Do not close your sanctuaries to Deamhan in need. Respect a sanctuary’s protective atmosphere
I ran out of juice just outside of Forsan, a small, shabby town located on the border of Oklahoma and Kansas. I thought I’d never find this place, but I guess my memory proved me wrong. Of course, the town looked a lot different from how it did when I left it back in 1935.
I stood there, just staring down an unfrequented narrow road. The pavement was broken and large jagged cracks, invaded by grass, ran in zigzag patterns. My eyes turned to the yellow horizon. With only an hour left before sunrise, I had to find somewhere to take shelter and rest. As a Deamhan, I felt the oncoming heat and my body began to show all the warning signs. I shivered slightly, not from the cold wind, but at the thought of being exposed in the open to the sun.
Early morning snowflakes littered the air. When the wind blew, its chilliness infiltrated my nostrils, freezing the back of my throat. I’ve lived in America for almost a hundred years and still haven’t gotten used to the different seasons. Minnesota winters were especially harsh, but the comfort in knowing I could warm myself up quickly with an easy meal made living here more sustainable.
I made my way to a gas station called “Dinky’s.” Blinking red lights that read “Open 24-7” greeted me as I approached the door. An older woman stood behind the cashier counter, refilling the cigarette display case. Before I opened the door, I caught the scent as well as the thoughts of another worker, Pedro, who was restocking the shelves with soda liter bottles. The name, Bobbi, drifted into my mind as the cashier hummed.
I walked in and Bobbi greeted me with a wide smile, revealing yellow teeth stained from years of cigarette smoking. “Good morning,” she said.
I stopped in the entryway, unsure of what I wanted to do next. My body said “feed,” but my mind wanted answers. I came back to this trashy town for a reason: to find Nashoba.
I played nice, for now. “Good morning,” I answered, my lips struggling to pull back into a smile. I scanned the interior, and found she and Pedro were the only humans in the vicinity. Near the back, I saw old, broken soda machines. Most of the ceiling panels were discolored, while others were missing. The floor felt sticky underneath my black steel-toed boots and the smell of strong coffee was like the cherry on top.
“Can I help you find anything?” she asked.
I approached the counter. My mind dug a little deeper into her brain, just enough so that she wouldn’t feel a sting. I needed to do a quick catch-up on this town’s secrets; how it changed and what had changed about it. I picked up on the location of her home. She lived alone in a small, two-bedroom house with yellow siding. Never married, she hired Pedro to fix various problems that occurred in her home. This information didn’t really interest me until I picked up another thought: Pedro, a married man with three kids, spent a lot of time at her home, which made for interesting gossip amongst the townsfolk.
I smiled, realizing I just discovered my resting place for the day. “I’m looking for someone,” I said. “His name is Nashoba.”
“Nashoba.” She repeated the name to herself in thought. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Are you sure? Think long and hard, Bobbi.” I placed my hands on the counter and leaned toward her.
Startled, she swayed her body away from me. She wondered how I knew her name, but answered that question when she realized she was wearing her nametag. The tips of my fingers began to vibrate slowly as I felt the thick, psychic energy permeating from the counter’s surface.
The imprints left over by human customers before me revealed a long, twisted history punctuated by mothers and fathers, little children, drunks, and drifters. Lugat Deamhan fed this way, devouring leftover psychic traces like a bottom feeder does on the ocean floor.
“I’m sure,” she replied. “The name doesn’t sound familiar, but then again, I don’t personally know a lot of people around here.”
By now, I knew everything I could about Bobbi. She didn’t know Nashoba. I began to think perhaps he finally left Forsan, despite swearing to me that he would stay in this shithole until the day his immortal life ended.
Having the location of Bobbi’s home, I made up my mind to go there, seeking a safe place to sleep. It wouldn’t make any sense to kill her in this gas station with her human coworker watching.
I nodded and walked out, toward the direction of her home. Once I moved out of human sight, I traveled as fast as I could – Deamhan speed – and arrived at her home within moments. After breaking the door with ease, I stepped in to find it surprisingly quaint and small.
The interior was nothing like my abode in the warehouse district of Minneapolis. Entering her bedroom, I came upon a small, unmade bed with dingy sheets. My acute sense of smell picked up the stench of sex and tobacco, and I could tell they hadn’t been washed in weeks. Her hygiene made me rethink how edible she looked, but my hunger prevailed. I rummaged through her dresser drawers, curious to know what else I could learn about this woman. I pulled out lingerie, old magazines, and a ruffled dress. I finally turned my attention back to why I came to this house in the first place.
Near the bedroom was a closet, which I also examined, before deciding that it would suffice as cover until sunset. I stepped in, closed the warped door behind me, and climbed over old boxes filled with children’s toys and Christmas decorations. I finally inched my way to the back wall beside the dehydrated remains of a mouse stuck in a trap.
Never in my life did I imagine that I, Kei, would have to resort to a human’s home for my personal sanctuary. I closed my eyes, planning out the next step in my journey. I also wondered what I would do if I found Nashoba, the one I sired decades ago and left at the mercy of vampires. He had to be out there somewhere in this little town, I could feel it in my gut. Even though I broke our bond, I still had what I called a “Deamhan sense.” It’s what dragged me back to Forsan. Perhaps he could sense me as well?
I sired him back in 1935 and had the impression he wouldn’t survive his first night. The vampires tracking me would no doubt kill him, which would allow me just enough time to make my escape. He meant nothing to me when I first met him. He was just a walking, talking meal that satisfied my hunger. I left him defenseless, but somehow, deep inside, he knew that I played him and danger was coming.
He told me he wouldn’t leave Forsan. This area was sacred and no white man would take it away from him like the Europeans did to his Native American ancestors. I warned him that he wasn’t dealing with any ordinary white man. Deamhan weren’t men. Still, he remained adamant. As I left, I remembered thinking that he wasn’t prepared to defend himself. Boy, was I wrong.
Birthplace or not, that Choctaw had bravery written all over him.