Estella could not breathe. Whatever life had been in her chest when she stood alone on her lawn had evaporated at the touch of the wraith’s hands around her waist.

There wasn’t room for life where they came from.

Their grip was cold and hard, unforgiving as they snapped a manacle around one of her wrists. She wrenched the free one away but a separate wraith wrested it from her, dragging her over the open space between their devilish steeds, twisting her back painfully. She pulled and tugged and fought until their grips burned into her skin.

If she was in the mortal realm she would have screamed, but there was no room for noise here.

Wrenching her cuffed hand free, the loose manacle snapped back against the wraith’s helmet. Estella took advantage of the sudden shock to free her hand only for the second wraith to use it as an opportunity to drag her fully on their horse. She waved her hand wildly, using the metal cuff as a whip against their dark armor. Someone else grabbed her legs but she kicked ferociously, ignoring the pangs that shot up her shins with each contact.

The wraith that held her wrist lost its hold on her and its balance on the horse, falling over into the abyss beneath them.

Estella was now being dragged by the wraith fighting with her feet, struggling to maintain control of the offending appendages. Hands finally free, she reached for the brooch on her traveler’s cloak, fumbling for the pin knife tucked inside of it. You never know, Este, when you might need to take someone by surprise, whispered her grandmother Theodora to her when she gave it to her. Holding it firmly in her fist, she slashed it deep across the hind quarter of the nightmarish horse whose hooves beat beside her head. The steed reared in pain, forcing its rider to let her go or be thrown themself.

Estella fell, and fell, through the black canvas of space and time, swallowed by nothing and everything all at once.

____

The first thing she smelled was rot. The second sense she was aware of was a pressure on her left cheek.

“Aye. Bet she’s dead, Graham. Let’s move her out of the way and get the garbage.”

Graham, another Irishman, lowered the stick he used to poke Estella’s cheek. “Ah. Guess you’re right. Thought I saw some movement to ‘er.”

The offending stick he held was now painfully stabbing her in the throat. Sluggishly, she swatted at it, sloppily knocking it away from her.

“Argh!” She moans, struggling now to sit up. Something was pressing painfully into her back and legs. When she tried to push herself up, her limbs shook and her hands, instead of finding leverage, pressed easily through the rot surrounding her.

While the other man screamed, Graham soothed her, “Easy, lass! Easy. It’s alright,” he cooed, grasping her slipping limbs. “You’ve taken a turn no doubt. Let us help you up.”

“I’m not touching her. She’s a sluagh no doubt and you’d best leave her,” hissed his companion.

“Unf,” was all Estella could muster as a reply to either man. Their words did not register with her, but rather slid through her like water down a stream. She was disoriented and confused, the decay making her want to vomit.

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She refused the hands that touched her, wildly feeling around until she found something cool and solid. But it was thin and curved and cut into her hands. Despite this, she used it as leverage to lift herself up. Immediately, she toppled over, accompanied by the loud clanging of metal.

Lying on the cool, damp ground, the smell of a city after rain filled her nostrils, momentarily cleansing it of the refuse around her. She opened her eyes to fallen over garbage cans and food waste. The two Irishmen were on the other side of the mess, peering over the trash heap at her.

Estella forced herself up on wobbly legs and leaned heavily against a painted brick wall, the large text of “5¢” hoovered above her head.

If she was more herself, that would’ve been her first clue.

The shorter of the two men—Graham, probably—stepped towards her, his hands outstretched.

Hands.

Cold, hard hands grabbing her skin.

She flinched away from him, pressing herself further into the alley behind her, tripping over garbage as she went. In the fall, she caught sight of her own hands, and for the first time took stock of herself. Underneath the dirt, grime, and refuse were deep bruises in the shape of fingers up and down her arms. A manacle still dangled from her wrist, crusted blood lining the crease between her hands and her forearms.

Estella shoved herself off the ground, propelling herself further down the alley.

She ran for a very long time, each hand that reached for her in help, in comfort, in alarm belonged to another phantom trying to snatch her.

She ran through too wide streets and too narrow alleys; past men and women in too wrong clothing. Too wrong of a language coming out of their mouths when she ran into them or past them too closely, slipping between bodies as the streets filled with people.

Her vampirism carried her through, on tired legs, the streets of the city she would later learn was New York, past the burgeoning suburbs and well into the countryside; but her humanity demanded she rest. Estella collapsed under an oak tree, rain cooling her overheated body.

The next day she wandered south, stealing fruit from a stand—and never without notice. Her clothing marked her as different, as strange. On the first day, she got away. On the second day they caught her and tired as she was, Estella couldn’t escape.

She put her arms up as the officer’s baton came down on her, with each hit an animalistic rage grew from the pits of her. Thunk—she was just hungry—thunk—it was only fruit—thunk—and she was so thirsty—thunk—and who treats someone this way?—thunk.

On the fourth whack she grabbed the baton. The officer tried to pull it back, to hit her again, but it was too late. She crushed the baton in her hand.

The officer backed away. Mistake. Don’t back away from a predator.

They liked the chase.

The joke about Estella was that her vampirism was all show. A cat without claws. But even a declawed cat had teeth.

Somewhere inside of her, Estella is oddly pleased to know that she had this side of her, this beast that her family had often whispered about, the kind of beast that held such a feral rage it could destroy the world and not blink about it. It was one more thing she shared with them.

She lunged.

When his blood hit her tongue the first thing she felt was relief. Relief to have sustenance, real, true sustenance for the first time in days.

The second sensation she felt was fierce, excruciating agony spread across her torso.

So lost she was in that wild relief that she missed the officer reaching for his gun. Missed the click of the hammer. The thunder of fire.

Estella staggered backwards, away from the monster in front of her. She turned, she twisted, aiming to run.

This time she heard the readying of the gun.