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"Come on now," Remmick grins, looking every inch of human. Square teeth, brown eyes, brown shoes and suspenders to match. An outfit befitting of his father's church, although they both know that the man -if Sammie can even call him a man- wont make it past the front door. "Sing to me, Sammie. Let me hear that talent of yours, yeah? Just a tune. Just a whistle. Give old Remmick a little peak of his family, won't you?"
The sun had set not even ten minutes ago, streaks of orange linger in the sky as the night gradually darkens. A plot was made for Stack besides Smoke and Annie, just a few miles down the road where Sammie's own mother lies. It's empty, and Sammie can't stop thinking about it.
"What do you say, lad?"
The front doors of his father's church is at his back. He can feel the vibrations from the gospel choir on the other side of it, their footsteps shuffling against the creaky old wood because God is in the house tonight, and Sammie is having trouble listening to it. He stepped outside even though he knows better now, found himself a smoke and the devil, too. "I can't," He says. Distantly, he hears his father's voice somewhere inside, calling out for him. Sammy? Have you seen Sammy? Have you seen my son? A Shepherd tending to his flock, looking for the lost sheep. He needs to get back inside, before he really starts to panic. "I don't sing anymore."
"Oh, but I heard you," Remmick places his foot on the first step, inching closer. "A little bit ago, praising the good lord."
"Yeah," He gulps, hissing a bit as the cigarette burns his fingertips. "That's all. Nonthin' else. The kind of music that you want to hear, I don't...I don't do that anymore." The broken fretboard of his guitar is tucked beneath his bed. He needs to throw it away, but something keeps stopping him.
"Shame, shame." Remmick reaches the second step. "That's a real shame."
The front doors open, shining light on them both.
"Son?" His father peaks his head out. "What's going on out here?"
"I was just-" He takes his eyes off of Rmmmick. "I was just catching up with an old friend."
"Who?"
Sammie turns, and the man, the beast, the vampire is gone. Quiet, as the blink of an eye.
"Forget it."
"Well, come inside. You'll catch your death out here."
~*~
It's years later when Sammie sees him again. Segregation has been lifted, but the black bars on this side of town are still better than the ones that cater to the whites in the City. Easy drink, easy folk, easy prices. Sammie comes on Saturday nights just to listen to the band play, his fingers itching against the bartop, playing an invisible tune. He always comes back home before midnight, ready and dressed for Mass by seven.
If his father smells the alcohol on his prayers, he doesn’t make it known.
"You should go up there," Remmick says, leaning against the bar beside him, red eyes glinting in the lowlight. He flicks his chin towards the stage, where the piano player -Sal, sixty-three and thin as a rail- plays an old, jazz tune. "He's a good musician, but not like you." He lights a cigarette, the flame licking at his palms before turning back to Sammie, red eyes turning black. "You, now. You're gifted."
Sammie brings the bottle of liquor to his lips, it burns as it slides down his throat. "...Why are you here?"
"Same reason you are. To hear the band play, to think of home."
"That's not why I come here."
"No?" Remmick leans closer, blowing smoke Sammie's way. "You tellin' me that you don't hear it all, even now?"
Sammie gulps, feeling his palms sweat. The piano keys playing a song in his head. "Hear what"?
"Our family!" Remmick slings an arm around him, bringing him close. "Our friends!" He laughs. "I can still hear them playing. I can still see them dancing." He pinches Sammie's cheek, palm lingering on the scars of his face, petting him like a boy, or a dog. Maybe, like his father might. "Don't you?"
"No," Sammie shoves him away, returning to his glass, ignoring the way that his fingers shake. "I don't."
"That's a shame." Remmick settles into the seat, his legs swaying idly above the ground. "Your cousin thinks of yeh often."
"What?"
"Stack," Remmick added, returning his gaze to the stage, humming softly to himself. "He thinks so loudly about you, all of the time. Mary, too." He says, as if in afterthought. "I can hear them from across the pond."
Sammie swallows thickly, the liquor burning uncomfortably in his stomach. He grabs the sleeve of Remmick's shirt, clammy hands tugging him to attention, nearly pulling him out of his seat. "What?"
Remmick laughs, loud enough to gather attention, the piano keys suddenly sound out of tune. "Sweet boy," Remmick grins, placing his hand over Sammie's. "Don't you know? We all think of yeh."
~*~
"Slow, steady. Like an ice cream cone, remember?" Remmick pants, fisting a hand in Sammie's hair. It's humid and cramped in the alley behind the bar, the heat of summer lingering long into the night. Sammie's on his knees and he isn't praying. No, he's thinking of music, thinking of the twins and the feel of blood on his hands. Guitar strings pinching at the flesh of his fingertips. Remmick's cock fat and heavy, filled with blood that doesn't belong to him, smearing precum on his lips. The moon is high above them. Music filters out from the bar windows and he wants, god does he want, to hear God's voice singing with them, but all he hears is Remmick, panting like a beast above him. His own cock is hard, twitching uncomfortably between his legs and he thinks of Pearline.
"Yeah, yeah. She thinks of you too." Remmick's fingernails elongate, scraping red lines into his scalp, unable to keep himself contained. His person-suit slipping with every roll of his hips. "Her sweet preacher boy. But she doesn't know you like I do, huh?" Remmick feeds his cock into Sammie's mouth, the fat tip of it nudging against his soft palette, threatening to choke him. "She doesn't know the depths of your hunger." Sammie pulls back to catch his breath, and Remmick lets him go. He always does, Sammie doesn't know why. "None of them did." He traces Sammie's spit slick lips, his thumb hooking behind his teeth, holding his mouth open. "None of them do."
~*~
It's a hot summers' day and Sammie wants so badly to open up the windows and let the fresh air in, but Remmick's comfortable. Lounging on the bed, his eyes closed, his shirt open, listening to Sammie sing. It's a peaceful image, and Sammie wants to keep it that way.
"Oh, Danny boy." It's not the kind of tune that Sammie feels but he tries for Remmick, and on good days like this, that's enough for the old vampire. "The pipes, the pipes are calling." He plucks Remmick's banjo. It's no resonator. No gibson. No gift from Smoke and Stack either, but it feels familiar in his hands. Feels like coming home. "From glen to glen, down the mountain side."
Remmick hums along with him, eyes closed, seeing images of an Ireland that no longer exists.