Chapter Text
One night a few moons ago
I saw flecks of what could've been lights
But it might just have been you
Passing by unbeknownst to me
~ Snow On The Beach (Midnights, 2022)
31 December, 1955
Westerly, Rhode Island
His blood was too sweet.
Saccharine was the first adjective that floated through Jemma's mind as she retracted her fangs from the young man's throat. Nauseating was the second.
The familiar hollow ache she had managed to tamp down for most of the evening bloomed anew in her chest.
He wasn't the one.
Music and laughter drifted from the picturesque mansion perched high on the cliff above them, amplified by the crisp winter air. Jemma briefly considered jumping into the ocean to escape the intrusive gaiety. It was hardly the first time she'd considered throwing herself into the sea just to be done with it all. How lovely it would be to sink and drown and die—an elegant solution to a miserable problem.
Unfortunately, the primary prerequisite for a successful drowning was a functional respiratory system, something that she hadn't been in possession of in nearly 100 years.
Jemma gently pushed the man away, swallowing the remaining blood in her mouth and trying her hardest not to gag. She didn't want to be impolite, even in the face of crushing disappointment. After all, it wasn't his fault that his blood tasted like rotten fruit soaked in kerosene. Vomiting it back into his face would only add insult to injury for all parties involved.
The man cocked his head and blinked at her slowly. "Wha's wrong?" he slurred. His eyes were glassy and unfocused - most likely due to the lingering effects of Jemma's hypnotic sway, though the five vodka gimlets he'd consumed at the party certainly weren't helping his cause.
She flashed him a smile that she hoped wasn't too bitter. "Everything is fine, Millhouse." She turned and dangled her legs over the seawall, careful not to catch the fabric of her gown on any rough edges. "I've just had enough for now, that's all."
"Milton," the young man corrected. He unfolded his long legs and swung them over the side of the wall, mirroring her posture. "My name's Milton."
Jemma fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Milton, of course, so sorry." She wasn't, but he didn't need to know that.
Milton scooted closer to her side, his movements clumsy and sluggish. "S'ok," he mumbled. "You can call me whatever you want."
She stared out at the vast black water of the Atlantic Ocean and smiled tightly. She'd have already forgotten him if he weren't sitting beside her.
He nudged her shoulder. "You, uh, got a little something here, by the way," he said with a dopey smile, tapping the corner of his mouth.
Jemma instinctively swiped at her blood-stained lips with the back of her wrist. "Yes, thank you," she said primly, looking down at the smudge on her arm with a grimace. The bright winter moonlight highlighted the crimson smear on her flesh in a way she did not care for. Not one bit.
It was yet another ghoulish reminder of what she was. Of what she was always going to be.
A monster. Destined to remain alone and unloved for all of eternity.
"So did it work?" Milton mumbled. "Did I cure you?"
Jemma couldn't have stopped the biting laugh that tore from her throat if she tried. Not that she tried very hard. Or at all, really.
"No," she said shortly. "You didn't cure me." She fixed her gaze on the horizon, faintly illuminated by the pale moonlight and the sweeping beacon of the nearby lighthouse. "I'm still a vampire."
"But I thought…you told me my blood was special," Milton whined. Whined. "That I could, um...make you…" He tried to snap his fingers and failed. "What's the word I'm -"
"Human," Jemma interrupted. She gripped the edge of the stone wall with such force that pieces of cement crumbled beneath her fingertips. "I thought your blood might have special, but I was wrong," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."
He dropped his head onto her shoulder. "Mmmmmm...sorry time."
Jemma immediately felt a warm, sticky wetness against her clavicle. She looked down and groaned. His blood was trickling down the bustline of her ice-blue gossamer gown, turning the crevasses of pin-tucked pleats a gory shade of maroon.
She closed her eyes and pressed her thumb to her forehead. There wasn't enough baking soda and seltzer in all of New England to get those stains out. In hindsight, she probably should have chosen a darker fabric.
"Okay, Milton?" She jostled his head with her shoulder. "I need you to sit up."
He lifted his head and looked at her with heavy eyes. "I…um…not feeling so hot," he whispered. "Think I'm gonna be sick."
She frowned. Upon closer inspection, he did look extremely pale. Paler than he had any right to be - the antibodies and coagulants from her saliva should have started to heal him by now.
His head lolled forward. "Can I…can I just…” He gestured weakly at her lap. "Think I need to lay down, justforaminute -"
Jemma grabbed his chin and hauled his head up. "No," she said firmly. "You need to stay awake."
"Owww," Milton whined. "That hurts!"
Her jaw ticked. Veins didn't have nerve endings.
Jemma turned his head to examine his neck and jumped as blood pulsed from the distal puncture wound, spraying her decolletage with an alarming amount of force.
It was arterial blood. Goddamn it.
She growled and brought her wrist to her mouth, sinking her fangs just below her thumb. The familiar tang of copper and sulfur hit her tongue, and she quickly pulled back and slapped her oozing wrist against his bleeding neck.
Milton's eyes rolled back in his head. "Why'm I bleeding so much?" he whimpered. "You said…you said it wouldn't be that much."
"Yes well, that's because your blood is too thin," she snapped. "Which is what happens when someone decides to drink their weight in alcohol instead of eating dinner."
He didn't need to know that in her haste to drink, she'd miscalculated the location of his jugular vein and punctured his carotid artery by accident.
"Oh," Milton said weakly. He wrinkled his nose. "Why's your blood smell like rotten eggs?"
"Because it's dead," Jemma said flatly. She rubbed her wrist in a circular motion, smearing her blackened blood around the edges of his wounds. "And it's the only thing that's going to heal you, so please keep your commentary to yourself."
He bobbed his head. "Right, sorry." He paused for a beat, and Jemma could practically see the gears turning inside that cabbage head of his. "If your blood is dead… how can it fix me?
"If I knew how it worked, I would have used that knowledge to heal myself by now," she grumbled. "Instead of bouncing all around this stupid bloody country trying to find my-"
She cut herself off with a grimace. She couldn't even bring herself to say the damn word anymore.
Milton frowned at her. "Find your what?"
"My-" Jemma stopped again and shook her head. "A human with special blood," she finally managed to grind out.
"Oh, right," Milton muttered. "Which is not me."
"Which is not you, correct."
He looked at her with curiosity. "Do you know any vampires who, um, found their special human?"
The ache in her chest swelled. She pressed her wrist more firmly against his wound.
"My former husband, twenty years ago," she said flatly. "And before you ask, yes - he's the one who turned me into a vampire."
His eyes widened. "Oh wow, he sounds like a real asshole."
"Yes, hence why he's my former husband," she grumbled. "I'd rather not discuss it any further if you don't mind." She pulled her wrist away from his neck and examined the wounds. The bleeding stopped, but he had a significant amount of bruising and swelling that wasn't going to disappear anytime soon.
Jemma cursed under her breath, furious with herself. Her body count had nearly gone from zero to one, all because of her carelessness.
Well. It would never happen again because she was done with this soulmate business.
She licked her wrist. "All done," she muttered, watching her wounds seal shut. "You might feel a little sore in the morning, but other than that, there should be no lasting damage."
Milton reached for his neck and prodded carefully with his fingers. "Wow. That worked fast," he marveled. His eyes lit up. "Say, I bet a lot of folks would shell out big bucks for this stuff!"
Jemma gave him a side-eyed glare. "That stuff is my blood, and it's not for sale."
He flashed her a toothy grin. "Well, if you ever change your mind, I'd be happy to help." He puffed his chest. "I have a degree from Wharton, so I know a thing or two about managing money," he added, without a trace of irony or self-awareness.
Jesus Christ.
Jemma snorted."Darling, an hour ago, you told me you pissed away half your trust fund in a card game with Salvador Dali. I think you're overestimating your business skills."
"Excuse me, but what I do with my trust fund has nothing to do with my business skills!"
She shook her head, more at herself than at him. How had she even thought for one second that this moron could have been her soulmate?
At least no one would ever know how desperate she had gotten, including the oaf sitting next to her. She turned and locked her gaze on his.
"Milton," Jemma said softly. "Calm your mind.”
He blinked. "I'm sorry, what's that now?"
She reached for his chin and angled his head so there was no way he could miss the faint glow behind her irises. "You know what is best," she continued, "and what is best is to comply."
His eyes went hazy in an instant. "What is best is to comply," he parroted.
She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Hypnosis was like playing the violin—some pieces were tricky and required intense concentration, while others were effortless. Milton was definitely in the latter group, and he was about to make her look like a bloody virtuoso.
Jemma smoothed her hand over his cheek. "Your compliance will be rewarded," she purred, caressing his cheekbone with her thumb. "But first, you need to give me your wallet and your wristwatch."
He handed her both items without hesitation.
"Excellent, darling," she cooed, placing his belongings on her lap. "Now, listen carefully." She leaned in closer. "After you escorted me back to my hotel, you took a nasty spill down the cliffside."
His jaw went slack. "I did?"
Jemma nodded. "Oh yes, and it was terrible," she whispered. "You missed the top step and tumbled all the way down to the seawall!" She widened her eyes. "You landed on your neck, you're lucky to be alive!"
Milton grabbed his bruised neck and winced. "Jesus Christ, I could have been killed!"
Jemma grabbed his hands and clasped them tightly. "But you weren't," she soothed. "You were out cold for quite a while, but you weren't seriously injured."
"Thank god," he muttered. He climbed to his feet and gazed up at the mansion. "My family must be worrying themselves sick wondering where I am!"
Jemma was confident his family was doing neither of those things.
"Yes, they probably are!" she exclaimed. She grabbed his belongings from her lap and rose to her feet. "You have to go back to the party and assure them you're okay!"
"Yes," he murmured. "Thank you, Miss…." He trailed off, giving her a puzzled look.
"May," Jemma lied smoothly. "Daisy May."
He snapped his fingers. "Yes, that's right," he muttered, walking toward the stone steps carved into the cliffside. He looked back at her and smiled. "I'll never forget you, Miss Daisy May!"
Jemma returned his smile with a wide one of her own. "Yes, you will, the moment you get to the top of the stairs!"
He was already halfway up the cliff. "You're right, I will!"
"Oh, and Milton?" she called. "You lost your wallet and wristwatch during the fall. You'll never be able to find them."
"Goddamn it," he whined. "That was my fourth-best watch!"
"Pity," Jemma muttered. She watched as he continued to lumber up the steps, and after what felt like ages, he finally reached the top and disappeared from view.
If she were physically capable of breathing a sigh of relief, she would have. She settled for rolling her shoulders and popping her neck instead. In the time since she had been made a vampire, decades of evolution and progress had come and gone. And yet, somehow, men had remained as exhausting as ever.
She held the watch up to the moonlight for inspection. It was a gold-plated Bulova, worth at least 500 quid. She strapped it to her wrist and then opened his wallet. Inside were two one-hundred dollar bills and a stick of spearmint gum. She snatched the money, stuffed it down the front of her brassiere, and hurled the wallet into the crashing waves below. Between the watch and the cash, it was a decent haul. Enough to cover the cost of her hotel room for at least a month.
Jemma crossed her arms and looked down the shoreline. Her hotel was at the far end of the beach, and although the thought of returning to her room alone made her gut churn, she didn't have any other options.
She walked to the end of the seawall and hopped down. Her high heels immediately sank into the wet sand.
With a frustrated growl, she kicked her shoes off and picked them up with one hand as she walked down the beach.
She realized what a sight she must have made - a young woman in a strapless dress covered in blood, stomping barefoot along the shore in the dead of winter - but found that she couldn't care less if anyone saw her. At the very least, it would give those high-society twats something interesting to gossip about.
She bit her lip. Yesterday, she'd felt much differently.
Five o'clock yesterday evening, to be precise. That was the hour she first arrived in the posh seaside village. Twilight had already fallen as the car she'd hired pulled down the main drag, and as she approached the center of town, it felt as though her skin was vibrating. She had ordered the cab driver to pull over in front of an old wooden carousel, and the second she stepped out of the car, the vibrations increased tenfold. It was a feeling she had been chasing across the country for years, and she took it as a sign that she was finally in the right place at the right time.
She had sat on a bench and watched the happy faces of children riding the carousel, their shrieks of laughter music to her ears as they whipped by on suspended wooden horses. The carousel was nearly identical to the one she had ridden as a little girl at the Brighton seafront, and the memory of sitting astride a painted horse and reaching for a shiny brass ring with fingers made sticky by marzipan sweets had brought a genuine smile to her face.
She hadn't smiled that wide in ages.
In retrospect, it was probably the nostalgia that had clouded her judgment when Milton approached her. He was handsome enough, she had supposed, in that awkward New England blue-blood way, and within moments, he had extended her an invitation to his family's New Year's Eve gala.
Jemma had been so swept up in the excitement and relief that he had made things so simple that she failed to recognize that the vibrations had faded the second he opened his mouth.
And now, as she stalked down the beach, carrying her shoes and wearing some rich arsehole's fourth-best wristwatch, she felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Whatever sensation she'd been chasing was likely a work of fiction her undead brain cooked up to help her cope with her broken marriage, and it was time to accept that her search for a soulmate had been nothing but a bloody fool's errand.
Jemma's vision suddenly blurred. She stopped short and blinked. Drops of water hit her cheekbones, and for a bizarre moment, she thought they were tears.
But that was impossible. She didn't make tears. Dead women couldn't cry.
It took another second before she realized she couldn't see because snowflakes were stuck in her eyelashes. She blinked them away and frowned. Had she been so steeped in self-pity that she hadn't even noticed it had started to snow?
She looked around in a daze. Not only was it snowing, but she was no longer walking along the beach. Rather, she was standing in the middle of a dirt road she didn't recognize. The ocean swelled and crashed on both sides of the narrow strip of land. It appeared to be a peninsula or some sort of land bridge, and she had no idea how she'd gotten there.
Jemma shielded her eyes from the thickly falling snow and squinted. In the distance, she could barely make out the glowing silhouette of Milton's family estate perched high on its bluff.
Her frown deepened. She'd been walking toward her hotel, which was to the east of the mansion. Yet where she was standing was clearly to the west of the property.
A brilliant light suddenly swept over the road, and Jemma winced. Stars danced around the edges of her vision, and a strange sensation crackled behind her breastbone.
She rubbed her chest and blinked until the spots cleared her visual field.
What the hell was -
The light returned, illuminating her surroundings, and Jemma finally realized where she was. She turned around and gazed upward. A lighthouse, the same one she’d noted from the shore, towered above her, its lantern rotating smoothly and casting its beam over the water in a graceful, sweeping motion.
She shook her head. It didn’t make any sense. How had she managed to walk in the opposite direction of her destination without noticing?
The beacon swept over the grounds again, and the odd crackling in her chest returned.
Jemma pressed her hand to her sternum, momentarily stunned. The sensation had amplified - less of a crackle and more like a jolt. A very sharp, very painful jolt.
Pain. For the first time in over a century, she was feeling pain.
Before she could fully wrap her head around that concept, the beacon made another pass over the land. The light swept over her body, and the jolt exploded into a lancing, white-hot pain that brought her to her knees.
Jemma cried out as she doubled over, clutching her chest with both hands. It was as if she were being electrocuted from the inside out, the pain anything she had ever experienced while she was alive.
It feels like death.
That was her last thought before her world went dark.