Chapter Text
It’s been two weeks since that night. That night that stuck in Sammie Moore’s mind like wax melting in the heat. He relived that night every time he closed his eyes now, the blood drying on his skin, the salty water from the lake sticking to his clothes - up his nose and into his mouth - as his cries were ripped painfully from his throat.
He’s the only survivor, to a certain extent. He didn’t make it out of that night alive, but he wasn’t given the sweet relief of Heaven. How ironic, that Preacherboy Sammie Moore will never go to Heaven now.
There’s a lingering wrongness to him, like his mind was sluggish and bogged down despite his more tuned nose, sharper mind, and his quicker reflexes. He’s felt this way, once, when his father banned him from music for two weeks when he was a young teen, just starting out on life, and even then, all he knew that he wanted to do was music. He stopped eating, quit going to church, forgot his lessons, until he got that guitar back in his hand.
His father was not happy about it, but Sammie’s mother was a stern woman and saw how much it killed Sammie not to have his music.
Well, now he doesn’t have anything. He can’t go home like this - the abomination that he became would certainly give his mother a heart attack, that is if he managed to keep that animalistic part of himself down to not attack anyone on sight. The brand new guitar in the corner of the room was doing nothing more than collecting dust.
In times like these, he needed his music. However, he refrained himself from that temptation, knowing that it would only cause more harm than good. Music was a gift to him, it was his reason for being, he cannot allow that gift to know the wrong person.
Remmick tried, oh, how he tried. It wasn’t hours after Sammie was turned that he heard a few of his own songs carried in the wind. Remmick tried them out himself, then got his coterie to do the same. Sammie’s songs were no longer his own, they don’t belong to him anymore. But they can have the songs, just not him. He told himself that, over and over again.
They can have his songs, his lyrics, his music, his body, and his soul, but they can’t have him. No, Sammie Moore belonged to no one.
Not even that bastard.
Remmick tried to recreate the magic that came so easily to Sammie, but never could. Sammie doesn’t understand it, and he didn’t think anyone else did either. More than anything, it infuriated them all. Remmick especially, he’d been outside of Sammie’s door more than once now, pounding on it until cracks formed and Stack finally tore him away. The door doesn’t close right anymore and can be pushed open with a slight strong wind.
But it didn’t matter, because Sammie still had to let them in, which he never did.
Mary usually hung off of Stack’s arm, but the man would always be following her around like a dog on a leash. Sometimes, Stack left little gifts just outside the door: a piece of dark chocolate, a book, new clothes, and whatever else he managed to get his hands on.
Stack was nice, enough, but Sammie still knew better than to allow his cousin into his room. Mary was the same way too, always with her smooth and soft voice.
Remmick tried a handful of times. He’s the one that gifted Sammie that new guitar that just sat in the corner. The vampire probably thought that Sammie would simply come around to this new life eventually.
He didn’t.
There was only one gift that Remmick gave Sammie that the young man used, his own space. The moment those words ‘this is yer room now,’ hit the wind around them, this little 10x10 room has been all his.
And vampires needed permission to enter other people’s spaces, including their own kin’s.
Sammie never left that little room. It was nice enough, all things considered. The windows were boarded up from the outside, not allowing even a smidge of that golden daylight in. The bed he curled up on was old and dusty, the springs dug into his back if he shifted the wrong way, but it was definitely more comfortable than sharing the floor with his brothers and sisters. The quilt on top was homemade with light greens and blues, likely the previous owner’s. The colors made Sammie tear up just thinking about the outdoors.
He had refused to use it for a while, but with the leaves beginning to turn and the cold Mississippi nights that could make fire cool, it was hard to ignore.
Daylight never came to save him that night, nor any of the others. It had been approaching, perhaps just another ten minutes behind them, but it wasn’t quick enough.
Smoke had tried to save Sammie, Lord, how he tried.
But Remmick was just a little bit faster than they were. He tore that stake out of his chest whilst his commune gathered their senses. Smoke’s arms tightened around him. Sammie tried to hold on for as long as he could before Remmick used his claws to slash at Smoke’s arms, catching Sammie’s chest in the crossfire. In a split second, too fast for either of them to realize, Sammie was in that bastard’s clutches, and Smoke was thrown to the commune.
He had expected them to turn Smoke, the way they turned everybody else, but they didn’t that night. No, Remmick’s anger towards Sammie and Smoke must’ve carried into their minds.
Little Sammie screamed himself hoarse as he watched them rip Smoke apart, limb by limb.
“Shh, don’t do that…you’ll ruin that sweet, sweet voice a yer’s.”
Sammie thrashed in his grip, trying to throw himself into the mob, hoping that they would rip him apart too. He screamed and cried in Remmick’s arms, begging - pleading - to kill him.
They did, but in the most horrid way. Teeth tore into his neck, rendering him silent. Sammie could feel his life slipping away, the quiet hum from Remmick, the gentle hands that cradled him in that water just barely keeping him afloat, the sloshing as the commune fought over Smoke’s torn body.
Sammie woke up later that morning, feeling as though he had an awful nightmare. Groaning about how he should’ve gotten up with the sun hours ago, he’s always worked towards making his quota before noon. He groaned, his head pounding, his stomach aching.
There was an awful, dark presence around him. Something was…wrong. Very wrong.
“Hey, Lil Sammie, how ya feelin’?” Stack, his big cousin, sat beside his head. Sammie looked around him, just feeling like last night was some sort of nightmare. He wasn’t home, he knew that much. The farmhouse he found himself in was old, but not the rundown shack he had grown up in.
He had woken up on a couch, Stack peering down at him, both protecting and trapping Sammie on the couch. A blanket had been draped over him, his head laid on a sweat-slick pillow.
“Stack,” he croaked as he attempted to sit up, Stack going to help him as the motion pulled at his sore muscles. Mary was standing nearby, leaning against the couch arm. His eyes met hers and he couldn’t help but feel like something was terribly wrong. “What-”
Then, as though his mind caught up before his body could, he noticed him. Remmick stood across the room, leaning against the wall with his arms over his chest. He smiled, a big, ugly smile, his eyes glinting with joy and victory.
And then, Sammie remembered.
And then, Sammie ran.
He tore the blanket off of him, shoving away Stack as he bolted towards the door. Daylight spilled out into the dark house. He fled into the daytime, but only made it a few steps.
His skin burned. Not the way it usually did when he’s been out on the field for too long, but like it did when he was ten years old and spilt a pot of boiling water onto his arm. Like those embers that caught onto his clothes.
He remembered a terrible scream ripped through his throat, he just wanted that warmth. That warmth of a sunrise on his face.
He will never feel it again, forever cast away into the dark nights.
Hands tugged him back into the farmhouse, held down until his wounds healed. He sputtered and gagged any time a drop of blood so much as went near him as they tried to forcibly feed it to him. Despite his body craving it, his mind fought hard against it, still able to reject the one thing that would fully turn him.
His skin stitched back together with time and patience, his brain became clearer and sharper.
He doesn’t quite recognize being bit, in his memories. That gap is always left there, a dark reminder of what has been stolen from him. Or maybe he was just too exhausted from that night to register it the way it was supposed to.
He knows he was ripped from Smoke’s embrace not long after Remmick tore that stake out of his heart. He knows that he screamed for Smoke to save him, trying to grab onto Smoke’s outreached hand as the water sloshed around them, weighing him down.
He watched, tears flooding his eyes and down his face - indiscernible from the lake water around him - as Smoke was fed to the coven like they were rapid dogs feasting on prey. They tore him apart like they did with Delta Slim.
No one survived that night, not even Sammie.
Why didn’t Smoke just let him walk out that damn door? Why did his big cousin have to act the savior part and pull Sammie back in?
Sammie! God, he heard that voice all the time now, in his mind, violating his thoughts, his feelings, like a sickness that just kept spreading. You the one I came for. I sensed you. I wanna see my people again. I’m trapped here. But your gifts can bring ‘em to me. Y’all give him to me now. Just-just give me little Sammie, we’ll let y’all live.
He almost did. If Smoke hadn’t blocked his way, if Pearline hadn’t grabbed onto his shirt, if Delta Slim hadn’t told them off. He would’ve become one of them.
But they’re all dead now. The night that should’ve been the start of his life, was the end of it.
Now he was here, but he wasn’t. He felt…detached from this new life of his. As though it weren’t his, as though he had truly died that night. Tears sprang to Sammie’s eyes, he furiously rubbed them away with his palm, sniffling. It’s been a few days now, since he’s been able to leave his bed. The only telling of time would be when Sammie would put his palm onto the wood that boarded up his window, feeling the sun heat through it, but never able to feel it on his skin. Before now, he used to be able to move around the room all hours of the night and day until he collapsed, his feet burning and his eyelids heavy. But now, now he can’t so much as muster up the strength to move.
He can feel them, all of them, all at once. It’s torturous. The majority of the commune separated from Remmick after that night, going off to make their own lives, turn their families and friends to avoid the loneliness of eternal life. He can feel their giddiness and their pride as they tear innocents apart and drink their blood, as they have sex, steal from stores in the dead of night, commit terrible crimes simply because there would be no punishment.
If Sammie focused hard enough, he could see it behind his eyes, flickering from one life to the next like some sort of camera.
But all those feelings were secondary, not his own. Sammie’s always came to his body and mind first, especially the grief that wore him down for days and days at a time.
It didn’t seem that way for the others though. He can feel their complaints and exasperation when Sammie’s misery became too strong to bear alone, his mind subconsciously sharing it with others when it could. He ignored them.
All of them.
They don’t like him. He only knew a few by name, Joan and Bert for one, always proud that they were the first of the new commune. Obviously Stack and Mary, they were usually nearby, never straying too far from Sammie even when hunting. They had their own room in the farmhouse. Of course there was Remmick, always at Sammie’s door, pawing at it like a pathetic dog would, begging Sammie for his songs: for his gift.
The rest of the commune dismissed Sammie at best, and downright despised him at worst. They don’t like that he pulled Remmick’s attention away from them, they didn’t like that he’s the favorite - the golden boy in the eye of their creator. They don’t like how hard he fought against the gift, the folks that had been killed trying to get to Sammie. They can feel the way Remmick’s dead heart ticked up in the slightest when he got more than silence beyond the door, as well as Sammie’s already-despondent mood swing that much lower.
Remmick was strange, a puzzle that Sammie never wanted to figure out. Sammie’s ties to the commune are almost nonexistent, a thin thread that pulled them together. His and Stack’s was stronger, but it was Remmick’s to Sammie that confused him. It’s an almost indescribable feeling, that thread. It’s invisible, but in his mind, when Sammie allowed himself to venture into that part, Sammie could feel it. His tug towards them all, something pulling him towards the other vampires in the coven.
Again, with most of the other vampires, it was comparable to a light breeze. But his pull to Remmick was strong, as if the man’s obsession bled over into their subconscious. But his mind worked twice as hard to try and push that man out, just sometimes it was unsuccessful.
He can hear Remmick’s thoughts sometimes, only when they are loud enough to be heard. He doesn’t know if any of the others can hear Remmick’s thoughts, but the hivemind always went silent after a particularly bad mood swing.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
You don’t belong to anyone else. I made you. I brought you into the final stage of your life. I have every right to come into that room, it was a mistake giving you it.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine
I thought you would sulk for a few days! Not like this!
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
I just…just wanna have my people back. Wanna see them again, you know how painful that is, don’t you?
Mine. Mine.
I’ll tear them apart, all of your brothers and sisters. Your ma and pa I’ll drag over here and force you to drink from them!
Mine. Mine. Mine. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINEMINEMINEMINE
Sammie groaned into the empty air, it was painful. The gnawing hunger in his stomach would never be satisfied. Remmick tempted him by placing bowls and cups full of blood near the door, just barely trying to persuade him out of the room without causing Sammie to snap.
He hoped it wouldn’t be too long now. He’s been feeling himself slip away for a while. He can feel himself change. Anytime he managed to crack his eyelids open and find himself still half-alive, there was always a puddle of drool beside him. When his mind unconsciously tuned in on the commune’s feedings, his stomach cramped, the emptiness inside made him nauseous.
He was thirsty, but plain old water wouldn’t fix it. He was hungry, but only wanted the sweet and savory taste of blood.
He laid in bed, trying to ignore the claws that were his fingers, the teeth that became fangs, and the ears that were now pointed.
Sammie’s been seeing them now. The ghosts. Pearline with her pearly white smile that grimaced in horror and shock as blood sputtered out of her neck. Smoke, his face twisted in agony and fear, still fighting his way towards Sammie, even while missing limbs. Annie, that would drive a stake into Sammie’s heart and pour pickled garlic over him. Delta Slim pointing a shotgun at Sammie’s head, mumbling about the monster Sammie became.
He failed them.
And yet, sometimes, when he’s not too deep in his head with all the horrible memories of that night, and just about every night after that, he can’t help but smile. Pearline was his girl. His cousins were proud of his singing, but Smoke…Smoke wanted him to give it up, just like his daddy did. He’d been so, so angry with Smoke that night, why couldn’t he see that? Why was his cousin so far into his own head that he couldn’t see that Sammie would rather die a short, happy life, than one where he went nowhere else but that damn plantation?
But maybe Smoke knew better than stupid Sammie did. Maybe he knew that Sammie was always going to go nowhere with his life, that living a life of mundane was better than crushing disappointment.
If only he could-could apologize to his cousin, to the ghosts he’s lost along the way-
Knock…knock-knock-knock…knock…knock.
“Sammie, you in there? It’s time for sup’er.”
Are they back again? To torment him? They must be, they taunt him now. Poking fun that he can’t join them on the other side of death, no, he’s damned forever. He can do little more than shake and sob when they do.
Knock-knock-knock
“Cum’on now, ya been cooped up in there all day, got some’a Miss Annie’s fried catfish for ya, but she ain’t gon’ give you none if you don’t stop wallowin’.”
Creeeaaak. The door slats open, and through the haze in his eyes, Sammie could see someone so sharply dressed they couldn’t be from anywhere around here. A dark newsboy cap, a closely trimmed goatee, a smart suit missing its jacket.
“Smoke…” Sammie coughed out.
His cousin chuckled, leaning up against the doorframe, “Boy, you look like hell. That-a cold must’ve done a number on you.”
Sammie groaned, not in the mood for the teasing. Smoke and Stack were both always so much stronger than he was, meanwhile, he once was stuck in bed with a fever for two weeks and couldn’t keep anything down. But, when it came down to it, they always had his back. Sammie was still smaller than them, not by much, however, he knew he was never going to grow out of being called lil Sammie.
“You gon’ let me in or what, lil cuz?”
“Jus’ as long as you quit callin’ me lil…”
Another chuckle, the floorboards squeaked as his cousin entered the room. A cool hand touched his forehead, “Woo, got one hell’of a fever, don’t you?”
Sammie groaned as something scraped against the floor, his cousin’s comforting presence beside him. Smoke is never this kind to him anymore, it’s nice. Smoke was always the tougher twin, maybe that’s why the thought of him being torn apart so easily made everything so much worse.
But Smoke was here, with him now, and that made everything just a little bit better.
“‘m sorry.” A hand touched his forehead, cool, “Smoke, Smoke, ‘m sorry.”
“What for, baby cuz?”
“For-f’r runnin’.”
“Tsk, I done told you ta run-”
“You-you got caught.”
“By who?”
“Those-those monst’rs that were waiting for me. Why did you-” Sammie choked on his tears, a hand brushed them away. He felt like a baby again, when his face got all hot and his breathing came out stuttering. He was always a crybaby, always too sensitive for his own good. He learned not to cry around his father, and his cousins never made fun of him for it.
“Shh, shh, now, those monsters ain’t gone get ya when I’m in here, you got that?”
Sammie nodded, his eyes closed, and he could see the warm lights of the juke, the smell of booze and sex and electricity in the air, singing filled every inch of the place, and their energy made them all forget about the hard days in the field or the bottles throw and the slurs tossed their way.
For just a single night, they were free.
If Sammie hadn’t picked up that guitar, hadn’t sung on that stage, maybe everyone would be alive.
Or maybe that devil bastard was lying, maybe they would’ve just waited it out underneath the cool shade of the trees, until they all went home, then attacked. Maybe Sammie’s sacrifice would’ve meant nothing.
But there was always that hope.
“Com’on, Miss Annie made you some spicy stew on the side, want some? I know yer hungry.”
“Miss Annie here?”
“‘eah, but you gotta let her in, ‘member, she real big on manners. And Delta Slim here too, was wonderin’ if y’all coul’ play something.”
“...yeah, yeah, tell ‘em to com’in.”
More footsteps creak into the room, two, maybe three, or four people. A slender hand touched his forehead, trailed down to his cheek, “Hey, lil Sammie,” a silky smooth voice said, “how ya feelin’?” It’s familiar, soothing, but the way she said her name - as though he were a spooked animal - made his head ache.
“What’re ya thinking?” His cousin questioned.
Another voice, this one that struck fear into Sammie’s chest, “He don’t got a lotta time left.” Sammie whined at the sound of the voice, he doesn’t like this person.
“Hush, lil cuz, it’s just Delta Slim . He figured that…that maybe some singin’ could do you some good, how does that sound?”
It sure didn’t sound like Delta Slim. Delta Slim had a raspy old voice, one that came from years of belting loud enough to be heard from across a noisy bar, of smoking that tobacco that made Sammie’s stomach turn just thinking about it. This voice, this voice was too high in some places, and too low in others. It sure sounded southern, maybe it was Cornbread or Bo. Someone else, but definitely not Delta Slim.
But Smoke was here, and Smoke said that no monsters were gonna get him when his big cousin is here.
“Don’t-don’t know if I can now,” Sammie answered. That was the truth, he’s been so terribly exhausted for the last few days, even talking now was draining him.
“Jus’ somethin’ small, don’t gotta be a big song,” Slim said, his voice uncharacteristically kind for such a hard-shelled man.
The hand on his cheek brushed his clammy skin with their knuckles, “And afterwards, we got some nice, warm stew for ya. Just sing a lil song for us.”
Sammie licked his lips, cleared his throat. Afterall, if he can’t sing while a little sick, how was his music going to survive the brutal industry?
The song came to him like the summer breeze, easy and warm. Smoke had been right, singing did make all of this just a bit easier for him. He felt the way it vibrated in his throat and through his vocal cords. His body felt floaty, and his mind was finally pacified.
Everyone is silent, the song Sammie chose was one of grief, one that he’s heard in the funerals his father was the pastor at, the ones he was obligated to attend as Preacher Boy. There’s no rhythmic thudding on the walls, no shoes tapping, it’s quiet. His voice was the only thing echoing in the room.
There’s no dancing, no accompanying orchestra. What was it that devil said? That Sammie’s voice brought forth their ancestors and descendents, artists of the past and future?
Now, Sammie won’t lie, he always knew there was something special about his music. He felt it in his bones, his soul, when he sang loud and proud. That night at the juke, that was a special night, a night for his freedom, joy, and family.
This isn’t that.
He felt warm inside, all fuzzy the way he always did when he sang or got his hands on a good guitar, but his heart didn’t pound to the beat, mind was behind, and his fingers didn’t itch for an instrument in his hand.
There was a presence around him, good and bad. But it felt more like mourners than patrons.
The song died on his lips only halfway through, unable to go any further. Smoke’s hand found his own, lips pressed to his forehead, “That good enough for you?” He said, his voice too harsh, too mean for his cousin.
Sammie went to open his own eyes, but found the dim light too harsh for him. The young man groaned, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his skull thumped onto the pillow. He’s shivering again, cold and clammy skin that made the sheets stick to him.
“I’ll hold him down, y’all focus on feedin’ ‘im.”
He’s tugged and pulled up until his back is against someone’s chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him up as his head lolled onto someone’s shoulder. A tentative hand made its way up to Sammie’s neck, cupping the pulsepoint. Distantly, he heard a growl from somewhere close.
“Ain’t gotta be all touchy with ‘im.”
A deep, dark chuckle from the chest Sammie was against, “Jus’ makin’ sure he ain’t gone move none.” The tension in the room increased tenfold before one of them folded, who it was, Sammie can’t say.
A metallic smell filled the air, something so familiar.
That awful feeling, the one he always pushed down, was rearing its head again. His senses became sharper, his teeth grew painfully so, his stomach cramped.
He needed it.
Which is why he couldn’t have it.
Sammie swallowed down the drool that filled his mouth, bucking against the body holding him down. His hands flailed out, but were quick to be held down. His claws caught onto something, and a sharp hiss broke his concentration. He pursed his lips, holding his mouth closed into a thin line as he tried to sooth the ache in his mouth.
“I ain’t seen something like this before, but I got another idea, jus’ as long as you don’t tear my head off my shoulders for it.”
“...jus’ do it, but do it quick, if I think that you draggin’ it out-”
“Gotcha. I gotcha.”
The arms around him tighten, Sammie whined and growled. He didn’t want it, he didn’t want any of this.
And yet, those decisions have already been made for him.
The person he was against restrained Sammie’s legs with their own, one arm pinning down Sammie’s own.
A hand trailed along his jawline, gripping it - not harshly, but like a caress, a guide - fingers pinched Sammie’s jawline and tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck to those in the room.
Then, lips on his own. A tongue making its way into his mouth, pushing apart his snapping teeth. Sammie grimaced and whined high, trying to escape the iron hold. But all his squirming did nothing as a hot mouth slotted onto his own, something thick coated their tongue. And, before Sammie could stop himself, he leaned into it, desperate for what he knew his body needed, even if his mind screamed at him.
Hot, thick, savory, and sweet. It stained him, his insides, sliding down the side of his mouth and dripping off his chin. More and more fed into his mouth, coaxed down his throat and into his stomach, reaching a point that only his Mama's hot stew on a brutally cold Mississippi winter day could satisfy.
It filled him, so deeply, on both a physical and mental level. He felt his brain becoming his own again, his unknown and inhumane strength returning. His senses dulled and the ghosts slowly vacated his thoughts and went to the back of his mind. For the first time in weeks, he’s satisfied.
It felt wrong.
Sammie gasped as the mouth tore away from his own, gasping for breath, even though he forgot he didn’t need it anymore. Not his heart beating, his lungs breathing, his blood pumping, nothing. He was an empty husk of a human being.
Sammie pushed against the chest he was still laid on, squirming against them once again. A chuckle. Sammie opened his eyes, Remmick’s glowing stare meeting his own disgusted one. Smoke - no, not Smoke, Stack, always Stack, never Smoke, not anymore - Stack kept his eyes flitting between Remmick and Sammie, meanwhile Mary stood just behind him, a bowl of blood in her hands, her eyes on Stack and Sammie, something akin to horror in them.
Remmick peered down at Sammie, still half held up in his arms. His smile splitting his face in two, “Feeling better yet, Sammie?”