Alright, so, I'm not happy with this chapter. I think it jumps around too much. And some of it is just plain ridiculous.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially not the one who is not as nice as everyone thinks he is.

CHAPTER 3: DEATH WARMED OVER

Ten minutes is not a long time for a vampire.

No, I'm screwed. No two ways about it. For what feels like the first time this night I actually allow myself to feel my fear. Yes, I think it's safe to say I'm good and properly terrified. There's no way this is going to have a good ending. I'm dead. I am so, so fucking dead. If I'm lucky—which I'm not—I'll stay that way this time. What was it Eric said again? Kill, fuck, turn? Or turn, fuck, kill? Crap, that wasn't the order, was it? It's really important that I know these things—it makes a huge difference in the general outlook of my future, goddammit! (Or lack thereof).

Crap. Crud. Get your shit under control Amity. Positive thoughts. What are my advantages here?

Right. I know the land…which is in the middle of nowhere. The only one who will hear me scream for miles around is a feeble old man who won't be able to do a thing. POSITIVE THOUGHTS. I know the land. Me and Tony spent more time gallivanting around these parts than actually working, so that's something. First things first—

I jump head first into the old pigsty, aiming for the puddle of mud in the back. In seconds, I am unrecognizable, and smell about as appetizing as pig shit. No time for pride here. Gotta run. Where? The woods, the house, or the barn? Well, he can't come into the house since he's uninvited—natural protection against vampires. But Pop-pop is in there. I can't be glamoured, but he can. Eric will use him against me in a heartbeat. I can see it already. Can't get him involved in this. The barn is too enclosed—I'll be boxing myself in—although there is a lot of rotted wood in there. Potential weapons.

Although…I really don't want to kill Eric. Sure, he wouldn't think twice about killing me or mine, but some small, suicidally insane part of me is genuinely fond of the bloodsucker. I don't think I could live with myself, even though I've only known the bastard for one night. I'm too soft for my own good. Not to mention, if I kill Eric, I'll have a bigger problem on my hands soon afterwards by the name of Godric. And I really, really like Godric. Besides sentiment, however, it was clear to me that he used to go toe to toe with my mother in her prime and even gave her a run for her money from time to time if what he said was to be believed. I was nowhere near Mama's league yet. Maybe in a couple of centuries, but now? HA. Godric could smash every bone in my body in less than two seconds flat, I'll bet.

No. Killing Eric is a non-option that will set off a whole bunch of other non-options that I'll have absolutely no chance against, and it's just not going to happen. So, the barn is out. Only option left now is the woods. The good news—I know them like the back of my hand. Tony and I used to play hide and seek there all the time when we were little. I know where Pop-pop's secret fishing hole is too. I wonder if a vampire's tracking skills are like a dog's. If I swim past the pond will he still be able to track me? Or does a vampire track through more than just a sense of smell? Their hearing is good, I know that much. He can see in the dark, probably hear my blood pumping, smell me… This is not looking good.

I'm screwed. But still. I wasn't going to take it lying down.

All this took place within five minutes. In the next, still stinking of mud and pig shit, I dart off into the woods at a brusque pace. No sense in exhausting myself by sprinting. The next step is to find a big tree and haul myself up into its branches. If he's on the ground, I'll see him before he sees me. And so, keeping my back to the trunk, I pull my knees up and endeavor to wait it out. Just until dawn. If I can hold out until dawn, I'll be safe.

I keep my breathing slow and shallow as I can, willing my heartbeat to not to race like a frightened rabbit. Close my eyes. Listen. Clear my mind. Focus… What was Auntie always saying about focus…? My eyes shoot open as the answer comes to me. His aura. That horrible, wonderful, larger than life, Justin Bieber on V popstar aura. I might not be able to see in the dark, but I'll sure as hell sense him coming. A slow grin twists my mud spattered lips as a plan slowly forms in my mind.

Another quarter of an hour goes by in almost complete silence. The night critters have hidden away, sensing the disturbances in the forest. They know when a hunter enters their safe havens beneath the branches. I've borrowed one of the loose ones that was poking into my lower back and have been carefully witling it down into a point by peeling off pieces of bark with my chipped fingernails. I might not be able to kill him, but I can certainly try and wound him.

And that's exactly what I try and do when I sense the telltale pop aura stalking ever nearer. I can see the outline of his tall figure pause in the cold blue moonlight. "Come out, come out, little witch. I'm tired of waiting." My heartbeat longs to leap out of my chest, but I stubbornly keep it under control. The only way to do that is to disassociate myself from what is really going on. I'm not being stalked by a vampire. I'm watching someone who looks like me being stalked by a vampire. It's like a dream. Or a movie. None of it is real. It's not me adjusting a crudely made stake in her palm. It's not me leaping from the branches silently to nail a vampire in the head with both feet—oh shit! Ow! Yeah, that hurts. It's me. Fucking hell—

The world tumbles around me as I'm flipped through the air and land awkwardly in the refuse scattered clearing with an impact that jars my entire frame knocking the wind out of me. Snap! Shit, there goes my wrist—goddammit—yeah, this plan failed spectacularly. Stake is gone—oh wait, there it is—HA! It's embedded in Eric's shoulder! Take that! Oh, fuck—time to run.

The tall blonde male stares at me in utter shock for a second—which is merely a raising of the brows for vampires—first at my wild appearance, then at the makeshift stake in his shoulder—connecting the dots of how it got there. I don't wait around to hear what he has to say, launching off my good arm and in the direction of the one last safe haven I know, cradling my probably broken wrist, zig zagging between the trees to give him a harder target. Wait, didn't Pop-pop only say to do that if someone was shooting at you?

Well, it seems to work on vampires too if the cursing behind me is any indication.

I don't waste any time when I get to Pop-pop's fishing hole, diving straight for the snorkel reeds. Tony and I used to make breathing sticks out of them years ago when Grandpop took us with him. He'd sit in his little boat, cursing at us for disturbing the fish, and we'd be over in the reeds having a grand old time, making contests out of who could stay submerged the longest, while the old man sat and grumped at us from afar. I instantly grab a bunch of them and—heedless of pond sludge—stick the lot of them into my mouth. I don't know how long I'm under for. A minute? Two? Three? It feels like an eternity.

And then the fucker bites into my leg.

No, not Eric.

Albert.

I emerge from the water screaming bloody murder, clawing on the thing latched onto me furiously. I'm not even scared anymore, I'm just pissed off. God-fucking-dammit, Albert. I smack my fists upon the stubborn reptile as hard as I can, but that only makes him bite down harder and he starts to thrash, and then he begins to go into a roll—mother-fuck—he's going to rip my fucking leg off—

"Let me go you overgrown-fat-ass-lizard!" I howl, still pounding my fists. Everything hurts. Everything hurts, and now I'm being dragged underwater. I swallow a lung full of pond water, choking, choking, my vision littered with little dots. I see stars and colors, and it hurts, it hurts so much—and then—quite suddenly—miraculously—the pressure is gone. I'm tugged out of the water, the ambitious gator's jaws are pried open, and I am witness to the glorious act of Eric the vampire flinging Albert—the six-hundred-pound monster alligator I thought Pop-pop had gotten rid of years ago—over the treetops like it's nothing.

I cough up what feels like buckets of pond scum before I collapse onto my back on the bank. I'm staring at the night sky, littered with bright little pinpricks of stars, and I can't help thinking for the first time that night how beautiful it all is. I know it's probably the last sky I'll ever see. And still, all I can say is, "Fucking fat ass lizard… Fuck you, Albert. Fuck…you…"

I'm so tired. I can't even move as the vampire looms over me.

I cough up more pond water, and spit it at his lovely designer boots. "Get it over with already, you bastard."

"I track you for hours in this backwater hell, and the one who finally bites you is an alligator," he states dryly. "That's just fucked up."

"Maybe you're just a shitty tracker, and a sore loser," I suggest, my voice slurring in my utter exhaustion. I try and take account of my limbs, tilting my head at an angle to get a view. "Shithead didn't get my leg, did he?" It's not a pretty sight. I let my head fall back with a snarl of frustration, "God-fucking-dammit." I glare at Eric who sits on his heels beside me, examining my broken body with a frown. "This is all your fault."

"You're the one who decided to go commando on me." He shook his head chastisingly. "I just wanted to chase you down and bite you. And then we'd both be going home happy right now."

"That's not what you said earlier," I gritted out between my teeth.

"I was a little upset," he protested.

"UPSET?! A LITTLE?" I shout back, irate. "Fuck, turn, kill—kill, turn, fuck!? In god knows what order?! I REACTED, OKAY?!"

"For a human, you did quite well." Alright, that shuts me up. He takes a seat by my head, and puts it in his lap. "I haven't had this much fun in years." His fingers move my sopping wet bangs out of my face with a surprising amount of gentleness. "You're a fierce warrior."

I had to let that sink in for a moment, my slow brain having to catch up. Finally, I managed to mutter, "Yer not so bad yourself…Gator-Slinger." My vision darkens, and I suddenly feel very close to passing out. I mumble out the inevitable question, "'M I dyin'?"

"Yes," comes the frank reply. A pause, and then, "But I still want a rematch." My eyes are closed, but I hear a sharp click, and then something cool and wet is placed against my lips. "Drink. You'll feel better."

"Promise?" My lips barely move at all, but freaky vampire hearing still gets the message.

The cool wet something is shoved against me again, more insistently this time. "Promise."

With that, I part my lips and let the thick, chilled, bittersweet-metallic liquid run down my throat. It feels like a firework festival in my head. Instantly, I latch on with my good arm, then with my bad one—which doesn't seem to hurt anymore—my leg straightens out—and I just feel good. Really, really, good. Everything feels like magic, and when I open my eyes to look up at the stars again, it's like they're right there in front of my face. Someone's bloody wrist is removed from my reach, but all I'm interested in reaching is the stars. The tips of my fingers can almost brush them from where I'm lying in someone's lap.

When the person behind me maneuvers me into a sitting position, I whine in protest, still reaching. "I want them—I want all the brightest ones… Mama used to tell me their names." I lean heavily against the stranger as he hauls me up, and I grasp his leather jacket desperately, "Will you tell me their names? Mama told me, but I forgot—I mustn't forget—I mustn't—" I gasp suddenly, tears building in my eyes when I whisper to the stranger in terror, "Auntie will be angry with me. She's so scary!"

"Scarier than me?" He flashes his fangs.

"Scarier than an army of pointy teeth," I tell him urgently. "She'll come for me. When I don't go back, she'll come, and then she'll kill all my new friends and take all the stars awa-a-ay," I break off into a mournful wail.

"None of that now. Your friends will be fine," the stranger assures me, scooping my legs up effortlessly and carrying me out of the woods.

"I don't want to go back," I murmur into his chest. "They want me to kill a demon."

"What manner of demon?" the strange asks without looking at me.

"The tricky kind…" I can't manage to suppress a yawn. "Tricks and traps, sticks and stones…biting words that rip into you like knives and twist you up inside…"

"Those are the worst."

"He wasn't always the worst," I explain tiredly. "But I can't fight him. I won't."

"Why don't you use your powers?" the stranger suddenly demands. "You are a warrior. Why do you not use every weapon at your disposal?"

"I can only use my power on dead things. And I'm not very good at it…" I rest my head on his shoulder. We're very high up. "That's why I like the sky witches better. They don't need to fight. The sky takes them where they need to go…" My head lolls back, and I reach for the stars again. "I want to be in the sky with Mama… Did you know I already died once?"

"Did you?" the stranger remarks with interest.

"Uh-huh. I saw the whoooole world from way up there." I point at the stars. "For a little while, I was everything. I was nothing, and then I was aaall of it, just whoooosh—" I sweep my arm at his head. He dodges. "Up, and away… Then Mama came and told me to go back. I wanted to go with her, but she said no…she had to stay with God."

The stranger doesn't remark on that, and leaves me on a familiar porch. He then proceeds to ding-dong-ditch the doorbell and leave me there. It takes a while for the person inside to wake up and open the door, so I rest my eyes for a while. It's the stern, crotchety voice that cuts through the air like a shotgun that wakes me with a jolt. I'm much clearer headed now.

"What in the dickens—Girl? Amity? Is that you?!" The old man stoops and grips my arms, hauling me up. "You look like yah just crawled outta hell backwards! What in the name of high holy heck have you been into!? I was worried sick!"

I shake my head, trying to remember the night's events through hazy recall. It comes back in bits and pieces. "I think I may have tried to beat up Albert at one point…"

"Albert?! Albert the gator?!" Pop-pop claps a hand to his head and looks like he wants to start yelling again, but rethinks that for the sake of his blood pressure (or maybe his sanity). Instead, he hauls me towards the outhouse—the ranch is old, with no actual indoor plumbing; the shower house was only added in the last century or so. Grandpop fills up the old tub that me n' Tony used to take baths in together as children, and the hardy old man unceremoniously tosses me in, clothes and all. The water is chilly and I let out a yelp when I tumble in with a splash.

"Pop-pop!" I cry out indignantly.

"Yer filthier than a hog on a hot summer day, Girl!" the old man persists in his gruff, gravelly voice, shoving me under the spout and pumping more cold water on top of my head, tossing me a scrubber as I shiver like a pathetic wet kitten. "I ain't talkin' to yah 'bout nothin' when you look like a daggam hog! Now, git yerself cleaned up! Or do I have to do it for you?"

"Sir, yes, Sir, Pop-pop, Sir…" I grumble out, too exhausted to argue with the ex-marine about his less than elegant tactics. He sits down on a stool by the door and leans back with his arms crossed, his creased face settled into a signature scowl. He always reminds me of a lankier, grumpier version of Sean Connery, and his face looks like it's been carved out of a mountain, tanned brown by working in the sun.

I haven't seen him in around five years, since the last time he visited Tony and I in Scarborough where we took him fishing in the North Sea—a fond memory. Tony had him convinced he'd hooked a shark, and nearly gave the old man a heart attack when he pretended to go overboard. I ended up pushing him over anyway. Pop-pop laughed at him—one of the few times I have seen him laugh at something.

He's certainly not laughing now.

Eventually, I peel the ruined dress shirt over my back, heedless to nudity. Being in a witch coven for sixteen years kind of strips you of any and all sense of personal shame—not that I had much of that anyway, living out in the country all my life. Running around naked as the day you were born is practically a requirement, so Grandpop is used to it. I liked that shirt though…and I let out a long sigh as I behold the thoroughly bedraggled thing and reluctantly toss it out of the tub with a wet slap! Then the rest of my sopping wet clothing hits the floor after it. With that, I get down to attempting to remove several layers of filth from my person, and try to piece together what exactly had happened.

Finally, I just put it out there. "I was playing hide-and-seek with a vampire—ended up wrestling with a gator instead."

It says a lot for the old man's capacity for bullshit that he just stares at me for a moment before looking at the ceiling and shaking his head. "Why 'm I not surprised?" He lets out a huff. "That don't explain how yer still alive. Do I even wanna know?"

"I don't really know either." I shrug. Though I have a personal suspicion that a vampire took pity on me. Stranger things have happened, right? …Right?

"Dang fanger ain't coming back, is 'e?" Pop-pop demanded heatedly.

"Well, Albert certainly isn't—that's for damn sure," I decide to only provide answers I can guarantee. I distinctly remember Eric saying something about a 'rematch' so my prospects are not looking good. I lean back in the murky water and let my head fall back with a thunk. "All I know is I'm exhausted, hungry, and on top of that, I've got jetlag." I turn my head to give him a pathetic look. "I've had a very long night."

"More 'n half the shenanigans you and that cousin o'yers get into are your own dang fault. I ain't got no sympathy for you, Girl."

"But, Pop-pop…" I protest weakly. "The vamp caught me coming out of the airport… I didn't even do nothin'," I whine, falling back into the accent of my childhood. "From there it just kinda…escalated." I shudder, remembering exactly what kind of escalation I'm referring to.

Pop-pop let out a long sigh. "You know I hate those vamp'r sum'bitches more 'n most, but the good lord knows yer a magnet fer trouble, Amity Hartly." He shakes his head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and makes the edict, "You're comin' to church with me on Sunday. If you got trouble with them fangers, the reverend is the guy to talk to."

"Ah, Pop-pop, no…" I hurriedly try and refuse. Church is so not my thing. "I got this. Really. It was just a misunderstanding—and the guy's maker seems real good 'n decent—" Before Gramps can protest, I blurt out, "And he knew Mama too! From waaaaay back when—he says he's gunna tell me stories." I can't help but grin at the thought. "And he's the sheriff too, so it'll be nice if I can get in his good graces. They're not too crazy 'bout witches…"

"A vampire sheriff?" Pop-pop exclaims, a vein throbbing in his temple. Really gotta watch that blood pressure. "What's a vampire sheriff got to say about our Casey?"

"I dunno, but I wanna find out," I explain rapidly. "If that means playing hide-and-seek with his kid, I'm gunna do it, Pop-pop."

"Yer a damn fool, Girl." Pop-pop shakes his head at her again. Then he persists, "I still think you should come with me on Sunday. If the vamps have got a sheriff, the reverend needs to know 'bout it."

I furrow my brow at him. "What's the reverend got to do with it? This is vampires, Pop-pop. Ain't no one normal got any business messin' with vampires—it's just not safe. I barely got out alive tonight, and if your reverend knows what's good for 'im—"

"Girl, you got a lotta nerve tellin' me what's safe 'n what's not!" he cuts me off. "Like you said—you near got yerself killed out there tonight! I ain't loosin' another one o' my kids to them dirty bloodsuckers. So help me God, Amity Hartly, you are coming with me to see the reverend this Sunday, and I am not going to hear another word of objection from you, ya hear me?"

For a moment, the only sound in the bath house is the sound of the murky water in the tub with me. And then I point out quietly, and ever so gently, "Pop-pop…that church you go to is one o'those vampire-hatin'-churches, right…? Call 'em 'demons of the night' n' all that, right…?" My lower lip wobbles a bit as he nods in confirmation. "Well…Pop-pop, you ever wonder what all them good folks over at yer vampire-hatin'-church are gunna think of witches?"

The old man's eyes widen slightly at the thought, but then he shakes his head hurriedly. "Yeah, well—yer like your Mama, ain't'cha? You come back here 'cause you wanna put all that business behind yah, right? Yer"—he spends a good moment trying to find the right words—"yer reformed, ain't'cha?"

"Oh, Pop-pop…" I eye him with despair, shaking my head slowly. "No…" I sigh, and try to explain as carefully and delicately as I can. "Mama was never…'reformed.' You can't just…snap back. It's not like that." At his falling features, I reassure him in cajoling tones, "It's not like what yer thinkin'—nothing bad. I still believe in God. I just…think of it—erm—that is to say, 'him,' in a different light—that's all." I try and scrounge up a smile, but it turns out a little wobbly. "All religions are like that. It's just different ways of seein' God." Since he appears to be listening very intently, I tentatively point out, "Every witch has a different way of seeing God too. I see, er…him in everything; the earth, the trees, the sky, you, me…" I hesitate, before adding, "…even vampires."

Pop-pop lets that sink in for a second eyeing me unreadably before shaking his head at me again. "Yer too kind-hearted for your own good, Girl. Your vampires are gunna see it too, and yer gunna end up just like your uncle Lex." He scowls. "I know they murdered my boys. Ain't no other explanation fer what happened that night." His eyes burn at me determinedly. "I ain't gonna let those monsters murder my girl."

I cast him a watery smile. "Don't you worry 'bout me, Pop-pop. I'm a big girl now. I've taken on my fair share of vampires in the past—and much worse. Believe me, there are much worse things than vampires out there." My smile turns sympathetic. "I wouldn't tell your reverend that though. Sounds to me like he's digging his nose into enough problems as it is. This isn't a world you wanna get into unless you got no other choice."

"Like you and Tony…" He sighs deeply, taking the truth of my words for what it is. "I know not everything is black and white. I'm old and tired, and fought in enough wars to understand that…" He eyes me with a heavy frown. "I reckon yer probably right about the reverend. Ain't no good can come of stirring up more trouble than there oughta be…" His eyes harden as he lays down the ultimatum, "But if you come bringing that vampire sheriff 'round here, we're gunna have us a little talk, him and me. Man to Fang."

"Oh, Pop-pop," I gasp. "You can't—I mean you can't say anything offensive. I'm serious. He looks like a kid, but this guy is old. I can tell. You know what that means?" I explain hurriedly, "The older the vampire, the stronger the vampire. Don't forget that. And don't go mouthin' off to 'em. Hell, I don't even know if I could take 'im if it came down to a fight."

"I never said nothin' 'bout mouthin' off," he protests. "It's just a talk—a man talk. You know. With men."

"And a vampire who could have more than a thousand years on you!" I eject, splashing my hands in the water agitatedly. "And a very nice one at that! He's the nicest vampire I ever met! He didn't even threaten to kill me once!"

"Oh, yeah, 'cause that's a great way to judge someone's character!" He protests.

I raise a finger in the air to argue, but slowly lower it back down and concede, "…Point. I guess my judgement is a little skewed after all this time. You gotta lower your expectations a little if you wanna survive in my world." I let out a sigh. "Okay. You can have your talk—but I gotta be there! No way I'm gonna let you dig yer own grave, old man."

"And I'm not about to let my grandkid become some vamp's chew toy." he insists.

"Agreed." I nod, and he nods back.

It appears we've come to an accord.

The next morning, I'm out in the barn, surveying the damage.

The farm isn't exactly what it used to be when I was a kid. It's full of problems and disrepair. Ever since Mama died, and Aunt Sage took Tony and me, the place has declined. There's no more animals left—the fields aren't tilled; there's just not enough people to maintain it. And gramps sure isn't gonna hire anyone—he's retired. And he sure as hell isn't going to sell the property to those leasers. This farm is over a hundred years old! It's been in the Hartly family for generations.

I've got some good ideas though. There are lots of rituals that can be performed for prosperous harvests. I know some spells that can fix up the repairs and protections… I noticed Mama had them put in place… They've weakened extensively, but it says a lot about her prowess as a witch that they would last so long after her death. She really was amazing.

Shaking my head, I meander over towards the old loft—our version of 'home base' when Tony and I were kids. Part of the ladder is collapsed, and I murmur some ancient words, waving both hands like a conductor. It's a more extensive version of the 'fix-it' spell that I used to fix my hand mirror—very useful—and, like watching time reverse itself, the rotten splinters fly back into place, revitalizing into the sturdy ladder I remember from my girlhood. With that, I haul myself up into the loft, making little repairs as I go, so as not to collapse the structure entirely. They hey is damp and mildewy, and I let out a sigh. This is going to be a lot of work.

Fluffy jumps out of my shadow as I sit cross-legged in front of an ancient looking trunk, and I smile at him. "Happy to be home, little lion? This place used to be your kingdom, once upon a time."

He merely eyes me with an unreadable feline stare, paying no attention to the familiarity or lack thereof within any of his surroundings.

I let out another sigh, shaking my head. Remember when I said Fluffy is one of those things I don't question? Well, I don't question it because I pretty much already know what it is without really thinking about it too deeply. I try not to acknowledge it, at any rate. But I suppose I need to put it behind me somehow… Smiling sadly to myself and the effigy of the old black cat, I murmur, "You died a long time ago, didn't you."

The phantom cocks its head.

"I guess I've been stupid, still treating you like a cat after all this time. I was just lying to myself so that I didn't have to feel so alone all the time…" I huff out a little laugh, shaking my head at myself. A normal cat would never have lived as long as 'Fluffy,' had. I am under no illusions now. Perhaps Tony and I had resurrected my beloved pet cat that night—as my mother resurrected me in turn—but that didn't make him immune to the passage of time. A cat is still a cat, after all, and this…this is no longer a cat. "You're just a physical manifestation of my power now, aren't you? An extension of my reach…" I pause, stretching out to stroke his whiskery cheek with a finger. "You're just my Shadow…" And when my fingers reach him, the image ripples…and sinks back into the dark outline at my side.

For some reason, in the blazing hot heat of the Texas summer…I feel cold, and so very alone.

Suppressing a shiver, I sigh, remembering something I read once about a time when a child must put away childish things… Or was it the other way around? I can never remember. Conceits all fall away slowly, lies I tell myself for comfort, things I use to bolster myself up—though they're not many, they still keep me from seeing things clearly. I take a key that hangs from a frayed ribbon reverently from around my neck—given to me after Mama's funeral all those years ago—and leisurely put it to the deceptively rusty looking padlock on the ancient chest in front of me.

The chest has an expanding charm too—something Tony and I didn't notice back when we were kids. Magic has a way of being understated to those not of the craft—overlooked—even when it is so very obvious. In this chest is compiled, quite possibly, all of Mama's magical works. Her grimoires are written upon the skins of her vanquished foes; a custom adopted from the fair folk of all things… I shudder. Though I dislike them immensely—Tony had once been kidnapped by fay and never been right since—I figure it's probably a prudent idea to check in with the local fairy courts. If I can work up a rapport, things will go better for me here. Besides, I hear the North American fay are nowhere near as capricious as the traditional Seelie and Unseelie courts back home. Perhaps even some arrangements can be worked out for the ranch…

The hopes distract me as I force myself to crack open one of the spell books. I close it again instantly with a cloud of dust, my face drawn and growing pale. Not even fluttery hope can distract me from that painful looking diagram. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I knew it. I can't do this. I close my eyes and tilt my face towards the celling, praying for strength. Necromancy was not my choice. It has more to do with my line than anything else, I think. Mama was one, Aunt Sage is one, and so were all of their other sisters that no one ever really talks about. Great-grandma Azra is a sky witch though. That gave me hope for a while, but no dice.

Every witch has something they are known for—an affinity, you could say. Astral-projection, spirit manipulation, potions, you name it, there's a witch for it. Technically, a sky witch could learn some necromancy, and a potions witch could learn from an astral-projections witch, but they'll never really be fantastic at it. I know some charms—every witch does—and some tricks (more than a few, actually), I know my herbs and rituals like the back of my hand, and you'd be surprised what the power of sheer determination can accomplish, but I will never, ever be anything more than a subpar mockery of those who call those subjects their affinity. That's why I laughed when Eric called me a powerful witch. And I let out another rather unladylike snort as I vaguely recall something he said about being a warrior.

An affinity is something you are either born into, or thrust into by traumatic magical anomalies. So with that in mind, you could say I was born to necromancy twice. There was, of course, my original birth, and then the second, after I died. I was reborn from death. I was thoroughly bathed in it before Mama came and told me to go back. I still don't entirely understand what happened. It's like a half-forgotten dream. Sometimes I can even convince myself that it didn't happen, but that's only for a little while. I still get the dreams sometimes—like falling into the insurmountably vast void of space, disintegrating, becoming a part of it, losing everything that makes me me in favor of being all of it. It's a terrifying and seductive feeling—death.

I both long for and abhor it.

My feelings are tumultuous, twisting, and they confuse me, frighten me, on the best of days when it comes to beholding my affinity. And so it is that I am staring at the contents of Mama's chest for several hours before I finally break down and crack open another book. I let out a profuse sigh of relief when it turns out to be a much safer volume—not even necromantic in the slightest! Yes, actually, this is the one I was looking for to begin with. In between the yellowed, choppy, foe-hide pages, are a list of all Mama's residences in the last…hell, who even knows how long she was alive? Aunt Sage said somewhere around a millennium, but nobody really knows for sure, not even (and maybe even especially) her own little sister.

I flip through the pages with interest, feeling my lips tilting up in a delighted grin while reading Mama's tilted, spidery—but oh so familiar—handwriting, reading her words in my head and almost hearing her voice. Her drawings are fantastic as well. One is of a tall, twisting tower of questionable constructional integrity with crows or ravens circling around the top. I can just imagine her at the top, mixing potions of nefarious purposes while it bubbles over out of a huge black cauldron, or locking princesses up there… I can't imagine her eating children though. I think that's mostly just a myth. Probably. I hope.

There's another diagram of her construction of a treehouse. No, literally. A tree that is also a house. It appears my Mama was a Keebler elf at one point. As you can probably imagine, witches homes are quite…erm…quite different. I once had a sea witch friend whose house was underwater, great-grandma Azra has a floating castle which usually hangs out somewhere over Bristol, and I know of a conjurer who lives in a vacuum of hammerspace—now that is cool—he can disappear and reappear at will. Aunt Sage lives in…well, I really don't like to talk about it. Tony lives there with her, but I bounce around from place to place. Great-grandma Azra is really accommodating, along with most members of our coven. They're not exactly friends, but…well…it's complicated.

It's a bit of a rite-of-passage that when an accomplished witch strikes out on his or her own, they establish themselves their own unique dwelling. It's traditional that the home reflects the dweller's aspect and or personality in its construction, but it's not mandatory. Several witches I know just plonk down in some tawdry flat and expand the inside with charms and whatnot. As for me, I think it's important to settle in some place where you really feel at home…where you feel safe, warm, and have clear, simple, yet functional places for both work, and rest. For me, it's this barn, this loft, where Tony and I used to play as children, rolling around in the soft hay, and pretending to be treasure hunters.

I spend the entire day fixing it up with magic and protection spells. Once I get the temperature regulation down (I almost forgot about it) I add some expansion charms so I can build upward and add in some more lofts and windows. I end up with a very open, warm space that I'm really quite happy with. My bedroom is in one of the uppermost lofts—slanted roof ceilings with skylights and a queen-sized bed pushed up under a big casement window with wooden doors that swing outward. Mama's book is really helpful, containing spells I've never heard of before. Even Pop-pop is impressed when he walks in and I wave down at him from a plank bridge I've set up between hanging lofts.

"S'pose I don't need to call that contractor no more…" he muses, looking up from far below.

"It still needs some work, and I haven't finished reading Mama's grimoire yet, but I'll keep adding onto it whenever I think of somethin'." I smile. "I'll start workin' on the farm house tomorrow. It just needs simple fixes, far as I can tell. That's easy peasy."

Grandpop looks around in wonderment, and when he looks back at me, I think I see a glimmer of something that looks very much like pride in his eye. He slaps my shoulder heartily, with a good-natured shake, and remarks that, "maybe it ain't such a bad thing, havin' a couple of witches in the family. Yer one of the good ones, Kid."

Those words slap a smile on my face for the rest of the day.

Next step—cleaning.

I set up a speaker attached to my mp3 player, put it on my favorite playlist, and get to sweeping. Normally, I hate cleaning. I'm a naturally messy, cluttery person. And though the possibility of moving in more fresh hay for the dirt floor has its appeal, the nasty, damp, mildew smell has to go. I hate cleaning—it takes me forever—but there comes a point in one's life where it's necessary. The music makes it a bit more bearable though, helping me move mechanically through the task without having to think about it too much. Plus, I get to dance and be silly.

"Take me! I'm alive—never was a girl with a wicked mind, but every-thing looks better…when the sun goes do-own," I sing along happily, not even trying to stay in tune, swaying to the beat and swinging my broom. I haven't had time to relax or unwind for what feels like the longest time, and it feels good just to do something fun and stupid for once. "I had everything—opportunities for eternity—and I could belong to the ni-i-ight… Hmm, I'd bet money the singer from Pretty Reckless is a fangbanger."

I shrug, and continue singing along anyway. The song is oddly relatable somehow.

"Taste me! Drink my soul, show me all the things that I shouldn't know, and there's a blue moon on the ri-i-ise…" I hum quietly, frowning, and slowing in my sweeping a bit when I feel an uncomfortable prickling feeling at the back of my neck. "—your eyes, your eyes…I—can—see—in your eyes, your eyes…eve—ry—thing—in your eyes, your eyes…" I slowly stop singing, and turn to regard a particularly familiar set of eyes watching me intently. "Oh. Hi there. I didn't even notice the sun go down." Maybe it's stupid, but I look out the window, just to make sure, then laugh at myself.

None other than Godric, the ancient vampire, stands at the entrance of my humble abode. He has a curious look on his face as he observes me and my surroundings, but mostly me, I notice. Then he remarks, "Your accent is southern tonight."

I blink. "Oh! Yeah. It's easy to slip back, 'cause of being 'round Pop-pop. Sorry—"

"No need for apologies," he interjects smoothly. "You sound lovely, Miss Amity."

I remember that I've been singing horribly out of tune, and can't help but laugh, a warm blush touching my cheeks. Shaking my head at him, I tease back, "You must be growing a bit deaf in your old age."

His lips quirk into a crooked smile, and he moves as if to take a step forward, but freezes between the (thankfully no longer crooked) barn doors as if meeting an invisible barrier. "This is your home?" he asks, with some surprise.

"I suppose the magic vampire invite thing proves it," I grin and a shrug. "It's not much, but it's simple, and I like it."

"You live in a barn," he states casually with a very good poker face.

"The joke is not lost on me," I laugh, and gesture him in with a wave of my hand. "It's nicer on the inside. Come on in and take a look if you'd like." I set down my broom and shut off the loud, admittedly tasteless music as he wanders in. He looks up, taking in the magically extended ceiling and interconnecting hanging lofts with curious appraisal.

"I don't know if I'm going to put in electricity or not," I explain, just to make conversation. "Magic works just as well for lighting, and I'm not comfortable with lighting candles in here with all the wood and hay—bad combination, that. And I don't need anything like television… I don't watch the news—seems to me they never have much nice to say 'bout nothing."

"That is true, especially as of late…" he agrees in a solemn tone.

"Anti-vampire stuff?" I ask delicately. He nods. "Well…while there may be a lotta bad things about vampires, there are a lotta bad things about humans too. The pretty vampire lady on the TV is right about that much, at least. I get the weird feeling that she doesn't really believe a lot of what she says though…there just seems to be something scripted about all of it."

"That's likely true as well." His smile is halfhearted. After a pause, he approaches and says, "I feel I owe you an apology, Miss Amity, for the actions of my progeny yesterday night. It was my wish that he see you to your destination unharmed…"

"Well…" I murmur uncertainly. "Technically, he did get me here safely… It was a huge misunderstanding. Ya see, I'm pretty sure he thought I was manipulating you—since I'm a necromancer—and I think he attacked me out of love for you. So I don't really blame him for that. As for what happened next…" I sigh, eyeing him sheepishly with the admission, "I don't exactly have the best control over my powers… When a vampire attacks me, they don't react well, and…erm…well…" My face flushes scarlet.

"My child returned to my home the other night with a most interesting story, Miss Amity…" Godric began, staring back at me quizzically. "One involving an alligator and his intended meal wrestling with him."

"Well, you know what they say about the truth being stranger than fiction…ahaha…" I return with a nervous laugh. "I'm still not entirely sure how I survived that, to be honest."

"Eric fed you his blood," he explains gravely.

"Ah… I suspected it might've been something like that." I cringe slightly, rubbing the back of my neck. "Where is Eric, by the way? I suppose I should probably thank him." Though I'd really rather not.

"He is being punished," Godric confirms grimly. "The blood is sacred, and it was his own actions that led you to that point—he is old enough to know better. I came here tonight to apologize on his behalf…and also bare a warning."

"A warning?" I echo.

"He intends to hunt you."

"I kinda figured…" I nod weakly, wilting somewhat at the daunting thought, the word 'rematch' bouncing around in my head.

"You do not wish for his attentions?" The old vampire tilts his head at me.

I shake my head. "Don't see as I have much of a choice now."

He frowns. "I could command him not to pursue you if you like…"

"But you haven't yet," I point out. "Which makes me think you don't exactly like giving him commands unless you absolutely have to. Right?" At his heavy silence, I get the feeling that this incident has caused some amount of tension between the two vampires. "I know a maker's progeny has to follow their orders—though I don't know to what extent that goes. I wouldn't want to mess up anything between you two, so don't worry about me. I'll be fine, Godric. I got myself into this mess. I'll get myself out."

He eyes me appraisingly with a very careful onceover. "You are very brave, and kind, Miss Amity."

"Or just stupid." I offer him a weak grin. "I've been through worse before though. I'll be okay."

"Have you ever consumed a vampire's blood before?" he asks suddenly.

I shake my head no.

"Then you must also take into account that a vampire can easily track and find any human that has taken his blood," he explained.

"Oh dear…" I frown with a dawning sort of horror. "That's going to make this much more difficult isn't it…?"

"That depends," Godric mused as if thinking aloud. "Do you plan to submit to him? Or outlast him? Because you certainly cannot fight him. You said yourself that your powers are volatile and uncontrollable."

"Well, I don't know—" I break off. "I mean, I found my mother's spell books—"

"Did you?" he wonders. "Would you say that you are a quick study, Miss Amity? Because I do not anticipate keeping my child in sliver for another night."

I cringe at the thought. "No, that doesn't seem right…"

He looks over me very inquisitively for a moment before asking, "Do you wish to hear my advice?"

I frown heavily. "If you're going to tell me to 'submit' then you can shove your advice—"

"That is not what I was going to tell you. And in fact, I would be disappointed if you did," he cuts in. "If what Eric tells me is to be believed, then you are a relentless fighter, Miss Amity. You fought him, and that is why he will hunt you." After a moment where he stares at me intensely, as if seeing something no one else can, he adds with a laugh, "You are amazing." And for the first time, I really see him grin.

I stare back at him, completely dazzled if not a bit dumbfounded. "Th-thank you?"

"This situation you have found yourself in with Eric reminds me much of the encounters I had with Cassia in the past. A most intriguing parallel…" he tells me. "I wished to turn her into one of my children. Obviously," he laughs again, "I was unsuccessful. She escaped me time and time again…" He paused as if lost in memories hidden in my face, then candidly puts forth the proposal, "I offer you advice in explaining how she accomplished this so you might use it to your advantage against my Eric."

I blink at him slowly. "Erm…I don't mean to seem rude, Godric, but why on earth would you do that?"

"That is…a difficult question to answer," he murmurs contemplatively, pacing slowly around the room. "Perhaps it is because in chasing Cassia, I was taught a very valuable lesson, and I wish to impart that same lesson on my son…" His eyes meet mine again and he adds with a dangerously mischievous smirk that makes my knees go mysteriously wobbly, "…or perhaps it is because I wish to hunt you instead at my own leisure, without the intrusion of a competitor."

"You know…" I remark wanly, "I don't think I'd mind all too much if you were the one hunting me, to be honest."

"Pray that I do not." He's suddenly inches from me. He was across the room just a second ago. I didn't even see him move. "I am not known for playing games, Miss Amity."

My breath seems to be stuck in my throat when I ask, "W-what are you known for, then?"

He smiles grimly, and answers me with one word.

"Death."

Please give me reviews!

Who do you guys like better? Eric or Godric?