine, powerful head of a crime syndicate. She didn’t care anymore. 

“Where?” 

“The Farino house.” He answered slowly, as if worried about her reaction. 

“Tell them to fuck off. We don’t meet anywhere that isn’t public. If they want to talk, they can come here.” 

“We don’t have a choice.” He said grimly. “They requested you and me specifically.” 

“Of course we have a choice.” She snorted. “You know they’re gonna kill us and dump us in a river.” 

Jimmy winced. “Yeah…he said you’d say that.” 

Moira recognized the scent then. Too late. In her grief and anger, she’d failed to notice it beneath the stench of old gin that oozed from Jimmy’s pores. 

Her eyes rolled back in her head as the chloroform rag was pressed over her mouth and nose. 

Fuck you, Jimmy, was the last clear thought that rolled languidly through her mind before darkness claimed her. 

Chapter Text

Voices. Muffled and angry. Someone cussing in a language she didn’t know. Moira tried to open her eyes, but the light sent a blinding pain straight through her eyeballs and she closed them again. It felt like someone had placed her head in a vice and was slowly cranking it shut. This had to be worse than that time she and Jimmy had snuck an entire bottle of shaoxing in her room. 

Jimmy. 

Someone slapped her. Not too hard, but hard enough for another voice to cry out in alarm. 

Jimmy you idiot. 

She opened one eye, and glared with it at the heavy handed goon that had struck her. Then she made a face and spat on the floor. Her hands were tied behind a chair. At least she was sitting down. 

“Wake up.” A voice snapped. 

She scowled up at Nico Farino, and thought about spitting again, but this time in his face. Someone guffawed. The brute who’d struck her? It felt like the entire world was spinning around her, trying to throw her off. It took everything not to puke. 

“Top o’ the mornin’ princess.” A crude imitation of her accent. 

“Shut up, Guisseppe.” Nico growled, then reached down to roughly grab her chin, forcing her to look up at him, but she didn’t. Her eyes landed immediately on Jimmy who was standing behind him like he had no idea what do with his face. “Don’t look at him. Look at me.” Nico shook her a little. He had very soft hands. Like Jimmy, perhaps he too was used to others doing his dirty work.

She did not obey. She was staring straight into Jimmy’s eyes, seeing the guilt, the pain, the fucking cowardice in them, and there it was. The truth. He’d sold her out. How often had he told her she was his sister? Not enough to actually believe it, apparently. 

“Oooh look at those eyes!” The brute guffawed. “She’s pissed.” 

Indeed, Moira’s nostrils were flared as she continued to stare Jimmy in the face. To her satisfaction, he was the first to look away. 

“I don’t think I can do this.” He muttered. 
Nico turned to him immediately with a frown, but his voice was surprisingly gentle. 

“We have to. You have to. You lived so long in your mother’s shadow, as I did my father’s. And you have to take care of anyone who gets in your way. You saw what was happening. She was going to usurp you within a week.” 

“That’s a lie and you fuckin’ know it, Jimmy.” She growled. 

“Do I?” Jimmy’s mouth twisted. “I know mom favored you.”

The words twisted her gut. Qian had raised her to be such a good little criminal. Memories of watching Jun cut off fingers, and of pushing wrapped up bodies into the river flashed in her mind. Hardly seemed like favoritism. “Fuck, Jimmy. Yer mum…”

“Shut up. I call the shots, remember? You even said so yourself.”

Moira’s lips twisted. She could see it now, plain as day. It had taken her a long time to even admit that it was there, but here it was. There was a weakness in Jimmy. Like a rotten beam in a grand temple. One good shake and the entire thing would collapse, killing everyone inside. How long had Nico Farino been dripping poison in his ear? Or had he gotten here all by himself? For the first time in her life, she began to look at Jimmy as someone other than her brother. She regarded him as a goddamned player. Still, it hurt. In a thousand years she never would have guessed that he’d be on the opposite side of the board.

“I’m not blood. I wasn’t her daughter. You are her only heir, Jimmy. No one’s takin’ it from ye except maybe this cunt.” She jerked her head at Nico, who smiled dazzlingly. Then she saw it. The long look they gave each other, and she knew. “Ah fuck. How long have ye been lovers?” 

Nico struck her, backhanded, and she felt her lip split open. Blood trickled down her chin. 

“Shit.” She spat blood on the floor. “That long, huh? We used to tell each other everythin’. What happened?”

“It’s not personal, Moira.” Jimmy said. “I don’t want this. No one does. But the Irish have been keeping us down for so long. And we can’t have any liabilities.” 

“That’s you.” Nico winked down at her. 

Moira could see it happening, so slowly over such a long period of time. Deep down, she’d known. She’d always known that she was unwanted, that Qian had been the only thing between her and utter banishment. She wasn’t one of them. How many times had she caught one of their men whispering behind her back? Mongrel. Mulatto. Dog faced. And now she was gone, leaving a power vacuum large enough to swallow them all. One true heir, and a mutt they’d found in the trash. An easy choice for some.

But the people knew her. The tattooed lady who liked her tea boiled with cardamom, who chased away the cops and the prohis and had once spent hours braiding their daughters’ hair on the front porch, the one who’d helped clean their blood off the streets, and mended broken windows until her fingers ached. The crazy Irish lady who’d insisted that their loved ones be given the same funeral rites as the Empress herself. They knew her. And that was power. She’d just been too blind to see it. 

And the moment she’d discovered the secret, the filth at the heart of this pearl she’d cherished, she’d been ready to destroy it all. 

“I see. It’s the accent, huh?” She winked back at him, and shrugged, or rather attempted to. “Well it’s good to see ye finally grew a pair Jimmy. Let’s get this done with, yeah? How will it go? I’d prefer a clean shot to the head, but maybe that’s not dramatic enough? Maybe carve me up and dump me on Cirmac. Blame McCarthy if ye need an excuse to go to war.” 

“Stop telling me what to do!” Jimmy growled. 

“Is that how it is then?” She answered sadly. “That’s how you truly feel? That I’m just a liability and wouldn’t back ye no matter what? Jimmy…” she shook her head. “I don’t want it. It was never mine.”

A fleeting look of pain crossed Jimmy’s face, but was quickly replaced by a coldness that broke her heart. “I tried to get you to leave. You refused. It’s done now. You lost. You and that jiangshi freak.” 

“Ah right.” Perhaps she should have taken it, his paltry bribe. It would have saved her enormous pain. “Where is Remmick by the way? I know he’s still around somewhere.” She tried to sound bored and indifferent, and to her credit did a passable job of it. 

“Jiangshiiii…” Nico rolled the word around his tongue, testing how it felt in his mouth. Then he sucked his teeth and shook his head at her. “That was quite the secret, Moira. All this time, my people were being decimated, drained of blood, and here you were fucking one of them. You and Qian really were playing close to the chest. So I’ll ask you what I asked him. Where are the others hiding?” 

Moira laughed, and received another blow to her face for good measure. She laughed again. 
“Why the fuck would I know that?” 

“Because when he screams out, it’s your name on his lips.” Nico purred. That made her flinch, and unfortunately, he saw it. His grin widened. “We only have him because of you. So if you want to save him now, answer the question.” Bullshit. He’d slaughter them all.

“This is a waste of fucking time.” Jimmy grumbled. “I grew up with her. Believe me, she isn’t gonna tell us a damn thing.” 

“No?” He tilted his head, studying her. “Well. At least the Empress gave one of you a spine.” 
Moira chuckled at the furious look that passed between the two men. 

“Lover’s quarrel? Is it about me?” She joked. 
But inside, Moira was crumbling. She did not think it was possible for her heart to break any further. Qian had kept her in the dark so utterly and completely. She’d hoped that at least she had Jimmy, the only brother she had left. But he was looking at her with such disgust. There was pain there too, and deep remorse, but she knew him well enough to recognize the set of his jaw. It was the same as his mother’s. He would not turn back. His mind had been made. 

“Guisseppe,” Nico barked. “Go get him.” 

The brute looked visibly nervous, turning a few shades whiter. That made Moira feel slightly better, but only slightly. She watched him disappear down a narrow, dimly lit corridor. Where the fuck were they, anyway? It looked like someone’s grandmother’s house, and smelled like an old ashtray. The beige floral wallpaper was peeling away, revealing old yellowing brick. 

“Ye picked a real winner there, Jimmy.” Moira teased, lifting her chin at Nico. “He’s pretty, I’ll give ye that.” Moira had always suspected that Jimmy liked men as well as the women he often bedded. For him to be infatuated with someone was new, though. She felt a pang of guilt. Had she really been so wrapped up in Remmick that she hadn’t noticed? “Too bad he’s a fuckin’ snake.” 

“Says the tradice della razza.” Nico spat on the floor as if warding off bad luck. “Goddamn race traitor. And I’m not talking about your skin, Moira. This isn’t about Chinatown or Aiden McCarthy or my family. It isn’t about hooch or dope. It’s about humans, and them.” Nico pointed meaningfully behind them. 

It was like someone had poured a gallon of ice water over her. The sight of Nico’s goon wheeling out a rickety wheelchair, echoing eerily in the cramped corridor. Oh god. 

And there he was. Moira’s heart leapt, and she nearly cried out for him, but horror stopped her voice.

He looked like a man who’d been through a war, his cheeks hollow and gaunt. Someone had hooked him up to an iv bag filled with blood, a steady drip, just enough to keep him alive, but it was clear they had starved him. Red, angry veins had spread around his eyes and mouth. Was this what happened when a vampire was deprived for too long? His wrists and ankles had been strapped in by steel plates bolted to the chair, so he was most likely living in the damn thing, unable to stand or lie down. They’d taped his lips shut, but she could see that there was something stuffed in his mouth, something that burned him, perpetually singeing his flesh as it healed. Garlic. The room was now pungent with it.

“You fuckin’ cunts.” Moira snarled. There was no hiding her emotions now. She was breathing so hard, her lips twitching. Pure, black rage. “You fuckin’ monsters.” She said this to no one. She said this to herself. 

This was all her fault. She’d sold him out every bit as much as Jimmy had, and she’d done it so callously, and so quickly. Perhaps she deserved this, to witness what she had sown. She thought briefly of Joan, pleading on her doorstep for her to find him, to end this suffering. Her grief for Qian had not been dulled by what she’d learned, but now that pain twisted into something else, something mindless and aggressive and fearful. She could not sit there and watch them take him from her. Her soul would shatter. She would die first. 

Remmick’s nostrils twitched, and at her scent his eyes went wide and shot through her like daggers. They were red. So, so red. He made a muffled noise against his gag, a furious wail like an animal’s. He struggled in the chair, the veins in his neck popping. She couldn’t tell if the fury was directed at her, or for her, or if he was simply so mad with hunger he’d have drained her in an instant. Then his brow furrowed, and the red in his eyes cleared just a bit, and she knew. It wasn’t anger. It was terror.

Something about that terror fueled her rage, and she strained at the ropes binding her hands, about to lurch herself at Jimmy, taking the bloody chair with her if she had to. 

She’d kill him. She’d kill them all. 

A gun clicked, its barrel pressed firmly to her temple. She hadn’t noticed Nico moving behind her. Now she understood the look in Remmick’s eyes. 

“Take that shit out of his mouth.” He ordered. 

Jimmy crossed his arms, and watched Nico’s soldier rip the tape from Remmick’s lips, jerking away quickly as if afraid he might snap at him, which would have served him right. Remmick spat the cloves of garlic out with a hiss of pain, his lips blistered from the burn of them, but even as she watched him crack his neck, they began to heal. Jimmy watched this with a look of absolute disgust.

Remmick didn’t look at him. He looked only at her, drinking in the sight of her, marking every detail of her face down to the last freckle. His teeth were sharp, but he gave her that smile. The one she’d secretly loved, sort of crooked and goofy. She felt her eyes burn as she stared right back. 

“Hey babygirl.” He croaked. 

Moira did not want to cry. Several tears fell anyway, but as they did, she smiled for the first time in days and days. There was no anger in his voice. She wasn’t sure she deserved that. 

“Hey.” She replied softly. 

“I didn’t kill her.” He said gently. “Just wanted you to know that. Your fine print, remember?”

Moira closed her eyes, her face twisting with grief and guilt. She was so, so stupid. Despair and anger had robbed her of reason. It was the amendment that Moira herself had made, when Qian had made her deal, that if Remmick touched any of her people, he’d be thrown into the goddamn sun. It was why he hadn’t fought back when they took him. She believed him. In her soul, she believed him. 

And hadn’t grief clouded her mind so much that she’d failed to see what was right in front of her eyes? Hadn’t she seen Qian’s fatal wound, the gap in her throat where it had been severed, so deeply it nearly decapitated her? Not from fangs. No jagged flesh. A fucking garrote. Hadn’t she assumed the blood on Remmick was hers, even though she’d seen him kill that young gunman only moments before? Where had her usual perceptiveness been that night? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

“I…I went in the basement.” She choked. It was important to her that he know she’d kept trying, even after he was gone. “I saw the names.” 

Remmick’s face contorted, and she realized he too was holding back tears. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like that something could ever make a vampire his age cry. 

“I’m sorry, Moira. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” 

“This is my fault.” Moira sobbed. 

“No. No baby. You didn’t kill her. Her cowardly fuckin’ son did. Him and this asshole.” Finally he looked up at Jimmy, who winced at that predator’s gaze. “Hey there, pup.” Remmick smiled wider, and his fangs glinted. “Bet your blood tastes like yer mama’s.”

The pain rushed through Moira like a scythe to her belly. Jimmy, what the fuck did you do? She did not want this terrible truth. Didn’t want it, but embraced it anyway, let it settle on her skin like ash. She could almost see it unraveling before her eyes. Jimmy was in love with Nico Farino. A forbidden romance in more ways than one. Two sons. Two rival gangs. Nico had killed his own father. She was sure of that now. Maybe even his brothers, putting Nico firmly at the top of the family. How long had Jimmy been sipping on poison, listening to his lover speak of his grand plans to take over the family business, encouraging him to do the same? Together they could build an empire greater than both gangs ever could separately. Together they could destroy Aiden McCarthy. Together they could rival Al Capone, Frank Nitti, and Bugs Moran. 
And Moira had been blind to it all. 

“You shut the fuck up!” Jimmy lurched toward him then stopped himself. Remmick was still dangerous, even weak and starving, and heaven help him if he got anywhere near those teeth. 

“Enough with the fucking reunion!” Nico prodded the side of Moira’s head roughly with his gun. “Look at me, vampiro. You’re gonna answer my questions or you’re gonna see her brains paint the goddamn wall.” 

Ah. So this wasn’t really about Moira. It was about Remmick. She was just the collateral. How insulting. Nico was smarter than she’d given him credit for. All of his grand plans were meaningless when all it had taken was one vampire to massacre an entire restaurant of people. 

The change on Remmick’s face was fascinating to behold. He inhaled slowly through his nostrils, and the sound he made was something like the low purr of a jaguar stalking its next meal. Then he gently rested his head back against the wheelchair and regarded Nico Farino with a coldness that made even Moira shiver. 

“ Mangerò tutta la tua famiglia.” He said slowly. 

“You’re in no position to make threats.” Nico warned furiously. 

“I ain’t makin’ threats, boy,” Remmick smirked. “You sealed their fate the moment you laid hands on her. That your handiwork there?” He jerked a chin at Moira, and she realized he meant her split lip. “I’ve learned an awful lot about your family since I been here, Nico. I know your mama takes care of your grandma in that fancy hotel your daddy ran. Shame what old age does. I bet she even remembers you, some of the time.” Remmick giggled mirthlessly, then affected a soft, feminine voice. “Nico, dove sono i tuoi fratelli?” 

“I will kill her right now, unless you tell me where the rest of you goddamn vermin are hiding!” Nico’s gun hand was shaking. She could feel it as it dug into her temple. 

Remmick barked a laugh. “I’m gonna eat yer damn grandma, Nico. You better kill me now and let her the fuck go.”

“I can kill you both!” He snarled. 

“Nah. You kill her, and my entire brood will reign hellfire down on this city. I made sure of that. Little contingency plan.” Remmick gave her a salacious wink. “You saw that yerself, babygirl. All it takes is one little thought from me and they all come runnin’. Must be hundreds of em by now.” She couldn’t tell if he was bluffing.

“You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll give her a clean death.” 

She felt his hand clench, his finger on the trigger, and in that moment, Moira closed her eyes, holding Remmick’s face in her mind. She was calm. She was still. 

“Nico…” Jimmy started. Her eyes snapped open and landed on her brother. He’d been staring at Moira the whole time, reading her face. “Nico that’s not…” Oh, he wasn’t ready for this. That’s too damn bad, Jimmy, she thought. You made this bed. Now you get to lie in it. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Nico snapped. 

Jimmy’s lip twitched with outrage. 

Moira scoffed. “Jesus Christ, Jimmy. Is that how he speaks to ye? Is he like this in private, too?” She shook her head. “Nah I bet he’s all sweetness when no one else is around, right?” She looked at him sadly. “He doesn’t give a damn about you, or Chinatown. He will keep usin’ ye until there’s nothin’ left. Love makes us all fuckin’ stupid, huh?” 

“What the fuck do you know?” Jimmy muttered darkly. “You were made for this life, Moira. All the backstabbing and the lying and the violence? Well I never fucking wanted it. None of it. I never wanted mom’s goddamn empire. I don’t care what happens to it. I just want out.”

“Ohhh. I see.” She snarled. “Poor little rich boy doesn’t like his big boy pants. Well ye should care. Because an awful lot of people are dependin’ on ye. But fuck them, right? God yer an embarrassment to her, and to me. Ye don’t like the bootleggin’? Fine. So turn the speakeasy into a goddamn bed and breakfast. But don’t act like yer not involved.” Her gaze hardened. “Is Remmick right? Did ye kill her?” She wanted to hear it from his lips.

“No.” Jimmy snarled. But she saw it. The lie left a shadow on his face. 

Remmick lifted an eyebrow at her. “These two lovebirds orchestrated the whole thing, baby. I saw it when I ate that boy’s heart. Bunch of buddies from a club in Southside. Paid ‘em a hundred dollars apiece to shoot up Chinatown and get Qian in the crossfire. And you, babygirl.”

And there it was. The reason that Remmick hadn’t even said a damn word when she’d let them take him. Their plan had worked, but only halfway, leaving her so damn vulnerable. So he’d taken the fall. Of course he had. Let them take him, starve him, torture him. Let her hate him for all eternity if it meant she’d be safe for a little while longer. 

Moira felt the blood drain from her face. She felt numb. Simply no more room in her heart for grief, or betrayal. She looked at Jimmy for a long time, thinking of all those bodies they’d walked to the temple, some of them so small. These games they played. How many little ones had been sacrificed over the years because of these fucking games? No more. 

“You’d better kill me, Jimmy.” She murmured softly. 

“With pleasure.” Nico pressed the gun even more firmly to her temple, and was about to squeeze once more. 

“Nico put that fucking gun down.” Jimmy snarled. “She’s my goddamned sister. We discussed this. Look, Moira we just need him to talk. We need him to tell us where the others are so we can finally get them out of this city. You want to protect people? Help us kill what’s hurting them.” God, he couldn’t bluff to save his own life. 

“You gonna stake em out, cowboy?” She grinned, affecting a horrible attempt at a southern drawl. 
Remmick groaned in mock pain at the awful pun. 

“They. Are. Feeding on us, Moira.” Jimmy said through gritted teeth. “You saw what they did to his little cousin, Matteo. You saw what they did to Jun. How can you do this? Why are you protecting them?” 

Moira only smirked and looked at Remmick who was watching her with so much emotion in his eyes. He’d never told her he loved her, but it shone in his eyes nonetheless. “He makes a mean masala chai.” 

“This is pointless.” Nico rolled his eyes. “Let’s just kill them and be done with it!” 

Something snapped in Moira, and a deranged giggle burst from her lips, high and manic like a madwoman. Then she saw the look on Jimmy’s face and couldn’t stop. Every man in that room was staring at her like she’d sprouted a second head, except for Remmick who looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the entire world. 

“Caspita, she’s fuckin’ nuts!” Someone muttered. 

“Ohh Jimmy you are so fucked.” She gasped out. “This little web you wove is gonna hang ye, ye stupid cunt.”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?” He snarled. 

“D’iu lei, ban jau!” She spat. “I said yer fucked.” 

“Don’t listen to her, she’ll say anything.” 
Moira threw her head back and laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. 

“Jiehong is fuckin’ dead.” She managed to gasp out. 

“WHAT?” Jimmy strode over to her and began to shake her by the shoulders until she regained some of her senses. “The fuck do you mean? What happened?” He sounded alarmed. 

“The soldiers think you’re an incompetent drunk, Jimmy. Ye made sure of that. Ye invited this viper into our home in front of everyone. They’re gonna find his body and pin it on ye, ye dumb fuck. They’ve been waitin’ fer an excuse to be rid of ye. So Nico I hope yer family has a spare room, because guess what Jimmy? You can’t go home.” 

“DID YOU KILL HIM?” 

“Aye, I did.” She tried to wipe the tears of mirth from her eyes and remembered she couldn’t. “Fucker had it comin.’ All the old guard has it comin.’ Did ye know about the children, Jimmy?” 

“The fuck is she talking about?” Nico growled. 

“Did ye know about that little side hustle yer grandfather started?” She watched Jimmy’s face carefully. “Yeah. Ye did know. Yer not as stupid as Qian thought ye were. I’m the fuckin’ fool who didn’t know.” Finally the smile died on her lips. “I’ll never forgive ye, Jimmy. I’ll never forgive her. I’ll never forgive any of ye. So I’ll say it again. Ye’d better kill me.” 

Jimmy, to his credit, called her bluff. 

It hit her in the chest, like being hit by a train. Her entire body flew backwards, taking the chair with her. Her head hit the floor, but her bound arms took the brunt of the blow. Lucky. She managed to glance down at the wetness that bloomed over her shirt. Unlucky. Remmick screamed, the worst sound she’d ever heard in her life. Her name was in there somewhere. Nico was screaming something in Italian while Jimmy stuttered. Panic. Pure panic over what he’d done. There was the sound of a scuffle. Were they fighting? Then a sharp smack, and a muffled cry. Nico had struck him. 

There was no pain. Only numbness. Was that good, or bad? Probably bad. There was supposed to be pain, not this dizzying wave of relief. Or maybe that was blood loss. 

Remmick was still screaming, this time in that ancient language. The language of her ancestors, on her father’s side. She hoped that wherever she went, she wouldn’t have to see her father again. Moira closed her eyes, silently welcoming whatever came next. Maybe nothing. She was alright with nothing. No more pain, or grief. After all these years, Moira could finally stop running. She listened to Remmick screaming, wishing he’d stop, wishing he’d sing instead. He had a nice singing voice. 

Blackness was creeping around the edges, embracing her like a gentle lover. It should have been terrifying, but she was so, so tired. 
Someone was untying her, and then she was being dragged, then carried. Fuck at least wait till I’m dead, you fucks, she thought, but her eyelids were so heavy. Fuck it I’ll just die on the way there. Jimmy hadn’t even asked for her last words. Rude of him. Jun had taught her to always ask, saying that if you chose to take a life, it was your responsibility to hear them, to carry them with you like coins for the ferryman. What would she have said, anyway?

I love you, Remmick. 

She tried to say them now, to at least whisper them into the ether before she left, but alas. 
It was cold outside. She heard the start of an engine, and the sound of a door being opened. Oh we’re going on a car ride. I wish they sold icecream all year round. 

She fell, heavy on the sidewalk. There was the pain she’d been waiting for, jostling her awake, burning her lungs with fire. Whoever was carrying her had dropped her, and there were more sounds. A heavy crunch of bone. The awful, whistling gurgle of air escaping the hole where a man’s throat should be. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw the big man, Guisseppe, clutching that ruined throat and sliding down the side of the car to sit next to her like a child in time out. 

“Well shit. Look who it is, baby.” A voice. She vaguely recalled hearing that voice before but it sounded so dull in her ears. 

Then a woman’s voice. She could barely make out her form, but knew that she was bent over her, brushing her hair out of her eyes with cool fingers. 

“Oh honey. Tell us where to take you and you’ll get there.”

Moira choked out the only name she could think of. 

“Aiden…McCarthy…” 

****************************************

Whatever drugs they gave her made her feel as if she were swimming in an ocean of syrup. Everything moved so slowly, as if even her own thoughts were on a delay. She remembered voices. Angry ones, world weary ones, amused ones. 

“I don’t want you in my damn house.” 

“That’s too bad, sis. Your man invited in us and here we are. That’s what you get for hookin’ up with a gangster.” 

“And who’s gonna pay for those sheets she’s bleedin’ on?”

“Hush, Millie. I’ll buy new ones.” That voice was closer now, growling in her ear. “Consider us fuckin’ even.” 

Then she was somewhere else entirely. Impossible to say where exactly but there was a heady scent in the air. She couldn’t feel her body, but took a single step anyway. 

“Namaste, betee.” 

A woman was holding her face in her hands, and Moira was looking at herself, but her eyes were different. Wide and brown and shining, lined with kohl. Not her face then. Her mother’s. 

“Maan?” She answered thickly. Her mother smiled with a sweetness that Moira had not inherited. Amazing how much she’d grown to resemble this woman, who’d been gone for so many years. “Am I dead?” 

“Oh yes, rani.” 

Rani. Princess. Moira had forgotten the nickname. She breathed slowly, or rather simulated breathing as she wasn’t sure whether or not she needed to. 

“Is he with you?” She meant her father.

“No, baby.” She felt the woman’s fingers caressing her hair. “He can never hurt you again.” 

“I killed him, maan.” Moira whispered. 

“I know, rani. Still, you made it. And I am so, so proud of you. Your brothers are waiting to see you. They’ve been waiting for a long time.” 

Jesus, Moira thought. What kind of drugs had they fed her? This hallucination had everything. White fog, dead mothers. Incredible. It felt so damn real.

Someone else was touching her, clutching her back. She saw her mother’s kind brown eyes harden in shock. 

“Rani, what have you done?” She hissed, and her fingers which had been playing with her hair suddenly clenched in a fist. “No. No you cannot do this. You cannot take her!”

“Maan? Mama?” Moira heard herself asking, in the voice of a much younger Moira. 

There were more hands on her then. Pale hands and dark hands, the fingers long and bony with razor sharp talons digging into her back, fisting her hair, clawing over her face. Fingers were prying at her mouth. She felt her canines elongating, pushing through her gums, tearing through the bones of her soft, human teeth. 

Human. 

“Moira calm down, honey.” 

Someone was pressing a hunk of ice wrapped in a dishtowel against her throat, and then her face. 
She was staring into Mary’s lovely brown eyes. Not her mother’s after all. 

“You were screamin’ somethin’ awful.” Mary cocked her head. “Bad dream?”

“Did…did you…” she croaked. 

“Did I what?” Mary sounded puzzled, then smiled when Moira stuck her thumb in her mouth, feeling her teeth, checking for sharpness. “Nah honey we didn’t turn ye. Remmick would have our damn heads. Came pretty close to that, though. Almost lost ye.” 

“Whoever shot you had a shaky hand.” Stack grumbled from the corner of the room. His arms were crossed and he was shaking his head. “Got you right in the tit.” 

Mary scowled at him reproachfully, making him grin, then looked back down at her. “We cleaned you up pretty good, though.”

“I got plenty of practice. Can’t even count how many slugs I’ve dug out of Smoke.” Stack winced a little at the thought. “Where we come from not a lot of folks can afford doctors. So we make due for ourselves.” 

Moira fell back onto the bed, letting her head hit the pillow. 

“Where are we?” Every word brought pain.

“McCarthy house. Said he owed you a favor. Damn lucky.” Stack sniffed. “He shot you up with some strong stuff. Knocked you out.” 

“How did ye find me? Did Remmick summon you?” She asked carefully. 

Mary snorted. “More like begged. Never thought I’d hear that man beg for anything…but he begged for you, honey.” She reached out and gently patted her hand. 

Moira snatched the hand away, and tried to throw off the coverlet. Mary and Stack were at her sides in an instant, pinning her down as she thrashed against them. It was like fighting against two brick walls. Utterly pointless.

“I have to go back! I have to go back!” She snarled. 

“There’s nothin’ to go back to! He ain’t there no more!” Stack hissed, and shoved her back down with his vampire strength, his eyes glimmering like gold coins. “Listen to me! He ain’t there.” 

“Stack…” Mary placed a hand on his bicep, shaking her head slowly. 

“No. She needs to hear it. Look, I don’t know what kinda bullshit y’all got yerselves into, but after we got you, he went dead silent. It’s over. He ain’t screamin’ no more. Now I need you to understand what I’m tellin’ you, before you try to run off and get yerself killed.” 

“He isn’t dead.” Moira said flatly, glaring up at him. 

“You’re smarter than that.” He snapped. “A hostage ain’t no more use once you get what you need.” 

Moira stared up at them for a long moment, the gears in her mind turning. It was all flooding back. The look on Remmick’s face when he saw her again. The way they’d looked at him, like he was some disgusting, vile creature flung from the pit, a monster to destroy. And she couldn’t blame them. Remmick was a predator, and a killer. But he was her predator. And fuck them anyway. Fuck all of them. She thought about Jimmy, looking at her with such disdain. The brother she’d found. The one she’d known best. Or thought she had. No one left. Except Remmick.

“He. Isn’t. Dead.” She repeated with quiet venom. 

“Hey, we didn’t have to help you, ye know.” Stack’s mouth twisted in annoyance. 

“Stack, knock it off. Let her process.” Mary snapped. 

Stack threw up his hands in defeat. “Y’all are so fuckin’ stubborn. The bastard got himself in this mess. Ain’t our job to bail him out.” 

“They’re tryin’ to find you, ye know.” Moira intoned quietly. “They know about you. And the others. They’re gonna rain down on every damn thrall in this city once they find out where you are. So you’d better pray that Remmick hasn’t told em.” She snorted at the look of wariness on Stack’s face. Surely he thought of himself as invincible, this baby vampire. But he’d had enough experience with the gangs of Chicago to be nervous. “I’d say helpin’ me is in yer best interest.” 

“He abandoned us.” Mary argued. 

Moira considered her, deciding that of the two, she would be the most reasonable. “Ain’t askin’ ye to save him. I’m askin’ ye to help me save you.” 

Mary’s brow furrowed. “How would that go, exactly?” 

“You got healin’ blood too?” She asked quietly, the anger beginning to stir her own blood. The thought that Remmick might be dead had snapped her back into cold reality so hard it gave her whiplash, but she could already feel the adrenaline in her veins. 

This question startled Stack so much that he jerked back, looking at her with such a look of surprise she almost laughed. 

“He told you about that?” Then he shook his head. “Hundreds of years he kept that secret.” 

Mary was looking at her with pursed lips. Then she spoke. “Well damn Moira. I told you to run. You didn’t listen. Now you’re runnin’ the other way.” 

Moira snorted. “Ye don’t ken me that well, Mary.”

Her smile was so sad and knowing. “I know you better than you think. I wouldn’t have listened either.” 

Stack smirked at her with such adoration in his eyes. “Naw you sure didn’t baby. Nothin’ held you back. Not even me.” A playful hint of annoyance here. 

“They tried to keep us apart too. All my life. So I owe Remmick a lot, actually. Would never tell him that though. He gave us what we needed to be together. Ain’t nobody ever gonna stand in our way again.” 

“So heal me. That’s all I’m askin’.” Moira knew she’d already won. “Heal me and let me do what I need to do.” 

“Moira, don’t be fuckin’ stupid, girl.” Stack began. “Mary- hey HEY! The fuck you doin’?” He started forward furiously when Mary lifted her own wrist to her mouth, her eyes never leaving Moira’s, and bit down. 

Moira didn’t think twice. She seized the vampire’s bleeding wrist before Mary had time to reconsider, and brought it to her lips, letting the slow black blood fill her mouth. It tasted almost nothing like human blood. It flowed languidly across her tongue like fire, rich and difficult to describe. Mary tasted like long summer nights, like lemonade and polite conversation, like chasing fireflies and stealing kisses with a handsome stranger, and sharing secrets with your closest friend. She tasted like life. 

It oozed into her nervous system, igniting her senses, sparking like a million electric currents, making her pupils expand, making her see every color in exquisite detail. She could feel it settling in her stomach, drawing away her pain like a glorious siphon, like sweet mercy. Every light in the room suddenly became multiple orbs, floating around its source like softly glowing stars, and a new feeling was coursing through her. Moira could have kissed her. 

“That’s enough.” Stack barked, hauling Mary away. 

They stared at her, wide eyed with wary fascination as Moira swallowed. 

“What will it do?” Mary asked softly. 

“I don’t know.” Stack admitted. “She ain’t dead, so…who knows?”

“How long will it last?” Moira asked dreamily. 

“No idea. Maybe forever. Maybe not. You’d better get movin’ in case it doesn’t.” Mary reasoned. 

Moira threw off the coverlet, not giving a damn about her bare chest as she ripped off the bandages. She had new scars now, where Jimmy’s bullet had torn through her, right on her left breast. Fucker. Ah well. They watched her rummage through the dresser drawer until she found a bra and black wife beater. No guns though. She didn’t bother with a coat. She was far too warm for one, the heat radiating off her in waves. God, was this how Remmick felt all the time? She felt guilty for all the times she’d snapped at him to put one on. He’d always done it anyway. 

Stack and Mary followed her curiously as she found her way down the stairs, meeting Millie halfway down on the stairwell. The pregnant woman gasped and pressed herself against the wall to let them through, looking like she wanted to argue but Stack shot her a glare that made her snap her mouth shut. 

Aiden McCarthy was staring up at them, frowning. 
“What is this? Moira, how…” he stared at her strangely. She wondered if her eyes had changed color, or maybe it was just that her pupils were so damn huge. 

“I need guns. With silencers. And as many bullets as ye can spare.” 

“Moira I don’t know what yer plannin’ girl, but I want nothin’ to do with-“ 

She was before him in an instant. She didn’t remember moving, but suddenly she was close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, and she was smiling, cold and feral, with Mary and Stack behind her, their eyes glimmering golden. 

“Guns. And ammo. If ye’d be so kind.” 

****************************************

Mary and Stack followed her. She could not see them, but she knew they were there somewhere in the darkness behind her, watching her every move as she walked all the way back to Chinatown, not giving a flying fuck who saw her or what awaited her there. 

Nothing. The streets were empty at this time of night, except for a lone laundress enjoying a cigarette break beneath the little veranda just below Moira’s bedroom window. The girl looked at her with relief, and babbled something in Cantonese that Moira barely registered. She looked at her and watched the girl’s expression change into one of profound nervousness. 

“You ever wondered what ye would do if given the chance to be a hero?” Moira asked her, tilting her head. She didn’t wait for a reply. “Go inside and tell all the maids, the laundresses, and the staff to get the fuck out. Now.”

Moira didn’t wait to see what she’d do. Instead she pushed past her, and into the laundry. No invitation needed. Because Moira wasn’t a vampire. But she was doped up on a considerable amount of vampire blood, more potent than any cocaine. She felt so light, and so terribly strong. 
She sang to herself. 

On Raglan road, on an autumn’s day I saw her first and knew…

Moira climbed the stairs to her tiny apartment. It looked like a closet now. Her things were still there, and someone had cleaned and re organized, as if her belongings were ready to be packed up and sold, or tossed out. Once this may have felt like an enormous invasion of privacy. She hardly cared now. There was only one thing she truly wanted. 

The sitar that had belonged to her mother, her true mother, lay waiting for her in its case beneath her bed. She slung the instrument across her back, the strap sitting across her chest like a bandolier. Christ she wanted a cigarette, but found only a matchbox. There was a crude rendering of a naked woman on it, and a faded advertisement for some seedy establishment she’d probably visited but couldn’t remember. She grabbed that too, as well as her father’s knife and the stake that Jimmy had once given to her, taking the time to strap it to her forearm. Then she pulled on a black coat, not for warmth but for the pockets which she stuffed with as many bullets as she could find. 

On her way down the speakeasy stairs, she saw staff scurrying around her, felt them brush past as they made their way outside. She hardly cared. Moira only had eyes for the men, the soldiers gathered at the bar. The old guard. Drinking heavily and exchanging memories, laughing together and carrying on as if nothing could touch them. Men who’d served Qian for years. Men who’d served her father. How many of them had looked the other way as Chinatown’s daughters were taken? How many had torn them from their mother’s arms, the price demanded for safety, for jobs, for shelter? Fuck them. Fuck all of them. 

Moira stepped behind the bar, giving the bartender a cold smile that sent him scurrying.
The men stopped laughing, pausing their conversations to gaze up at her drunkenly. Her lips peeled back in a harsh grin that showed all of her teeth. 

“What are we drinking to, boys?” She asked in Cantonese. 

“Our fallen general.” One of them answered, blinking at her warily. “A good man.” 

“Oh Jiehong! So sad.” She reached for a bottle of gin, and took a swig, her eyes never leaving them for an instant. They were staring at her in utter bewilderment. She let some of the gin dribble onto the bar. “How clumsy of me.”

One of them snorted in disgust at her manners. 
She lazily dumped the rest of the bottle over his head, watching with amusement as he leapt back, babbling furiously, reaching for a napkin to dry himself. There were other cries of outrage, but the smarter ones were only watching her. 

“Sorry.” She grinned, reaching for another bottle and uncorking it with her teeth, then spitting it out violently. The gin gurgled and swelled from the bottle as she upended it over the entire bar. “So sorry.”

“Jin nuu yan.” Someone muttered. 

Moira giggled at the insult, and let the empty gin bottle crash to the floor, making them jump in alarm. 

“Fifteen goddamned years I sought your approval. Fifteen years of bowing and scraping and serving. ‘Yes madam. No madam. Of course madam.’ Fucking pathetic waste of time.” 

One of them began to loudly speak over her, saying something like, she has no respect for the dead.” 

No respect for the dead. No respect? 

Moira whipped out a pistol, and shot him in the head. 

They all scrambled away from the bar, and hefted guns of their own, staring at her in horror, but as well seasoned as they were, they’d been drinking and their aims wavered. Old men. Just a gaggle of old men, hiding behind false power. All made up. She thought again of that stinking, decaying, child’s bedroom, and the rusted shackles on the beds. 

Moira struck a match, and held it up. 

For one long, terrible moment they gaped at her in horror. Moira drank it in, greedily, relishing the wave of satisfaction that washed over her. Let them see her now. Let them be terrified. 
There was a reason Qian had kept her leash so tight.

In one graceful motion, she let the match drop, and the flames whooshed down the length of the bar.

They fired. Again and again. All of them missed, some by mere centimeters. Moira was so fast, the blood given to her by Mary thrumming beneath her skin. 

Like a hummingbird, she darted to each one, slitting throats, sinking her father’s knife into flesh again and again, feeling that wonderful darkness within her swallow her whole, until she became death. She felt their blood splash her face. She relished its warmth. There was screaming. She relished that as well, laughing as a bullet flew close enough to stir her hair. Was this how Remmick had felt when he’d slaughtered those Irish men in that alley? The raw power of it. The hunger for violence, for retribution. It was a drug. 

A soft click. Then another. She glanced down at a body, and hummed with triumph when she saw the lump of a cigarette pack in his jacket. Another click. She ignored the terrified bartender who was feebly trying to shoot her with an empty gun as she quietly enjoyed the dead man’s cigarette. Then her eyes slid to his. He was younger, more babyfaced, and he was terrified. She remembered watching him press moon cakes into beautiful little shapes for the festival. It felt like a thousand years ago.  Perhaps it was this love of artistry that spared him. 

“Hand me that, won’t ye Mù yáng?” She pointed at another bottle of gin, left untouched by the dead soldiers at her feet. Hands shaking, he did, the empty gun still rattling in his fingers. He jumped a little when she plucked the gin from his trembling grasp. “There’s a luv.” 

Dragging her stolen cigarette, she sprinkled the gin over the corpses at her feet, saturating them until the whole place stank of juniper. Then she lit another match. 

“Better run now, Mù yáng.” She said around the cigarette, not watching to see if he obeyed while she lit another match, and let it fall. 

Moira gazed with interest as the corpses were blanketed in blue flames that spread so quickly, jumping to the little splashes on the floor like fiery droplets. Heat bathed her skin and she purred with delight, watching the fire spread. It felt like a cleansing. How many years had she spent sitting at that bar, taking orders from Qian, listening to these same men bicker over street corners and petty neighborhood disputes? 

She waited for a while, drinking in the sight of her adopted mother’s legacy being consumed by flame, until the fire reached the tips of her boots. Then, with her true mother’s sitar strapped to her back, she turned and walked simply into the night, the fire reflecting in her pupils which were still too large. 

The speakeasy staff was waiting in the street, staring in awe as the flames consumed their business, many of them crying in silence, gazing at her like she was a demon walking straight from the hellfire to collect their souls. She didn’t care. 
Mary and Stack were waiting too, watching her with rapt curiosity. She approached them, smiling at the way Stack leaned closer to his paramour as if to protect her, should Moira decide they were destined for the cleansing fire too. 

“He wasn’t in there?” Mary asked softly. 

Moira shook her head slowly. “Only one place he could be.” 

“Assumin’ he ain’t dead.” Stack warned. 

“Don’t matter. I’ll burn it just the same.” Moira answered. Then she turned, and began walking. The flames inside the speakeasy were cracking the glass, spilling out over the porch, that same porch where she’d met Remmick for the first time. A shame Jimmy wasn’t here to witness this. 

“Where you goin’ girl?” Stack shouted. 

“To find an army.” She replied softly. 

****************************************

Moira gazed up at the Farino house, at its opulent, gaudy exterior, unable to tell if its facade was truly cracking or if she could simply see it now for the farce that it was. There were two enormous men glaring down at her, pointing their guns, shouting something that she didn’t care to understand. 

It took so little to kill them. Two well aimed shots and they slipped into whatever afterlife awaited them. Then she tucked the pistols with their silencers into the back of her pants, humming softly as she entered. 

I saw the danger and I passed, along the enchanted way

And I said let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawnin’ of the day. 

Sober Moira might have blanched at the sheer number of people inside, at the army of wolves in fine clothes and leather shoes that awaited her, at the amount of guns left out on tables should the prohis show up again. Or worse. Had they been prepared for vampires, or had Nico Farino failed in this too? 

Clouds of cigar smoke. Wine and sambucca. Women in pearl necklaces with fake smiles, draped across laps, and so many soldiers. No, not soldiers. Moira thought perhaps she should stop equating them with something noble. Goons. Hitmen. Bootleggers. Criminals like her. No. Not like her. These men were only out for themselves, eager to step on others just for a tiny sliver of power. Still, she was hardly much better. 
Someone at the bar noticed her, saw the blood on her face and clothes, and nudged his companion, who turned white at the sight of her. She moved, more quickly than the human eye could see, and put a gun to his head, locking eyes with his friend. 

“Nico Farino. Sbrigatevi.” She hissed. 

He ran, tripping over his own feet. An office door opened. Nico Farino peered out at her, struggling to see her face through the blood, but oh she could see him, his gun tucked into a leather holster vest. She briefly wondered if he polished it himself or got one of his staff to do it for him. 

“Who the fuck…?” 

Moira grabbed her hostage, seizing both sides of his face and kissing him loudly and obnoxiously on his bald forehead, before shooting him.

“Pezzo di merda! Vaffanculo tu madre!” Someone screamed. 

Nico fired his gun at her, but she spun out of the way. It hit someone behind her, and she heard the awful sucking noise of a punctured lung. Regrettable. 

She made quick work of his bodyguards, and they fell like sacks of bricks. Nico stared at her, eyes wide with shock, firing again and again as chaos erupted in the room. So many bullets flying, none of them reaching the correct target.  She was supposed to be dead. She was supposed to be floating in the river tits up. He struggled to pull out a second gun, and point it squarely in her face. She let him do this, watching in amusement, her teeth glinting. Mary’s blood was a sweet elixir, a bringer of torment to all her enemies. Kill. Terrify. Drink deeply of their deaths. It sang to her. 

He backed deeper into the ballroom. She followed. He was cussing in Italian. Clicks echoed through the opulent ballroom. So many men. So many dead men. Nico was screaming at her to stay back, to stay away from him, but she ignored him. Moira watched as he seized a young woman by the arm, one of his staff, judging by her uniform and the tray that crashed to the floor. He was pressing his gun to her temple, and he was still screaming. Moira cocked her head in amusement. Why did they all seem to think she would care? 

“Tell me where the others are!” He was screaming. She laughed, and the sound filled her with rage. “I’ll fucking kill her, Moira!” As if she gave a shit. The woman shrieked, utterly terrified. 

“Tell me where Remmick is.” She answered calmly, watching the woman’s eyes squeeze shut as she prepared to die. 

“A fanabla! Tell me where those monsters are hiding!”

“I’ll tell ye where they are, Nico.” She purred. Then she turned her face to the open doorway. “After you.” She stretched out her arms in a welcoming gesture. 

It was enough. 

Dozens of thralls poured inside, some of them hurtling through the glass windows, shattering them. Bits of glass flecked at her skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. She didn’t care. Gunfire lit up the ballroom with bursts of light. Panic rippled through every human in that room, except for her. Then the room became a pit of carnage and teeth. The thralls did not discriminate. They did not judge who was a criminal and who was not. She’d known it was a risk when she’d brought them. 

Moira watched as a woman in a tattered Sunday dress leapt upon Nico Farino, indifferent to the bullet that tore through her breastbone. These thralls were desperate. Not even guns impacted them much beyond simple physics. His screams echoed in the garish chamber. It sounded like music. So she danced. Slowly, gracefully, Moira danced a Bharatanatyam, a dance of Kali, of death and destruction, of rebirth and time. Colors and sounds were convalescing in a syrupy sensation that brought only pleasure to her senses. Red. So much red. A portrait of violence. 
Moira laughed, high and giddy as the thralls tore through flesh and bone, sinew and blood. So much blood, like a goddamn river. They gorged themselves, far more than she ever thought possible. So greedy as they filled themselves with these rotten lives. A faint gurgle interrupted her dance. Nico was gasping, staring up at her, begging silently. 

A feral smile curled her lips as she retrieved her gun and pointed it in his face. He tried to nod. Please. End my suffering. Do it quickly. 
She did not. Instead she put up her gun, and watched the agony twist his face when he realized he would receive no mercy. 

“For Chinatown.” She said coldly. 

Then she stepped over his body and surveyed the room, feeling nothing but blissful, bittersweet relief. Revenge tasted so damn good. 

It had taken so many words to convince the thralls not to end her life when she’d found them lurking at the docks. They were starving, barely able to think beyond pure insatiable hunger. But something in her scent had confused them. Mary’s blood, perhaps. Her two vampire shadows had watched from atop the shipping containers, simply observing with utter fascination as Moira had told these hungry thralls that if they followed her, she would feed them all. 

They almost didn’t believe her. For a moment Moira thought this would be the night she died. Somehow she felt she’d be far more pleased knowing that her death would feed someone, an act of survival rather than spite or hatred. Then the woman in the Sunday dress had slunk real close, giving her a sniff. 

“Is he with you?” She’d asked softly.

“I’m goin’ to get him now.” 

“They the ones hurtin’ him?” The thrall had asked, eyes shimmering. 

Moira had paused, thinking that her answer could swing the pendulum either way. The truth then. 

“Yes.” 

“Alright honey. We’ll follow. Sounds far nicer than this shithole anyway.” And then she’d smiled, and it would have been a grandmother’s smile if not for those ghastly fangs. 

And so they had, swift and silent as shadows, leaping over rooftops as she lead them all the way to the Farino mansion. 

That same thrall stood next to her now, patting her stomach with satisfaction, eyeing Moira with interest. She glanced back at her with amusement, as the sounds of wet, gurgling death swirled around them. 

“You full, auntie?” Moira asked slyly. 

“Fit to burst, baby.” She winked as if enjoying a private joke. Then her eyes turned upward. “I can hear him. Up there. Others too.” 

“Thank you.”

Moira was moving, hopping over bodies and thralls, some of whom had taken to lapping up blood that had spilled on the floor, none of it wasted. Some of them noticed her, sending brief nods in her direction. She felt so high, still thrumming with Mary’s blood inside her, shooting sparks through her nervous system, but she moved with purpose, until finally she found the staircase. 

A maid was huddled against the wall, and she screamed in terror at the sight of her. Moira grinned at her, even when she heard the stampede of approaching feet, more men rushing down the halls to attack her, men who had been waiting, but had not bothered to find this maid a decent hiding spot. Too late now. Moira reached into her coat, and drew the twin pistols she’d taken from Aiden McCarthy, moving so swiftly she became a blur. 

Bullet after bullet. She peppered the walls with them. Peppered flesh too. They screamed in Italian while she howled with rage, dancing over their corpses. One of them pushed a woman in a beaded gown into her path, thinking to shield himself. Moira twirled around her, and shot him in the neck, loving the blood that spurted in great geysers, splashing her face and hands. So much death. But she was Kali, and she would destroy this fucking army. 

Macellaia. Máo lēi. Mauler. 

Moira’s laughter was deranged as she killed them. So many men in their expensive suits. She screamed at them, taunted them to run, then laughed again when they scrabbled over each other, willing to throw their companions to the wolf at their door. When she ran out of bullets she used her knife, cutting them down, indifferent to their pleas for mercy, every bit as deadly with this blade, the blade she’d used on her own father. Moira the Mauler. They’d been right to be afraid of her. They’d all been so, so right. She was a fucking monster. 

Be calm, my girl. Be still. 

Madam Qian’s voice whispered in her head. 

Fuck. You. She thought coldly. And the voice went quiet. 

Moira realized suddenly that she was holding the knife to someone’s throat. The poor maid who’d been left shivering to fend for herself. She was crying, trembling so hard she couldn’t even beg. Moira stared at her through wide pupils, her mind aflame. The lust for violence had been so overwhelming she hadn’t even realized who she’d targeted. In an instant she released her hold on the woman’s uniform, and she fell to her knees with a small cry. 

Everything grew silent, and the silence was deafening. Except it wasn’t. Not to Moira who could hear the hum of the electric lights, and the barest hint of a whimper. It was like someone had thrown ice water over her, and she grew impossibly still, listening. Someone was breathing. Someone close by. Then the soft sound of flesh, clamping down on that breathing. Afraid. So very, very afraid. 

She followed the sound carefully, stepping over bodies and on them, feeling their soft flesh beneath her shoes. 

Moira paused before a door that had once been painted a tasteful cream, but was now saturated in scarlet and clumps of brain matter. She did not bother with the doorknob, knowing it would be locked. Instead she kicked it down, using what remained of the strength Mary had given her. She could feel it finally beginning to ebb away. But not completely. 

There sat Remmick in an overstuffed chair, his limbs bound by simple ropes this time. He was so weak, so pale and close to death. They had taken his eye. There were slices and bruises on his body, some fresh, others older, but with his healing it was impossible to tell. Beside him she saw an assortment of surgical instruments lying on a sterile tray, and there was his eye, floating in a glass of water. It was clear they’d tortured him, reveling in his pain, taunting death itself as they took pieces of him, experimenting to see what his body would do. But death had come for them anyway. Death would come to all who’d touched him. 

He could barely lift his head to look at her, but when he did, his good eye widened ever so slightly, perhaps thinking she was a hallucination. She watched his face crumple, watched his shoulders shake as he wept at the sight of her, standing in the same room, drenched with blood. Moira reached down, and touched his face, slowly and deliberately, careful not to startle him. He jumped anyway, momentarily expecting pain, then cried harder at the mere sensation of gentleness. 

Then she placed her fingertips delicately beneath his chin, and tilted it carefully so she could gaze down into that pretty blue eye.

“Mianach.” She murmured, watching his brow furrow. 

Mine. 

Chapter Text

Remmick said nothing. His good eye was glazed and confused as he watched her fish his detached eyeball from the glass of solution on the surgical tray. She lifted it carefully with three fingers, letting it drip as she gently motioned for him to lift his chin for her. He obeyed silently, letting her use her other hand to stretch his empty socket wide, before delicately placing the eye back where it belonged with a gentle push. 

“I’m sorry.” She murmured with a tight grimace. “I know I’m hurtin’ ye.” But he remained silent, only watching her with his good eye as she reached for the bed sheet and tore a long strip. “No idea how long this’ll take ye to heal. I’d feel better if we bandaged it up. Like a pirate.”

She tried to smile down at him, feeling tears prick her own eyes. He only stared, but allowed her to tie the rag around his temple and over the injury. 
Then she took her father’s knife and slashed through the ropes that bound him, far more than would be necessary for any human man, but a vampire surely could have torn right through him. He must have been so, so weak. His shirt was filthy, but as she went to take it off him, she caught a glimpse of what lie beneath, and stilled. 

“Christ what the fuck did they do to ye?” She whispered, horrified by what she saw. They’d cut him open in a deep incision that spanned his shoulders, then down his torso. An autopsy incision. Who knew how many times they’d done it, slicing his flesh then sewing him back together with surgical precision? “Were you awake when they did this?” She asked darkly. He didn’t answer. Only stared, unblinking. Moira could feel her pupils dilate so wide that surely the irises had been swallowed by pure, black rage. “You listen to me, darlin’.” She purred, lowering her mouth to plant a kiss on Remmick’s forehead. “I will find every. Last. One of em.” 

He was looking at her so strangely, blinking hard and uncertainly, so confused but elated by the sheer sight of her, terrified that she would disappear, certain that she would. It was so unfocused, that gaze, as if he was phasing between one reality and the next, at times staring through her. 

A muffled sound from the closet. Moira’s gun was instantly in her hand as she strode toward it and flung it open, revealing a scrawny young man in a tweed suit. He shrieked, and tried to squeeze himself back behind the clothes and their mothball stink, as if he could hide from her. Delightful what these men would do rather than face her wrath. Her lips twitched into a manic grin at the sight of his gloved hands, still sticky with black blood. Remmick’s blood. 

“Ah. I was just talkin’ about ye.” She hissed, grabbing him by the jacket and pressing her silencer to his head, enjoying his pathetic scream of terror. “Fix yer glasses. I want ye to see.” She ordered. The glasses in question were askew, and he adjusted them with trembling hands. They magnified his brown eyes ever so slightly. How adorable. Moira threw him facedown into the carpet, then looked at Remmick. “This the doctor?” 

“Mm…medical student…please. I’m just a student!” The young man stammered. “Please don’t hurt me! I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Ohhh a student! Did ye learn a lot? Gonna pass yer exams with flyin’ colors?” She snarled derisively. Remmick was staring down at him with a dull, hazy expression, as if he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Moira reached down and grabbed the student viciously by the hair, yanking his head back. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! They offered to pay for college! I just want to help people! Please!” He babbled, sobbing like a child. 

Moira reached around his head to squeeze his cheeks, forcing him to look up at her vampire, who was still watching so glassy eyed, so damn hungry. “Look at him, ye fuckin’ cunt. Look at what ye’ve done.” She bellowed, then glanced back up at Remmick. “He the one who did that?” She gestured at his patched up eye. Remmick nodded slowly. “Alright then.” Grabbing a scalpel from the tray, she jabbed it directly into her victim’s eyeball, and twisted, listening to him howl in pain and terror. 

“No no no please PLEASE!” He screamed, so loud and long and shrill. 

“Ye know, I never even asked yer name.” Moira mused as she twisted, and pulled. The man made a sickening sort of gasp as she popped his eye right out of the socket, and flicked it off the end of the scalpel. It landed somewhere on the carpet. “Normally, this is when I’d ask for yer final words, whoever ye are.”

“J…Joshua…Koh…” he stammered. 

“Oh, I don’t give a fuck.” She used the scalpel to nick his artery. 

Remmick pounced, or rather tried to. His movements were sluggish and almost drunken. Moira had to sit behind their victim and keep him propped up so that Remmick could latch onto his throat and drink. She didn’t mind the fresh blood that squirted onto her chin. What difference did it make? She was already saturated.

Remmick lifted his good eye to stare at her as he drank, while Moira kept Joshua firmly in place, pinning his arms as he squirmed, his head rolling back to rest on her while Remmick gulped slowly. It was almost intimate, the way she held both of them. God she was so much stronger now. She wondered how long it would last as she watched a shade of color return to Remmick’s pallid skin, leeching the life from this idiot who’d probably had a grand time dissecting him. How fascinating it must have been to carve up a man who did not die under your knife. The high was ebbing away, but so far there seemed to be an underlying strength that showed no signs of slowing. 

“We have to get ye out of here.” Moira whispered, her mind racing. She really hadn’t planned this far ahead. Honestly, she’d expected to be eviscerated by the end of the night. 

“I know a place.” A voice said gruffly from the doorway. Moira hadn’t even heard Stack approach, though that wasn’t surprising. “We can take you there.” 

That did surprise her. “Why?” 

Stack tilted his head at her, flashing a gold tooth. “I’d say you’ve earned it.” Then he glanced around at his surroundings as though inspecting the wood paneling for dry rot. “We’ll be keeping this house though. It’s nice.” Moira snorted with some amusement. They were welcome to it.

Stack was watching Remmick closely. “Hey. That’s enough! You’ll make yourself sick. He’s done.” He was moving closer, ready to yank Remmick away from his victim, and in doing so, his hand brushed her shoulder. 

Remmick’s response was alarming. His scarlet eyes went huge and round, and he tried to lunge for him, his hands twisting into claws as something like the growl of a wounded beast erupted from his throat, making Moira gasp. 

“Remmick, no.” She hissed. “Hey. Look at me. It’s alright, luv.” 

Stack lurched back, raising his palms to show him he’d meant no harm, but Remmick’s chest was heaving, and he was staring wildly between him and Moira with such uncertainty. 

“Remmick…” Stack’s face twisted into something like pity. “Hey, man. It’s only me. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Alright? We gonna get you out of this.” Remmick’s lip was twitching rapidly, like a snarling dog, gazing at Stack with intensity. Stack’s face softened. “I ain’t gonna hurt her, neither.” 

“Come on.” Moira murmured gently. “Let’s get ye up. We don’t have much time.” She rose slowly to her feet, and held out a hand to him. “Think ye can walk?” He tried, but it was a struggle. She pulled his arm around her shoulder. “Go on. Lean on me. I’ve got ye.” Lord, he was so much lighter than he should have been. Stack looked like he wanted to help, but it was clear that Remmick would be touched by no one but Moira. 

Mary was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide at the sight of them, slowly picking their way across a maze of stiffening corpses. 

“Shit, girl. You do all this?” She asked, shaking her head incredulously, then pulling a face as if she were impressed, in spite of herself. 

Moira only grunted in response, then slowly, painfully slowly, the three of them managed to walk Remmick down the stairs, one at a time. He could barely stand on his own. 

Remmick did not say a word. He didn’t even whimper in pain. 

When they reached the ballroom, Moira was forced to face the carnage she’d left behind her. Thralls were still hunching over corpses, sucking what little they could find, licking blood from the their fingers, from the walls, from anything and everything. Amusingly, some of them were rummaging the bodies for new clothes that fit. Some of them had started a game of cards, using a stiff corpse as a table. They all stopped to stare at Remmick. No, not at Remmick, she realized. They were staring at her, but not with hunger. With curiosity. 

The woman in the Sunday dress approached Moira with a kind, motherly smile, and held out an ugly carpet bag.

“Here you go, baby. Scrounged this up for ye.” She said with all the sweetness of a grandmother slipping her favorite grandchild a toffee. 
Moira glanced at it warily as the old woman unclasped it for her. She peaked inside. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” Then she laughed bitterly.

It was heavy with cash. More money than she’d ever seen in her life. Cash and jewelry, ropes of pearls and golden tie clips. It had somehow never occurred to her to rob the place. 

“Ain’t got much use for it.” The woman shrugged. “Ain’t gonna be stoppin’ at Woolworth’s any time soon. Name’s Deirdre, honey. You come call on us now and then, yeah? You’ve got friends here.” She reached out and patted Moira’s cheek with fondness, making Moira chuckle nervously. “Here, baby,” She retrieved the carpet bag and passed it to Stack. “Be a gentleman and carry this for her? She got her hands full.” Stack nodded, and took it. Moira wondered if perhaps they had known each other before they’d been turned. 

Remmick was staring blankly at the grim scene before him, his eyes roaming over every detail. At the thralls who watched them with intensity as they fed, filling their bellies with such gluttony, their bodies twisting and writhing, lounging languidly on velveteen sofas and smoking cigars their victims had left behind. He looked at the bloody marble floor, at the handprints someone had smeared across it as they’d been dragged, screaming. He looked at the remnants of a pearl necklace that had been scattered. He looked at the broken glass and the gobs of dried blood in Deirdre’s hair. Finally, he looked at Moira with such a blank expression that it frightened her. 

Then finally, he spoke. The first words she’d heard him say tonight. 

“Is this hell?” 

****************************************

“Did you take us to a goddamn trap house?” Mary demanded somewhat indignantly when they finally, finally arrived at the shelter Stack had promised. 

Stack looked at Moira and shrugged. “Ain’t much, but it’s payed for. Me n’ Smoke used to hole up here sometimes. Ain’t nobody gonna bother you here.” 

“It’s perfect.” Moira tried to sound grateful, but she was so, so tired. Whatever magic was in Mary’s blood had worn off an hour ago and she’d had to use what little human strength she had left to hold Remmick upright as they walked him here. Still, something inside her had been permanently altered. She could feel it. The sky was already beginning to lighten to a dark grey. She had to get him inside. 

Stack pointed down the street. “Bodega’s that way. Pharmacy right next to it. Plenty of low lives and thugs here for him to eat, if you care about who gets eaten that is.” 

Moira snorted with amusement. “Delighted that ye think my morals aren’t compromised after what I did last night.” 

“Moira, believe me, I am the last mother fucker on earth to judge you on that. If that was my girl they’d taken…” he sucked his teeth. “Shit, I’d burn this whole fuckin’ city down.” 

She shook her head slowly, and watched Mary open the front door and peer inside, before hefting the carpet bag of money in for her. “It would never have been her. Ye wouldn’t have let em take her to begin with, Stack.” There was such bitterness and guilt in her voice. 

Stack considered her for a long moment, then shrugged, clearly deciding that the help he was already offering did not include any sort of emotional labor. Reasonable. 

The tiny townhouse was surprisingly decent, if in need of a good clean. Whitewashed brick and warped oak floors, possibly a mouse or two. It was essentially one room with an attached kitchen, with the living room serving as a bedroom as well. Miniscule, even compared to Mrs. Chen’s house, which Moira vowed never to set foot in again. It was more than she could have asked for. Gingerly, she helped Remmick sit on the edge of the bed that had been pushed up against the wall. God they were both so filthy. 

As if reading her mind, Mary said “We can bring you some things from that old place. We know where it is. Been keepin’ an eye on you for a while now.” 

Moira scoffed at her with surprise. “How long?” 

Mary tapped her temple. “He asked us to. After they took him. Wanted to make sure you were still breathing.”

A shame then, that Jimmy had made his move during the day, when Stack and Mary could not intervene. 

Stack pointed up the stairs. “Bathroom’s up there. It ain’t much but Smoke and I rigged this place up. There’s electricity and hot water. All off the books of course. Stove’s a wood burner so you’ll need to get some. Nothin’ else to heat this place.” His mouth quirked to the side. “You think you’ll be alright, Moira? With him?” 

Remmick had not said a single word since they’d left the Farino house. Not one syllable. Moira looked at him, feeling her heart sink to the pit of her stomach. He looked so empty. But she nodded and gave Stack a grim smile. 

“We’ll be just fine.” She watched Mary and Stack disappear into what was left of that cold night. Then she considered Remmick, watching him slowly take in his surroundings. “Come on. Let’s clean you up.” She held out a hand and waited patiently for him to take it. 

She peeled the repulsive clothes from his body, vowing to burn them in the morning, and gently led him into the shower, which she assumed Stack and his brother had built themselves. It was nice, actually. Tile walls and a chipped clawfoot tub. She  used a bar of Palmolive soap she’d found still wrapped beneath the sink to gently wash his hair, gingerly lifting the bandage around his ruined eye. The delicate nerves had already reattached, but it was rimmed with blood around his waterline. 

“Can’t see out of it yet, huh? If I hurt you, you’ll tell me.” She murmured. It was not a request. He nodded slowly, but watched her every move as she stood outside the shower, and carefully washed the blood and filth from him until every inch of his body was clean. She took the time to inspect his injuries, feeling the weight in her chest grow heavier with every one she found, but she cleaned those too. 

When she touched her fingers gently over a particularly nasty scar that ran the length of his thigh, she heard his breath hitch, and pulled back immediately. But his eyes were still wide, staring at her face, and when she glanced back down she realized his cock had stirred at her touch. She snorted with amusement, and smirked, about to make an off color remark, but his expression had not changed. He was still looking at her, wide eyed and expressionless. 

She smiled sadly. “I’ll go find ye somethin’ to wear if ye’d like to towel off.” But when she turned to leave, his hand snaked out to grab her wrist. It was good to feel some of that strength returning, and she wanted to say so, but his eyes were now so terrified, full of silent desperation that she stopped herself. “Alright. Alright. I won’t leave ye. Ok? I won’t go anywhere. But I’m going to wash up too, yeah? I look like a charnel house.” He nodded, and allowed her to help him step out of the shower.

It might have bothered her once, to have him watch her clean herself, but the way he watched was different, as if he were afraid to blink. She’d have to burn her clothes too. They were even worse than his. She was rinsing her hair after a third wash when she felt him touch her, his fingers delicately brushing her shoulder, and then her back, lingering on the scars Matteo had once left there. There was such childlike focus on his face as he did this, prodding her gently, tracing her tattooed skin. Moira let him do this as she washed her face. 

Remmick watched her dry off, and wrap the towel around herself as best she could. She gave him a look of mock annoyance. 

“I’ve never found one that can actually cover me.” She said, gesturing at her tits, hoping to make him smile. He didn’t. Her brow furrowed. “Remmick…if yer angry, I understand. But please…please say somethin.’ Cuss me out. Tear me a new one. I don’t mind.”

“Are…” he cleared his throat, as if speaking pained him. “…are you…real?” His face flushed a little, as if embarrassed. 

Moira felt the tears leap unbidden into her eyes, choking her. She gasped a little, then swallowed. The way he’d asked this was so soft, so frightened and so earnest that she could feel her heart break beneath the weight of her guilt. 

“I’m real. Yer safe now.” She cupped his face in her hands. “I’m going to protect ye now, ye ken?” 
But he was still looking at her like he expected her to vanish like smoke before his very eyes. 

“I…” he began, then stopped.

“It’s alright. Ye don’t have to say any more if ye don’t want.”

“I watched you die.” He whispered. Panic was creeping in around the edges of his voice. “You can’t be real.” He grabbed her by both shoulders, startling her, but he was only touching her, prodding her cheeks and lips, his eyes wild. “I saw you die. I saw it.” 

“No. No, Remmick. Ye didn’t. See?” She unwrapped the towel around herself little to show him the scar over her left breast. “It was a piss poor shot. And Mary, she healed me with her blood. I’m real, luv. And I’m not leavin’ ye.” She smiled as best she could. It was hard. Her vision was blurry with tears, and he was frowning at her. “But we are gonna have to find clothes.” 

She took his hand. It was clear that he simply wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight, still unconvinced that she wasn’t some vivid hallucination, or a devil’s trick meant to lure him into a false sense of security before ripping her away again. Moira managed to scrounge up trousers for him and an oversized dress shirt for herself. She supposed she’d have to borrow the trousers if she needed to go out. 

Long fingers were touching her hair, trembling as he held a few of her curls, and sniffed them. Then she felt him bury his nose in her hair and simply breathe for a moment before brushing it out of his way, and with enormous trepidation, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, and smelling her here as well. It was too much for her, the feeling of him behind her, touching her this way. 

“Why are you cryin’?” He asked softly. 

“I’m not.” She answered a bit curtly. 

“Yes you are.” He whispered, and it was true. She reached up to wipe her tears away, but he caught the hand and pressed her palm to his face, inhaling deeply. “Angels shouldn’t cry.” 

“I’m not dead, ye daft cunt.” She snapped. 

His eyes flew open and he suddenly grabbed her shoulders, and spun her around. His hands were greedily roaming her face, smoothing back her hair, and he was gazing into her eyes with a spark of life that filled her with relief. Or perhaps it was madness. 

“That sounded real.” He swayed alarmingly on his feet, and she lunged for him, wrapping his arm around her aching shoulders and hauling him slowly down the stairs to the little single bed there. 

“I’ll find someone fer you to drink in the morning.” She muttered. “Or ye can drink me. I don’t mind.” 

“Not you. Anyone but you. Please.” That panic was creeping into his voice again. “Please. I’d rather starve.” 

“You say that now but…” 

“Please, Moira. Anything else.” 

She crossed her arms. “I’d say ye should drink what ye can get.” 

He shook his head. “If I taste you now, I won’t be able to stop. If I taste your blood, and it turns out you’re real, I…” he licked his lips uncertainly. “I don’t think I’m strong enough, babygirl.” 

Moira nodded helplessly. What else could she do? When he let her help him downstairs to the little bed pressed against the cold wall, she let him pull her close, unwilling to let her out of her sight for even a moment. Eventually she managed to gently persuade him to lay his head on her chest so she could gently run her fingers through his hair, so that he would not be able to see her cry, though of course he knew anyway. 

“Wish you’d stop, dream Moira.” He grumbled. “Pretty girls shouldn’t cry.” 

“Fuck you.” She sniffled. 

****************************************

Hunting was a disaster. Moira and Remmick had exactly one clean outfit between the two of them, and she didn’t dare risk venturing to one of the ritzier neighborhoods to buy more clothes. She’d have to depend on Stack and Mary to bring them some. So she tugged on the oversized men’s trousers and went shivering into the street, pinching color into her cheeks in a feeble attempt to achieve a youthful glow. There was only one strategy she could think of to try to lure someone in, and damn it all, she was terrible at it. 

Remmick begged her not to leave, even going so far as to bar the door with his body, pleading with her not to go. He looked terrible, and his eyes were so wide and blue and it had taken a full hour of reassurance that she was in fact real, and she would absolutely be back, and that he needed to feed, goddamnit. His bad eye looked worse today, the sclera bruised a mottled red as the blood vessels healed themselves, but at least he could see a little bit out of it today. Still, the sight of his body struggling to correct itself made her angry and determined to somehow rectify this. 

“I can hunt later. You don’t need to go out there.” He sounded so afraid for her. 

“You can barely stand. Yer starvin’, luv.” She pressed her lips together. 

“I can starve a little longer.” He grumbled. 

She threw her hands up. “And what good would that do? Forgive me if I don’t want to be cooped up with a hungry fuckin’ vampire.” 

“I can’t protect you right now.” Remmick glared at her. “What if you get shot again? In broad daylight this time, and no Mary to drink from.” 

This set her teeth on edge. This was the third time this morning he’d mentioned Mary, and it agitated her. 

“Just spit it out.” She sighed. “Does it bother ye?” 

“Oh yes, darlin’.” He growled savagely. “It bothers me that you had another’s blood inside you. It bothers me, because you’re mine and if yer gonna imbibe…” 

“You listen to me, darlin’,” She growled right back. “She did it because I fuckin’ asked her to, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I did a fat number of despicable things last night, and I’d do all that again too.”

“Why?” He snarled. “Was it that catholic guilt you carry with ye?” 

“Oh fuck off.” 

“You asked, baby. So I’m tellin’. I do not appreciate you knowin’ the taste of another vampire’s blood. And I do not appreciate what you’re about to do in order to feed me like a damn dog, when I can simply wait until tonight. How far are you gonna go? You gonna find a nice street corner to stand on? Get some John to follow you home?” She scowled. Actually, that was exactly her plan. Remmick cracked his neck, then ran his fingers through his hair in a huff. “Fuck. I can’t even decide what’s real and what ain’t.” He gave her a long look. “I might be arguin’ with a damn ghost right now.” 

“Alright, well if I’m dead, and you’re properly dead, where the fuck are we then? Hmm?” She gestured around them. 

“Purgatory maybe? Maybe they have no idea what to do with us yet.” He scratched the back of his head. 

Moira snorted. “Purgatory or no, you need to eat somethin’ as soon as possible, and if that means givin’ a stranger a tug job then so be it.” 

She was joking, but Remmick’s face twisted into a mask of rage at these words.

“So help me Moira, if you-“ he started forward, jerkily, but she held up a hand, and he stopped, eyes wide with fury. 

“I’ll tell ye what you’ll do, you crazy fuck. You’ll let me fuckin’ help you. Ye can reign vengeance upon me when yer well again.” Her gaze softened. “I promise I won’t do nothin’ reserved fer married people.” Another joke, but he was still glowering. 

“We ain’t married.” He grumbled, rather stupidly in her opinion, but she felt an enormous surge of affection. 

“Well then I won’t do nothin’ reserved for us sodomites, then.” She grinned.

But the way he was looking at her made her grin falter, sort of oddly serious in a way that made her heart stop, as if he were considering her from a new angle. Then, mouth twisting to the side, he let her through, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall just barely out of sun’s reach. It would have been comical, given the fact that he wore only a blanket tied loosely around his waist. When she reached for the doorknob, he took her wrist and brought her hand to his lips. 

“Come back to me, ghost Moira.” 

Up until this point, she had been afraid to kiss him, worried, perhaps foolishly, that she would hurt him or even frighten him, but the look in his eyes was pleading. He needed to be kissed, needed to feel her. Somewhere she had to admit, she thought he might hate her, might not want anything to do with her once he came to his senses. Fuck that. She released the doorknob and hooked her fingers around the blanket he’d wrapped himself in, drawing him close until their lips touched, so gently as if she too were afraid he’d disappear at any moment. Remmick whimpered deliciously against her mouth and reached up to cup her face. Something prodded her urgently against her belly, and she broke the kiss with a grin, glancing down at the tent his cock had made, feeling it twitch. 

“Nice to see that still works just fine.” She murmured. 

“Now I really don’t want you goin’ nowhere.” He growled. 

She laughed and pressed him gently back against the wall. 

The pharmacy carried lipstick, thank god. She selected a color two shades darker than her usual. A worthwhile investment as far as she was concerned. She’d need the confidence to do what she needed to do. Her mark was older, with salt and pepper in his hair. She’d fixed him with a shy, wide eyed look she’d seen others use on unsuspecting men, and asked if he could spare a cigarette. 

He’d been only too happy to oblige, pleased that a younger woman was paying attention to him in any capacity. She almost felt sorry for him as she played dumb, allowing him to spew forth his incorruptible opinions on everything from politics to lady’s daywear. The feeling dissipated as soon as he’d eyed her oversized men’s clothes with pity and declared that she needed to find herself a man who could buy her nice things. 

“Are you a nice man?” She purred, trying her best to affect a delicate simper. Moira had never been good at these games, always too loud, too outspoken, too quick to banter. This time she bit her tongue when he gave her what she thought to be a patronizing smile. Or maybe she just wanted it to be patronizing. Anything to alleviate the guilt of what she was about to do. “Nice enough to see me home?” She reached out coyly, and brushed her fingers against his, then acted bashful, as if shocked by her own boldness. 

This man had never wronged her, had never wronged anyone as far as she knew. Not even a wedding band on his finger. Nothing with which she could let herself off the hook as she walked arm and arm with him, pretending to laugh at his jokes, giving his bicep a playful squeeze, and smiling. So much damned smiling. Her face hurt. 

But he recognized the dilapidated townhouse. He knew who it belonged to, had grown up in this neighborhood, and knew that the last men who lived here were Smoke and Stack. He knew then, that he wanted nothing to do with her, nothing to do with anything that involved this particular house, no matter that its owners hadn’t been seen in months. Too late. Far too late. Moira pressed her gun into the small of his back, and nudged him onto the porch as he looked wildly around, desperate for someone, anyone to intervene. There was no one else to save him. And in this neighborhood, she doubted anyone would care. 

“Open it.” She commanded stiffly, cocking her gun loudly, making him jump like a startled hare. “Don’t look at me,” she snapped when he tried to turn his head. “Just open the door.”

“Please. Please just take my wallet. It’s in the back pocket. Should be ten dollars in there.” His voice cracked, and god she wished he wouldn’t. 

“Open. The door.” Moira pressed the gun deep enough in his back to leave a bruise. 
His hands were shaking, and she watched him closely, fingering the knife in her palm in case he tried anything stupid, though it might be kinder if he did. 

As soon as the knob turned, she gave him a violent shove inside, then quickly followed, locking the door behind her, her father’s knife in her hand. Just in case Remmick needed help, the way he had with the medical student who had cut out his eye. 

Her vampire needed no assistance from her. He took his victim down with a vicious strike to his knee, the claws rendering flesh, shattering bone as easily as snapping a chicken wing. The man screamed. Moira clamped a hand around his mouth from behind, uncertain if this was the sort of neighborhood to phone the police. Unlikely, if Smoke and Stack had lived here. He bit down hard, making her yelp in pain, jerking the hand from his mouth. A mistake. Remmick’s face went white with fury at the sound, and she knew in that moment that if he wasn’t so damn hungry he would have dragged out this man’s torment all night long. 

The sight of Remmick’s monstrous face made him so numb with fear that the scream died in his throat, his mouth going wide, gaping in silent horror as he looked upon his death. Moira kicked at his bad knee, making him grunt as he fell, and then Remmick was upon him like a wild dog, sinking his fangs deep into a shoulder, so crazed with hunger that he missed the artery. 

He took a few long, slow gulps, listening to the man’s desperate prayers for mercy, but to her surprise, he stopped to glare up at her. She furrowed her brow and shrugged.

“What?” She asked. 

Snarling, he yanked his victim’s head back by his salt and pepper hair. “The things he wanted to do to you.” 

“Oh fer fuck’s sake.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’s a dirty old man. So what?” 

“Edwin, is it?” Remmick snorted. “Stupid fuckin’ name.” Then he clasped Edwin’s wrist and held it up. “This the hand you touched hers with? How sweet.” He crooned with cold mockery, then bit two of his fingers clean off. 

Edwin screamed, and Moira panicked, grabbing the nearest thing she could find to stuff in his mouth, which happened to be an old issue of The National Police Gazette. Blood splattered over a black and white picture of a woman in a swimsuit as Edwin bellowed, the shock making his eyes bulge alarmingly. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Remmick!” Moira snapped. 

Remmick eyed her with a spark of amusement as he spat the fingers onto the floor and smiled at her with blood stained fangs, making her glad she’d bought him a toothbrush. 

“If it makes ye feel any better, he ain’t some kind daddy figure. He was gonna rape you, sugar. Then rob you blind. Ain’t that right Edwin?” 

“No no oh my god no I swear I wasn’t gonna…I wouldn’t!” Edwin pleaded, looking at Moira for a shred of mercy. 

She only pursed her lips at him and shrugged. “That does make me feel better.” 

Remmick gave her another monstrous leer, then savagely ripped Edwin’s throat out with his teeth. 
Moira had prepared for this, and grabbed one of several large jam jars she’d cleaned earlier, waiting for Remmick to drink his fill, then popping Edwin’s head back to capture as much as she could. Amazing how much blood the human body contained. 

Remmick eyed her curiously. “Clever.” He remarked. 

She snorted. “You vampires are so damn wasteful.”

His head tilted to the side and she was relieved to finally see that his face had regained a decently healthy pallor, even if he was still looking at her like she was a hallucination. “Can I have the pants back now?” 

“After I dispose of him.” She answered, looking at him carefully. “We should take those stitches out. Looks like ye don’t need ‘em anymore.” 
Without his blood, their victim was a far bit lighter than he should have been, but it still took an awful lot of grunting and heaving on Moira’s end to drag him out back, then even more grunting and straining to awkwardly haul the corpse into the dumpster, where Stack had recommended they dispose of any remains. Trash came and went every Wednesday. She had no idea when Wednesday was. She hoped it was soon. Poor Edwin, she thought. Then she spat on his face before covering him with trash. Fucker. 

The guilt was still there, though. Was it acceptable to kill a man for what he’d intended to do, when there was no way of knowing whether he’d actually do any of it? A philosophical conundrum that Moira was too tired to entertain properly. Then she saw Remmick standing in the tiny kitchen, washing the blood off his face, and running wet fingers through his hair before shaking them off with a sigh and goddamnit why did he have to look at her like that? Then she didn’t care if Edwin had been innocent or not. Remmick had to eat, the same way any predator must. Then he was brushing his teeth and she was watching the way his arm muscles jiggled with the motion. 

“You’re starin’ at me, ghost Moira.” He said around the toothbrush. 

She shrugged. “Yer nice to look at.” Funny how she could admit that now. But she frowned at the stitches still running along the deep Y-shaped incision across his chest and belly, feeling that dark swelling of rage again. She suddenly didn’t care how many Edwins she had to kill. She would see him whole again, even if it cost whatever shreds of her soul remained. She let him finish up, then pointed at the bed. “Lie down.” 

He chuckled. “Bossy boots.” 

Moira’s mouth twisted as he stretched out for her. The last thing on earth she wanted to do was hurt him, but it had to be done before Remmick’s body healed completely. Then the stitches might never come out. She sighed as she retrieved the tweezers she’d bought at the pharmacy. 

“I’ll try to be gentle.” She murmured. 

“Don’t bother.” He grunted. “Just get it over with.” 

Moira had plenty of experience in this, to a degree, in causing pain for another’s benefit. How many clients were walking around Chicago with her ink in their skin? She gave him little warning, but used her thumb and forefinger to stretch his skin taught before extracting the stitches quickly, parallel to his flesh, careful not to tear any open. He did not so much as flinch, but he screwed his eyes shut and did not stop her even once. She worked in sections, across one pectoral, then the other, thinking about scalpels and gloved hands and slow, black blood. He must have been in absolute agony and terror, awake the entire time. 

“You’re cryin’ again.” Remmick had opened one eye to glare at her. “Knock it off.” 

“I’m not.” A childish answer, as she clearly was. 

“The real Moira wouldn’t cry over me.” He grunted. 

“What would the real Moira do?” 

“She’d tell me I had it comin.’ And she’d be right.” 

“How the fuck do ye figure that?” She snapped.

“I didn’t save her.” Remmick answered blandly. 
Moira went still, as a feeling of absolute despair welled up in her throat, threatening to overwhelm her. Somehow the thought that Remmick would have even considered saving Qian had not occurred to her even once. They had despised each other. 

“Neither did I.” She whispered. The grief was still so damn complicated. 

Remmick was watching her face carefully as she continued to remove his stitches. God, there were so many. The bastards. 

“If it helps alleviate whatever self inflicted torment you’re puttin’ yerself through, I wanted to kill her. I wanted her fuckin’ dead, but yeah I would’ve saved her. For you. She loved you. Selfishly, but it was there, baby.” 

“I burnt it down.” She admitted softly. “The speakeasy. And I burned all of ‘em.”

Remmick’s eyes widened for a moment, then he laughed. “Goddamn, I bet you did, sweet thing.” 

She pulled out another stitch, a touch too hard, making him wince. “Sorry,” she muttered. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry for, ye hear?” He said it so gently that it worried her. Why did she want him to be angry with her so badly? 

She didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see that funny toothy grin, the one she’d fallen in love with that night at the diner. Instead she wiped her tears angrily and continued with almost robotic diligence until she found a rhythm. There were so, so many. Without realizing it, she began to sing softly to herself, a Hindi song she barely remembered, a song about rain because it was indeed beginning to storm outside, a song of longing and loss. 

Remmick said nothing, only listened, perhaps worried that if he did, she would stop. 

“All done.” She murmured. His long, slow exhale of relief was the only sign that he was in any sort of pain. Moira bit her lip. “I bought a salve. I’m sure ye don’t need it, with the way you heal, but…” 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

So she did this too, with as delicate a touch as she could, applying ointment down the length of the incision, wondering silently if he would still carry the scar for the rest of his immortal life. 

“Can you do somethin’ else for me?” He asked quietly. “If yer up to it, could ye play that?” He pointed at her mother’s sitar, still in its case, leaning against the wall where she’d left it. 

She hesitated. “I’m not very good.” 

“Liar.” He chuckled. 

So she did play for him, smiling just a little when he frowned at how sad it sounded, then switching to something a little more lighthearted until he simply watched her fingers dance over the frets with lazy contentment. 

“What’s that called?” He asked. 

She shrugged. “Sitar’s an improvisational instrument. Nothin’ written as far as I know. I’m not supposed to be playin’ it anyway. Man’s instrument.” 

He scoffed. “Says who?” 

She shrugged again, but kept playing anyway. 

****************************************

She didn’t remember falling asleep. It simply settled over her like a heavy blanket, and for a long time she did not even dream, until she was startled awake by a slow, languid orgasm, only to realize that Remmick had smoothed open her thighs, and was gently licking her, so soft and so devastatingly tender, his eyes closed as he savored her. Stay with me, he’d said last night. I want to feel you next to me.

She gasped, so surprised, but he ignored this and dipped his head lower to suckle her clit with such reverence that she reached down to brush his hair out of his eyes. Then finally he looked up at her, his tongue swirling slowly as he did, not stopping even for a moment. She felt tears prickle the back of her eyes. After so much grief and pain and terror and rage, this pleasure had an enormous effect on her emotional state. But Remmick was still recovering, still weakened from all that had happened. She could see it in the hollows of his cheeks and beneath his eyes. 

“Ye don’t have to…”she started to protest. 

“Mmm…” he only grunted in response, turning his full attention back to her throbbing clit, as if this worship was merely a selfish indulgence and he’d be damned if she’d take it away. Her moan was low and heady. God it felt too good. 

“Fuck. As talented as you are, yer not well enough, luv.” She tried feebly to wriggle from his grasp. 

He snarled, and jerked her firmly back into place, feasting on her like a madman, his eyes flashing scarlet. It was too much. Moira cried out as she came again, so hard against his wicked tongue, gasping and shivering as he continued, savoring every damn drop of her. Remmick dipped two fingers inside her, watching her in rapt fascination as she pulsed around the digits. 

“I was watchin’ you sleep,” he growled softly. “Waitin’ for you to vanish. I keep seeing him shoot you. Again and again. And I couldn’t hold you. Couldn’t tear myself out of that fuckin’ chair and go to you. Then they dragged you out like…like you were nothin’ but trash, and I…” He gave her another tentative lick, his eyes rolling back in his head, making her whimper. “If you’re dead, and I’m dead, then I’m going to spend eternity right here, between your thighs.” 

“We’re not dead,” she whispered. 

He snarled, and suddenly shoved her knees up as far as they would go, holding them in place, locking her down as he continued to fuck her with his mouth, whimpering against her flesh as if she tasted of heaven. 

“Moira…oh god my beautiful Moira…” he was feverish, breathless as he licked her without mercy. She was far too sensitive from coming so quickly and every stroke felt like lightning behind her eyes, not quite pain. 

“Remmick. I’m real. We’re alive.” She whispered. He was unbuttoning his pants, still moaning into her flesh, ignoring her. “Remmick STOP.” His eyes flickered open at the edge of panic in her voice. He stopped and looked up at her in confusion, his eyes glazed. “You’re not well enough yet.” She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Ye need to heal. It’s makin ye delusional. You need to feed again, my love.” 

“See, that’s how I know you ain’t real.” He sneered almost lazily. 

She scoffed. “Fuckin’ hell.” It terrified her, the way he was in denial, as if his torture had cracked his mind.

“The Moira I know tucks tail and runs when I so much as hint at love.” He was grinning, but the grin did not reach his eyes. 

“Alright then.” Her lip quivered with either hurt, or anger. Hard to tell. So that’s how it was. Had her confession on the night of the Autumn moon meant nothing? Had he simply chalked it up to the heat of the moment? Oh he’d pissed her off. How dare he? He’d tasted her damned blood, hadn’t he? Shouldn’t he know that when Moira said things like I love you, she meant it? With a strength that shocked them both, she wove her legs through his, and flipped him onto his back, her lips curling in a sneer. His eyes widened in shock, and it was almost funny. “This how I prove it? Hmm? Ye want me to ignore yer pain and have my way with ye?” 

“Yes please.” He nodded solemnly. A glimmer of his old self, rakish and charming. 

She reached down and tugged him free, making him hiss in either pleasure or torment. 

“Look at me.” Moira moaned softly, as she positioned him at her entrance. “Look at me. Do I look real to you now?” His brow furrowed, and he licked his lips uncertainly. “You don’t trust yer eyes?” She hovered over him. “Then trust this.” She pressed her lips to his, and eased herself onto him, impaling herself slowly, swallowing his strangled groan as he sank inside of her, but she did not break the kiss. 

Long fingers tangled into her hair, and he gasped against her lips as she fucked him, feverish and desperate, loving the hard swell of him, the way he filled her with his girth. She placed her hands on his chest and rode him hard, loving the way his face twisted with pleasure, the way he cried out and bit his lip. Sneering down at him, she pinned his wrists above his head, listening to him beg softly as she pleasured herself on his cock. 

“Oh god. Moira…” he broke off in a low murmur, that ancient language dancing over his tongue. “Slow down. Please, I don’t wanna cum yet. Please.” 

“I’m fuckin’ real, Remmick. I burnt my home to the ground.” She snarled between thrusts, feeling his balls tense against her as she swirled her hips, increasing the friction between her thighs, squeezing him hard with her pussy. “I killed every last soldier. I unleashed yer thralls on the Farino house and I found ye. I destroyed them all. For you.” 

Finally, he used what vampire strength he had to break free, sitting up a little and grabbing her ass with both hands to still her, his lips finding hers, stopping her mouth so sweetly that she relented, all anger ebbing away in a single moment of gentleness. 

“The Moira I know…” he began.

“Maybe ye don’t know me as well as ye thought.” She snapped. “I hate myself, Remmick.”

“No, baby.” He licked his lips and touched his nose to hers. “Ye can’t say that. Don’t ever say that.” 

“I hate what I did. I hate that I didn’t trust you. And look what they fuckin’ did.” Her voice broke. 

“Shh. Honey I gave you a million reasons not to trust me. I made that bed myself. They would have taken me with or without you. You know that, right? Yeah. I think you do.” He smiled. “Yer only takin’ the blame because it makes you feel like you’re in control.”

Moira gasped when he thrust himself deeper inside her, swirling his hips to grind against her clit the way she loved. Feeling merciful, she took his hands and gently encouraged him to touch her, smoothing them up her thighs to rest on her hips for a moment, then placing his hand to her throat, her eyes shimmering. 

“Meri jaan. Fine. You’re in control, now. Go on.” She breathed. 

Remmick growled, almost piteously. “You feel so damn good…so…fuck.” 

His grip tightened around her throat until she saw stars. She felt herself climax around him, soft and delicious, squeezing him every bit as hard as he was squeezing her. It shattered him. He sat up, wrapping his arms around her as he thrust up into her, pounding her slick cunt so hard she screamed into his waiting mouth. 

“I…I love you.” He whispered, thrusting viciously. “If you leave me again, I’ll…fuck, Moira…” 

He was crying. Remmick, who was hundreds of years old, and the strongest creature she had ever encountered, had tears running down his face. Moira watched them travel down his throat, and held him close. 

And then she felt it. Those teeth at her throat, drool dribbling down her neck. But she didn’t pull away, simply exhaled slowly as he fucked her with brutality. He had snapped. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the tension of his muscles as she clung to him for dear life. His fingers were clutching her back hard enough to bruise. 

“I love you, Moira. But you died, baby. I saw you die.” 

And those fangs pierced her flesh, sharp and blinding her with pain. He thrust up inside her so deep, she threw her head back, pupils widening, the black bleeding into her irises, consuming her vision as fire poured through her veins. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His moans were vicious, snarling like a beast from hell as he drank her, filling himself with her life. 

She closed her eyes, watching the memories flash in her dying mind, so rapidly that she could barely make them out. They were memories of him. Standing on the speakeasy porch, showing her gold coins she wouldn’t take, speaking a language that shook her to her core. Sitting outside of her window, watching her oil her hair. Stealing that first kiss against the bar while every emotion warred in her body. The way he’d carried her from the police station as she shivered down to her bones. The first time they’d made love. 

Moira knew she should have stopped him, but somehow, it felt so good. And she was ready. She’d been ready for a long time. He was still pounding into her, agonizingly hard, and when she came it rolled over her in waves so sweetly, and oh god if this was the last thing she felt on this earth, she was bloody well fine with it, and if it meant healing him, she was fine with that too.

 
“I love…” she tried to say, but she choked. It was far too painful to speak. 

Remmick came with a deep, torturous groan, and she felt him pulsing so deep within her as he spilled his seed, his body trembling in her arms. 
He lurched back from her, his eyes huge and red as he realized suddenly what he had done, the harsh reality crashing into him like a damn freight train. Those eyes were lucid now, and they saw clearly for the first time since she’d found him. He knew. Remmick knew that she was real. And he was killing her. 

“Oh. Oh god oh no no no, baby…fuck. FUCK!” He cried, and she felt herself slipping away, going limp. He caught her, and swiftly laid her onto her back, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood from her gaping wound with his hands. “Moira, baby no no please…” 

Her lashes fluttered as she watched him panic. 

“Told ye I was real.” She chuckled softly. 

“What have I done? What have I fuckin’ done?” He was cradling her face in her hands. “No no no, don’t you dare, babygirl.” Then his voice became angry. “Don’t you dare leave me now.” A sickening crunch. Something was being placed to her lips. “Open yer damn mouth.” He snarled. She felt his fingers prying her jaw apart. “Drink, honey.” He commanded. She smiled. It was nice to hear him sounding like himself again. “Come on girl. I ain’t wanderin’ this earth alone.” 

So she did. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was rash, or maybe she was just too damn curious, or maybe…to hell with it, she thought. She latched her lips to his bleeding wrist as best she could, so weak from the blood loss, her vision so fuzzy. So much blood. Shouldn’t he be drinking it? It annoyed her that he’d waste it. 

He seemed to realize it as well, or perhaps the scent of it was simply too much, because she felt his mouth on her throat, heard his soft tortured moans as he drank as if it hurt him but he just couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. 

Remmick tasted like song. He tasted like mist and salt and whispers by night. He tasted of longing and heartache and bittersweet memory. His blood was the rage of a culture lost to time and cruelty, of old gods whose bones were now as brittle as her own. It was in her now, the Fir Bolg and the Tuatha Dé Danann, the Morrigan and Tír na nÓg. She tasted the loss, and the impenetrable blackness within him. This she recognized as grief, and oh how much of it there was. But there was such sweetness in him too, and it was everything. Remmick tasted like home. 

The last thing she heard was Remmick murmuring something so frantically that she wanted to reach up and comfort him, but alas. Too late for that. Some pressure on her lips. Perhaps he was kissing her. She wished she could feel it. 

But as Moira died, she felt nothing at all.