Whenever I think of something Irish-related in history, I immediately think of the Irish potato famine, for some reason. So… ta-da. This can be thought of as a prequel to my future Seth/Maggie story (… yeah), if you want to think of it that way. Or not. Either way, I'm going with this for Maggie's history/past in that story. When I write it. Yup. And the rating of this story is for safety.

I was dying.

Nobody tried to deny that anymore.

They had, at first, but I could tell immediately they weren't being truthful, and I wasn't going to get better. There was no point in lying to me; I could always see through a falsity to the ugly truth beneath. Papa had always said that was my best quality—I was so honest, I could tell when other people were or weren't being honest themselves.

Mama was dying, too, but much more slowly than I was. The pound of stirabout porridge and slice of bread we each received daily from the soup kitchen did not sustain her, and she, Nathan, and I always tried to give Fiona most of the food. Fiona was, after all, the youngest. It was more likely she would survive this terrible… epidemic, and we would not. She needed to be kept strong.

Mama wanted to keep me strong, too; I was the oldest, and Nathan—the boy of the family—and I were needed to help her with the family, ever since Papa died a few months ago. A terrible disease had taken him.

Now, however, it looked like keeping me strong was no longer an option. The same disease that had taken Papa had crept upon me, and now I was bedridden, waiting to die. This particular disease was known to kill quickly. I would be dead within a few days at the most, possibly in less than a day, even.

I had already begun to show the symptoms. Clara had put a bucket next to my bed, for any of my needs, and given me cloths to help staunch my nosebleeds. There was nothing to help the racing of my heart, the terrible pains I that hit me, or how tired I constantly was, though. Nothing to help how much it hurt…

This disease was infectious, and I could not risk any of my family, particularly not little Fiona, who was only seven. I could not have companionship in my last days, or even hours, for fear of infecting Fiona, Clara, Nathan, or Mama. I'd asked them not to leave any food for me. I was going to die, anyway; what did it matter?

To pass the time, I thought of my past, the happy memories there, trying to ignore my aching joints and dry skin. Only two years or so ago, before the leaves on the potato plants had turned black, curled, and rotten, I had been fine. I was Margaret Reynolds, or Maggie, as I preferred to be called, and I had loving parents, wonderful younger siblings, and a beautiful family. I was happy, and cheerful.

I had a friend, Connell Ackerman. Had. He'd been a kind, thoughtful, dark-haired boy, two years older than me. I think our parents had always wanted us to court when we grew older, and he'd always called me his "little red-haired Irish lassie." Sometimes, "lassie" was replaced with "spitfire." Or sometimes, he'd called me his "little fire-haired Irish lassie." Connell had liked to make references of fire about me.

Too bad he'd moved to England with his family last year, as the potato diseases and the failing crops grew worse, and more people starved. I'd received only one letter from him so far, and it hadn't said much.

No, I told myself, because the thought of Connell (and his lack of presence) made me want to cry. Happy thoughts. I want some happy thoughts, before I die. Preferably happy memories.

A knock on the door startled me out of my ruminations. I blinked, and turned my head towards the door. I had been put in the lone bedroom on the other side of the (admittedly small) house, far away from everyone else.

Speaking of our house… Mama was so weak from hunger now, she could hardly walk straight. It wouldn't be long before she couldn't even go to the soup kitchen anymore. Nathan worked, but that wasn't enough to support the family, since Papa's death. It was likely we were going to be evicted soon. Everyone in town was being evicted lately.

At least I'd be dead by then.

"Maggie?" I heard Clara's frail voice ask, barely above a whisper.

I coughed, weakly, and tried to sit up. Ouch. I let out an involuntary hiss of pain and fell back down. Cramps. I hated them.

"Maggie? Are you okay?" Clara sounded close to crying. I couldn't blame her.

"I'm… fine," I called out, trying to sound strong, for her benefit. "What is it?"

When she spoke again, her voice was even quieter. I hadn't seen Clara for a few days now, almost a week, but she'd looked absolutely emaciated last time I'd seen her, and she surely couldn't be better now. I could only picture her sunken blue eyes, her limp dark curls (I'd gotten my red hair from Papa), and her poor wasted limbs. My dear sister…

"Mama, Nathan, Fiona, and I are going to the soup kitchen now," she said, in a small voice. "We'll be back… as soon as possible. Will you be alright?"

I was never going to be alright again. "Of course, dear Clara. Eat a lot for me." As much as possible… which would be a pound of porridge and a piece of bread. And the dear girl would probably try to give her food to Fiona. She was only ten, but she understood how urgent it was that Fiona should live. Nathan, who was twelve, would probably share his food, too.

"I'll come and talk to you outside the door when we get back," Clara promised.

"I look forward to it, dear sister."

"Maggie…" her voice grew even smaller, if that was even possible. "You will still be alive when we get back, won't you?"

I nearly scoffed at the idea, and I would have, if it weren't for the fact that it was a very plausible concern. I knew I was going to die, though… just not that soon. "Of course I will be, Clara."

"Alright." There was a pause, and then the sound of her footsteps pattered away from the door.

I had no idea how long I lay in bed after that. I only knew that, as I finally drifted off into unconsciousness, I wondered if I would wake up.

I did.

Wake up, that is.

And it was to the sound of voices.

"She's a girl, the only one in the house," I heard a smooth, mesmerizing voice say from outside my door, in the hallway. A female smooth, mesmerizing, and unfamiliar voice. Fear tightened my dying heart as I wondered who it could be, in our house. Was my family back from the soup kitchen yet?

"I can hear her heartbeat," I heard another voice say. It was a male voice, hard and firm, but every bit as smooth and mesmerizing as the first. "It is erratic. And her scent is tainted. She is dying."

"We can put her out of her misery," the first voice said, and a thrill of fear shot up my chest. They couldn't possibly mean…

Who were these people, these strangers, these intruders in my home? If they'd hurt my family, I was going to kill them, no matter how weak and sick I was.

I struggled to sit up, but it was a lost cause. I sank back down on the bed, gasping as new jolts of pain shot through my legs.

I absolutely hated cramps. It was just another side effect of this horrible disease.

Along with nausea…

Clutching my pounding head, I waited for the intruders to find me. They did not disappoint.

Before I could even so much as wonder if these strangers were, say, bandits, or perhaps people who worked for the landlord (I hadn't thought we would be evicted this soon), they burst into the room.

Well, not so much as burst into. The door opened, in one graceful motion, and they glided in.

My breath caught in my throat, for the two strangers standing in the doorway were possibly the two most beautiful people I'd seen. One was male, and one was female. I'd been right about that.

The female had a large, imposing body, and if it were made of water, it would have rippled. She moved like water, anyway. Smooth, undulating movements. Her hair was long and dark.

The male had a hard, pale face, and short, closely-cropped dark hair. He was extremely graceful in his movements, too, but not as much as the female.

And they both had the whitest skin I'd ever seen. And red eyes.

Red eyes. A deep, sinister shade of burgundy.

And something shivered and crawled up my skin then, some feeling, some sixth sense. I'd always trusted my sixth sense; it was always right. And it told me that these… these people were not human.

"Don't be afraid, girl," the woman said, and her voice was quiet and mesmerizing. "We aren't going to hurt you."

My sixth sense tingled. "Yes, you are," I whispered, trying to scoot to the far end of the bed, but I found myself paralyzed. Was it another, sudden side effect of the disease, or was it my own fear? I couldn't be sure.

"No, we aren't going to hurt you at all," the woman reiterated, and she smiled at me. It only served to frighten me more; her teeth were a flash of white against her just-as-pale face. Those were very sharp-looking teeth.

"Yes, you are," I repeated. "You're going to kill me. 'Put me out of my misery'," I quoted.

A faint look of what could have been surprise flashed across her face. The man said nothing; I wondered why he was suddenly so silent (I'd heard him speaking to the woman before, before they'd entered my room).

"Who are you?" I asked. I was suddenly very averse to the idea of dying, even though it was inevitable. But… if I had to die now, couldn't I at least die from the disease, and not by the hands of these two strangers? "Do you work for the landlord?"

The two intruders exchanged glances. They were mostly inscrutable, but looked… faintly amused. Some form of anger bubbled up in my chest. Yes, I was only a fifteen-year-old girl, sick and bedridden, half-dead, but… they weren't taking me seriously.

I suddenly felt the urge to call them some rather crude names. An urge I'd never felt before, in all my fifteen years.

The prospect of death was having a bad influence on me.

"Yes, we work for the landlord," the female finally said.

My sixth sense tingled again.

"No, you don't," I said, with certainty.

"How do you know?" the female inquired. Something that vaguely resembled curiosity sparked in her burgundy eyes.

I looked away from those eyes and said nothing.

"Why did you even ask in the first place, if you're so sure we don't work for the landlord?"

I refused to answer. I wasn't going to be cooperative, if they were going to kill me.

"What is your name?" the woman asked.

I didn't respond.

"My name is Aoife," she told me.

Tingle. "You lie," burst out of my mouth, before I could stop it.

One thin, dark brow of hers rose. "My name is Patricia," she corrected herself.

Tingle. "Lie." My brain wasn't functioning properly anymore. I couldn't get my mouth to shut up.

"My name is Cameron."

"Lie."

"My name is Reese."

"Lie."

"His name is Gerard."

"Lie."

"His name is Seamus."

"Lie."

"My name is Grace."

"Lie."

"My name is Orla."

"Lie."

"My name is Mary."

"Lie."

"My name is Siobhan."

My mouth automatically opened, fully preparing to say "Lie," but I stopped, surprised. There hadn't been a tingle. "… Truth," I said.

If the woman was deterred by my sudden change in responses, she didn't show it. "My mother's name was Clodagh."

"Truth."

"I've met someone named Carlisle before."

"Truth."

"I had a sister named Aisling."

Had? "Truth."

"I had a sister named Ellen."

Tingle. "Lie."

"His"—she jerked her head slightly at her companion—"name is Niall."

"Lie."

"His name is Ross."

"Lie."

"His name is Joshua."

"Lie."

"His name is Liam."

"… Truth."

"I was born in 1680," the woman said.

There was no tingle. "Truth…" I whispered. "But that's impos—"

I glanced up at the two intruders in my home, and faltered at the sight of them. Sinister burgundy eyes, deathly white skin…They weren't human. They were…

"You're immortal," I breathed.

There was no mistaking the flash of surprise that crossed both their faces this time. "Well, Liam," the woman—Siobhan—said, turning to the male, "it appears she has a… talent."

"My name is Maggie," I murmured, and even as I did so, I wondered why, considering how these people were going to kill me soon.

"It would be a shame to waste such a talent," Siobhan mused, and then she turned the full force of those red eyes on me. "And… that red hair… it reminds me of…"

Her voice lowered, and she and Liam turned to each other, appearing to confer. I thought I saw their lips moving, but I couldn't hear a sound.

And then, suddenly, they were standing straight, facing me again. "Maggie," Siobhan said, and her voice was suddenly kind (it hadn't been not kind before, just… not exactly kind…), "you're going to come with us."

I laughed, weakly. "You aren't going to kill me, then? Not right here?"

Siobhan frowned slightly. "Not exactly," she hedged, and my sixth sense did a crazy little dance. She was telling the truth… but to what extent? It didn't make any sense. "I'm better with human blood than Liam is… we're going to do it right here, and then we'll be taking you away."

I ignored the shock of fear that raced through my body at the words human blood. There were more pressing issues at hand. "But…! My family…!"

"I'm very sorry, Maggie," Siobhan said, walking towards me, and even then I could see the slightly predatory crouch in her undulating movements, and I shrank away in fright, "but you won't be seeing your family again."

I opened my mouth—to scream, perhaps? I should have done that a long time ago—but suddenly, a hard, icy hand was covering my mouth, preventing me from making any noises. I gasped at the sudden coldness, and then Siobhan leaned over, picked up my hand from the bed, and bit it.

Her teeth sunk into my flesh with a sharp jolt of pain, and I yelped against her icy fingers. "Ow!" I cried, my words muffled by her hand. "What are you doing…?!"

My words were cut off by the sudden, sharper jolt of pain that raced through my body. It was like the pain of when she bit me… but multiplied by a lot, and it wasn't just in my hand. "Ow," I protested, weakly, as my body involuntarily jerked again. "That hurt—"

The next jolt of pain was much, much worse. You could combine all the pain I'd felt in the past few days, ever since I'd fallen sick, and then the two pains I'd just recently felt, and then multiply all that pain a million times, and then a million times more, and it wouldn't even come close to what I felt now.

I jerked again, gasping harshly, and then again, and again, and then I was spasming as what felt like shocks of lightning shot through my body, over and over. "What… did… you… do?!" I gasped out, staring, horrified, at Siobhan. Was this some kind of slow, horrific torture? What had I ever done to deserve this?

"I'm sorry, but you'll be fine in a few days," Siobhan said, looking slightly remorseful. Behind her, Liam stood, face as hard and cold as ever.

Fine? In a few days? I was never going to be fine again. I was going to die before, and now, I was being subjected to some horrible torture before my death… if said torture didn't kill me first. What was this, some kind of poison or something?

I wondered what my poor Mama would think, when she got home from the soup kitchen and found her eldest daughter missing. It would be one thing for me to die; quite another for me to disappear. She—not to mention Nathan, Clara, and Fiona—would worry sick, wondering if I was still alive or not, and who had taken me. And poor, poor Clara; I'd promised her I wouldn't die before she got home from the soup kitchen, and now, I couldn't even be sure anymore—

And then the last coherent thoughts I had faded away as the fires of hell consumed me.

I've never learned about the Irish potato famine before (like in school or whatever), so I had to research it myself, and I'm not entirely certain if everything historical here is correct. Feel free to point out any (historical) inconsistencies. :) Oh, and the disease Maggie has (had?) is cholera. Feel free to point out any errors with that, too. Like with the symptoms, and the time it takes to show up, or whatever.

Review, please!