Remmick had been walking through that neighborhood for weeks. Always early in the morning or under heavy clouds, when the sun wasn’t spitting fire on his sick skin. He told others he had a “rare skin condition” — an affliction that made him avoid direct heat. They laughed behind his back, but left him alone. Better that way.

He was white — and that made him acceptable. But he was also a foreigner, or at least had been. He had buried the Irish accent under layers of practice. It still slipped here and there, in an unruly vowel, but he spoke little. He was polite. Rigid. Reserved.

And he hunted.

In recent months, he thought only of her. He’d seen her for the first time at the Baptist church, wearing a white dress that seemed to want to sin on her behalf. She was absurd. Annoyingly beautiful. The kind of beauty that wounded both men and women. Luminous dark skin, eyes that pulled your gaze back even after you looked away, hair shining like wet night. And a body carved by the knife of some tired, cruel god.

Remmick had seen the whole world. Centuries of faces, bodies, mouths. He had tasted them all. But she — that woman — was a living insult to everything he thought he knew. No wonder even Michael Fassbender — the richest white man in town — had taken her as his wife. Despite racial segregation, no one dared raise their voice against that marriage. The name Fassbender made even judges go quiet, made politicians lower their eyes. He owned land, people, votes. Had more power than the mayor. And he was jealous. Sick with it. Yet even under that name, she walked freely. Went to church alone. Visited her parents. Helped at community events. Her husband, they said, trusted the fear his name inspired more than he trusted her.

Remmick understood the deal. The whole town whispered: she had married to spare her parents — two old folks who could barely walk, former cotton pickers who now rested under the porch. The golden ring on her finger was a ticket to domestic freedom.

Remmick knew he couldn’t get close. He had tasted married women before — many. He liked them that way, for their frustration, their mute loneliness. But approaching this one carelessly would be digging his own grave. And not even a vampire, not even him, could stand against Fassbender’s five hundred armed men.

So he watched. And suffered. Because sometimes, just seeing her was enough for his fangs to threaten rupture. The thick saliva would start to foam beneath his tongue, and he always swallowed it with effort.

That cloudy morning, she appeared. Alone, crossing the street with a bag of groceries. The navy-blue dress clung to her hips and breasts, the ring shone like an elegant shackle. And Remmick knew: it was time.

He was sitting on a stone wall, a dobro resting on his lap. He wasn’t a brilliant musician, but he was precise enough.

He slid his fingers across the strings, letting the melody rise slowly. “Pick Poor Robin Clean.” It was an old song, lyrics half-lost, one he had discovered was a childhood favorite of hers. Her uncles used to sing it in the fields, before they were buried years ago.

When she heard it, she stopped.

She didn’t turn right away, but hesitated mid-step, as if the sound had pulled something buried from her soul. When she finally looked, Remmick lifted his fingers from the strings. Smiled softly. Kindly. And said only:

“Good morning, ma’am.”