Hello everyone! Welcome (back) to Dark Doesn't Always Mean Evil! I've decided to do things a little (a lot) differently this time around, meaning that instead of having a sequel where Olivia is older, I've decided to make her twenty-two years old in this story. That way, I won't drive you guys insane with having failed sequel after failed, incomplete sequel (but I'm still totally planning a sequel lol).
So some need to know things: this story takes place about halfway through the movie, after Abraham Lincoln has been elected president. An important OC (Olivia) will be the narrator for most of it and she's from our time. Please forgive some mistakes, such as movie accuracy; I've only seen it a few times.
Anyways, without further ado, on with the fic!
Henry
The rain pounded relentlessly against the window, a constant, heavy tap-tap-tapping whose sound reverberated throughout his parlor. Henry hated rain. He hated it almost as much as he hated sunshine, what with it's chill and noise. There was nothing satisfactory about getting soaked through and through, nothing satisfactory about tarnished clothes. He supposed that, as a vampire, the rain shouldn't bother him—God knew that he couldn't fall ill—and yet he still abhorred it. Perhaps it was this knowledge that made him despise it; yes, that was it; the rain served as a continuous reminder that he wasn't human, that he didn't have the option to fall ill at all. One might argue that this was a good thing, but the way he saw it, he was robbed of a choice—of a freedom—and it tormented him to no end.
There was nothing he could do to change it, however, and complaining would get him nowhere. With a heavy sigh, Henry turned away from the window and sat down on the sofa that rested just beneath it, running a hand through his messy hair. It wasn't as though he had the right to whine; if anything, he should count himself lucky. He was graced with luxuries that ordinary people would die for: money, property, food, a good friend. Yes, as strange as it may seem, he had a friend, someone who put up with him with no questions asked. The fact that said friend was also the president of the United States was a mere bonus.
Abraham Lincoln: vampire hunter, leader, and—above all—a good man. Not a day went by that Henry didn't count himself lucky that they were friends. How exactly that had happened, he still wasn't quite sure; Lincoln certainly hadn't a clue either.
Lost in his thoughts, Henry frowned as a crack of thunder jolted him back to reality. The sound caused the walls to tremble, which was odd. Virginia had definitely seen its fair share of storms, but not one of this magnitude for a while. Glancing over at the window to watch the rain, his eyes immediately landed on the crumpled form of something—someone—in his front yard and he was out of his chair within seconds. If his heart could beat, he was certain that it would've been pounding out of his chest; that said something. He rarely experienced adrenaline rushes anymore, probably hadn't since he became a vampire, and the fact that he was having one now only proved to him that whatever was going on was serious. Call it instinct, call it insanity, but it was certainly something he couldn't ignore.
Throwing open the front door, Henry dashed outside into the downpour, immediately getting soaked through. As each stride took him closer to the figure, he began to see its—her—features more clearly, though he couldn't determine her fate until he was kneeling next to her. She was breathing, albeit shakily, and seemed to favor the right side of her stomach. Bright crimson leaked from underneath her fingers—the nails of which were painted black—and stained her clothes. It was then that he noticed that she wasn't dressed as a woman, but a man, sporting a white collared shirt with a skull embroidered over the left breast pocket and a very short skirt that would've made him blush if he still could. Black boots that went up to her knees covered her feet, but they were unlaced and filled with rain.
Realizing that she could very well die if left unattended, Henry lifted the girl into his arms as gently as he could and raced back into the house, kicking the door shut behind him. He set her on the floor before racing into the kitchen to grab his first aid kit, thanking whatever God was out there that he still kept one. When he had it, he hurried back to the girl and knelt next to her, peeling her fingers away from her side so that he could assess the damage. The wound was long and angry, but thankfully not too deep and he was able to stitch it without much difficulty. She hissed as the needle went in and tried to curl away from it, but eventually fell into a deeper state of unconsciousness. When he was finished, he bandaged the wound tightly and lifted her into his arms once again, carrying her to the upstairs guest bedroom.
As he gently lifted the blankets and deposited her on the bed, Henry frowned as he took in her appearance once more. The clothing was definitely odd, but the most shocking things were the makeup and her hair. The latter was cropped short and messy, almost as if she'd taken a knife and cut it herself, while the former was heavily applied. Raindrops dripped down deep purple lips and dark plum eyeshadow covered her eyelids, hardly appropriate for any woman to wear. His cheeks wanted to flush again, but didn't and he immediately shook his head before moving quickly toward the door. he shut it—softly, so he wouldn't wake her—and descended the stairs into the parlor, heavily sitting down in one of the armchairs. Questions, each without answers, flooded his mind, questions that wondered who the girl—woman, rather—was and how on earth she'd managed to receive a wound of that severity. If someone had done that to her, would they be back?
As he rested his head against his hand, a flash of white light lit up the room, temporarily blinding him. He threw his arms up to protect his eyes, lowering them slowly as the brightness died into a warm glow, then retreated all together. His ears rang, but he was unharmed, and he cautiously stood, moving toward the area the flash had blasted. Resting on his coffee table lay a bag—red leather bound and warm to the touch. A piece of paper rested comfortably on top of it and his name stared up at him, written in flawless, elegant cursive. Warily, Henry grabbed the note and opened it, reading quickly.
The bag is for the girl, it said in the same script as the writing on the front. Don't look in it unless she gives your permission.
Frowning, he set the letter aside and reached for the satchel, but what he intended to do escaped him. The moment he touched it, he snapped his hand away, a low hiss escaping his lips. The leather was hot, almost as if it was made of fire, and as he glanced back at the letter, he found himself unable to refrain from shuddering.
I warned you, it read in words that had definitely not been there before. Maybe next time you'll listen to me.
.
.
.
.
Olivia
The first thing I was aware of was pain.
Drawing in a deep breath, I winced and struggled to sit up, immediately regretting the action when fire shot through my side like an arrow. With a huff of a sigh, I decided that moving probably wasn't the best idea and relaxed against the soft, fluffy mattress beneath me. Big, comfortable pillows supported my neck and I did my best to remain still. My eyes were closed and didn't feel like opening any time soon, silently telling me to go back to sleep. And I almost did, even began to dream a little, something about rain and being carried into a house and—
Holy. Shit. I wasn't in my room.
My eyes snapped open as I abruptly sat up, adrenaline dulling the pain in my side to a manageable ache. All of the air left me in a rush until I was gasping nearly uncontrollably. Not only was I definitely not in my room, I wasn't even in my apartment, nor one that I recognized. The walls were painted a creamy color, completely different from the dark, peeling olive green that coated my crappy apartment, and paintings lined them, old oil ones that I felt as though I recognized, but couldn't quite name. The bed, a beautiful, sturdy one with what looked like a mahogany frame and a canopy, rested on a wooden floor, both a step up from my rickety single bed (well, little more than a mattress) and stained carpet. The sheets were crisp and clean, the comforter soft—probably down—and as I looked at my surroundings in wonder, two questions entered my mind:
One: where the hell was I?
And two: what the hell did I have to drink last night?
In all the honesty, part of me wanted to stay in the bed and go back to sleep so I wouldn't have to deal with any of this. The other part (the relatively rational one) told me to get up and figure out where I was—and probably find a way to leave. So with a heavy sigh, I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and shakily got to my feet. It wasn't easy—the pain in my side made moving much more difficult than usual—but I managed and swayed my way over to the door. I opened it with ease, pleased to discover that it wasn't locked. Okay; that was good. Whoever's room this was clearly didn't want to keep me prisoner here. A good samaritan, then? Someone who happened upon me and wanted to help? Even as I pondered the idea, I scoffed; good samaritans... there're no such things.
As I stepped out into the hallway, I was immediately greeted by darkness. Old-fashioned wall lights—candles on sconces—stared at me while I made my way to the stairs at the end of the hall. O-kay. That was weird. Did I pass out in some sort of museum? Or someone's house who collected antiques? I mean, coupled with the oil paintings, the decor in this place was like something out of Versailles. Whoever owned it clearly had money—and a lot of it.
Climbing down the stairs was a pain (literally), and I was glad when I finally did it, though my side was roaring by the time I reached the last step. Finally deciding to check on what was causing it to hurt so badly, I gingerly peeled back my shirt—and blanched as I caught sight of the blood stained bandages that wrapped the lower half of my torso. Alright. What. the. hell. I definitely did not remember getting hurt at all. As a matter of fact, the last thing I could remember was walking back to my apartment from my calculus class (which, in all honesty, gives me more agony than the damn wound in my side). So that meant one of two things:
A: I was mugged and left for dead and some good samaritan helped me (again, no such thing);
or B: yeah. I don't even know.
And yet there was practically nothing I could do besides continue exploring—and look for a way home while I was at it. So I staggered my way through the Versailles-esque house, eventually coming across a spacey parlor with large, beautiful windows that offered a perfect view into the yard outside. It was raining—pouring, really—and absolutely did not look anything like San Francisco, which, oh yeah, I was supposed to be. And to raise the weirdness factor to five hundred percent? My bookbag—which I do not remember having with me—was sitting right in front of me on what looked like an antique coffee table.
Ye-ah. I've lost my mind.
I frowned and walked over to the table, gently running my fingers along the red leather of my bag. Oddly enough, it was warm to the touch, though not scalding, and I peered inside of it, my frown deepening when I saw what was inside. All of my medication—vitamins included—stared up at me, along with a few books and a couple of my journals, even the ones that contained my notes from my classes. It was like someone had taken the time to make me a care package before whisking me off to Wonderland.
"What are you doing?"
Barely stifling a shriek, I spun around, immediately regretting the action when pain flared in my side. I ignored it, however, and decided to focus all of my attention on the man who'd just spoken. He was young—roughly around my age, maybe a few years older—and dressed well, like he was going to the opera. His dark brown hair looked slightly messy, but not unkept, and his eyes—a rich brown—were dark, yet not menacing. They watched me closely as I just stood there and stared like an idiot.
Oh and one other thing: he was cute. Like really cute.
"What are you doing?" He asked again, more gently this time, and took a step forward, to which I responded to with a step back.
"I, ah," I began, scrambling for words that I couldn't find. "I mean... what?"
He frowned, moving toward me again. "Are you alright?"
There was a hint of an accent in his voice, but my brain refused to recognize it, instead dwelling on the fact that I didn't want him to come any closer. I backed away another step, hitting my shin on the coffee table in the process, and defensively put my arms out in front of me. "I... I'm fine. I... just give me a second."
Slowly, he nodded and held his hands up in what was supposed to be a calming gesture. "It's alright," he murmured, like he was speaking to a wounded animal. "I'm not going to hurt you."
That's what they all say in the movies, I thought, but relaxed a little against my better judgment.
He appeared satisfied that I wasn't going to run or break into hysterics, and lowered his hands. "Can you tell me your name?"
Although every instinct in my mind should've been screaming at me to not answer, my gut seemed to think it was okay. "Olivia," I responded, albeit shakily. "Olivia Armstrong."
And why did I give my full name? Because I'm a moron.
The man nodded again, looking like he was debating with himself, and I somehow mustered up enough courage to speak again: "Uh... who're you?"
Any trace of debate immediately vanished from his face as he squared his shoulders and looked me in the eye. "Sturges," he replied, a hint of a chill in his tone. "Henry Sturges. Now can you tell me, Miss Armstrong, how in the hell you just appeared in my yard?"
I flinched at the sudden shift in his demeanor and barely resisted the urge to curl in on myself, anxiety flooding through my veins. "I, ah, I have no idea," I stammered, quickly glancing around for a weapon I could use in case he decided to attack me. "I, uh, I was hoping you could tell me that."
Apparently noticing my discomfort, the man—Henry—eased out of his aggressive posture and sighed. "Forgive me. I... I should've realized the state you're in. You must be frightened. But I'm afraid I don't know much more than you. One minute, the yard was empty, the next..." He trailed off.
Although his tone was slightly less harsh, I didn't relax. Confusion crossed my mind as I began to take note of his dialect. And his accent. And his clothes. And the rest of his house. Realization—horrible and cold—hit me not two seconds later and I felt my eyes widen.
"This, ah," I began, barely managing to keep my breathing under control, "this is gonna sound like a really, really weird question, but uh, what year is it?"
I watched his brow furrow with ever growing dread until he finally said: "1863."
The date barely had time to register with me before I felt my head begin to ache. Making it approximately two steps forward, I suddenly saw the floor rushing toward me.
And then there was nothing but peaceful darkness.
Annnnnddd the adventure begins (again)! I hope that everyone liked this! Thanks for reading! I'll have another update ready in a week or so.
Take care!
-Conversationkiller111 (Nopride4531)
