Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“They can’t take anything from you that matters,” Lisa’s ma used to tell her. Supposedly, if she held onto her name, her language, her heritage, her pride, her savvy, she’d be able to survive anything.

Her parents just never told her that she could lose the most important parts of her life in a single night.

Lisa stayed up until sunrise waiting for her ma and pa. She’d heard mixed stories of the Smokestack twins growing up - her pa praised their friendship and business, but her ma was always more hesitant. She’d grudgingly acknowledge the twins’ support, but she had the more cautious eye.

“Trouble follows those two around like a puppy,” her ma had said, and maybe she should’ve said wolf.

Lisa leaned out the window, still dressed, and kept hoping every stray cat was her parents’ car. When the sun broke across the horizon, she climbed down the stairs to the store, pulled out her pa’s gun from behind the register, and started the long walk to the sawmill in the dawning light.

By the time she’d made it to the lake, a caravan of empty cars sitting outside the sawmill, three white cops had already arrived. Lisa had only enough sense to hide her gun beneath her skirts before racing forward.

“Hey. Hey!” One of the cops grabbed her arms as she streaked past, but Lisa was close enough to see the bodies scattered across the grass.

All white men, surrounded by bullet casings.

Lisa threw her gaze wildly across the scene, piles of ash everywhere she looked. She couldn’t see her parents, not even a single black body amid the carnage, and where was everyone?

As the cop dragged her away, Lisa’s eyes fell to the left, and she screamed.

Which twin was that, lying in his own blood, eyes closed as if in peace? And why was he the only one she recognized in the carnage?

With a sudden jerk, Lisa pulled herself away from the cop just long enough to dive forward and grab the mojo bag lying by the body. She shoved it into her pocket as the cop returned. “Where are my parents?” she asked, her voice shakier than she’d intended.

He sighed, pulled off his hat, and scratched his head. “We’re tryin’ to figure that out, hon.”

“They were here last night,” Lisa said. “Right here. That’s their car!”

Her parents had taught her not to raise her voice at white men who could get her in trouble, but they weren’t here now, were they?

The cop sighed again, useless. “We’ll figure this out,” he repeated. “Do you need a ride home?”

“No.” Lisa checked the gun in her skirts. “I need to go inside.”

“Can’t do that, hon.”

“My parents could be in there. Let me look, at least - ”

“We already looked, girl. It's only dead blacks with stab wounds. Nothing pretty.”

Lisa turned her gaze back to the dead twin. With the mojo bag, that had to make him Annie’s man, Smoke. So Stack was the missing one. The dead man was the one who'd hired her mother for her paintwork and called her little Lisa.

“They didn’t leave,” Lisa said, shaking her head. “They couldn’t have - my parents wouldn’t have left me!”

“I know, hon. I know.” The cop sighed, all he knew how to do. “Let us finish our investigation, and we’ll let you know what comes up.”

Lisa wanted to draw her gun, demand answers, storm into the sawmill and kick aside all those piles of ash until she had her parents back -

But all she could do was turn and walk back the way she came, hoping against hope she wouldn’t return to an empty store, that she’d be greeted by her pa’s worry and her ma’s relieved embrace.

➖

Panic overtakes the town before sunset. Black families scream for their parents, their brothers, their wives. White women weep for their murdered Klan husbands.

Lisa keeps both stores closed, but a white man comes banging at the door. She recognizes him, though only ever at a distance. She tries to ignore the sounds, but he yells loud enough that she finally cracks the door open just enough to hear him. “We’re closed.”

“I don’t give a damn about that,” the man says, his words slurring together. With his dark hair and strong jaw, he’d be handsome if not for the murderous look in his eyes. “D’you know where she is?”

“Who, sir?” Lisa asks, keeping her expression blank, and the man growls. “My wife,” he spits, eyes already hazy with drink.

Lisa shrugs. “You’d know better than me.”

“She ran off,” the man continues, as if Lisa isn’t even there. “Her and that - that trash boy - ” He makes a sound that’s half shout, half sob, and if Lisa hadn’t seen the way Mary would flinch away from her husband in public, she might’ve been foolish enough to pity him.

“Excuse me,” Lisa says, pulling the door shut, and the man doesn’t notice. Lisa locks it again, returning to the back of the store, and breathes out heavily.

In the tumult of the past 24 hours, it’s not as if Mary hasn’t crossed Lisa’s mind. Too white for the black folks, too black for the white ones, Lisa assumed Mary was at the sawmill when whatever happened happened. Likely in search of the other twin, Stack, if the rumors were correct.

Stack and Mary disappearing together makes sense. Lisa’s ma and pa vanishing into the night without a word…

Something’s terribly wrong.

She returns to the sawmill for her parents’ car. The demand isn’t answered easily, but she has the backup keys, so she’s reluctantly allowed to take back what was already hers.

They’ve dragged the black bodies into the yard, stabbed and ripped up. Lisa recognizes Annie, her beautiful face unmoving, and some of the others as store customers. But she still can’t find her parents.

“Hon?”

Lisa turns. It’s the same cop from this morning. “Did you find my parents?”

He hesitates, mopping a cloth against his brow, and Lisa’s heart drops.

“You’d better follow me,” he says, his voice already pitying. For a single, silent moment, Lisa wonders if she truly wants to see what she’ll be shown. But she’s moving forward before she can harbor the traitorous thought any longer.

When they turn the corner of the mill, Lisa doesn’t understand what she’s looking at. It’s more of the same ash scattered everywhere in strange clumps, although this pile is larger, almost the size of a -

Of a body.

Lisa stares, then throws herself to the side and retches. Her stomach slams painfully against her ribs, nothing in it to expel. She stays there, one hand against the wall, until she doesn’t even have bile left.

“How do you know?” she bites out, even though she knew the truth in her bones. “It - it doesn’t have to be them - ”

The cop pulls another cloth square from his pocket, but he hands it to Lisa this time. She reaches out, automatic and numb, and unfolds it.

It’s her parents’ wedding rings.

“I’m sorry, hon,” the cop says, but Lisa’s already walking away, her fingers squeezing the rings so tightly she thinks she’ll snap a nerve.

She puts together the story on the drive home back. The Klansmen attacked the juke joint mid-party, and those who escaped kept running. The ones who stayed were stabbed, shot, or -

Or burned.

Smoke must’ve been away, and returned too late to save anyone but in time to shoot down the white men before dying himself.

And hopefully Stack and Mary escaped together. But Lisa knows their bones are as mixed into the ashes as the rest of the damned juke joint patrons.

Why couldn’t her parents have heeded their own warnings and left the Smokestack twins alone?

Pandemonium is breaking out across Clarksdale. The grief and confusion over so many dead and missing have boiled over into fury, and Lisa knows her survival in town is a ticking bomb.

Someone throws a brick through the window of the black storefront, and Lisa spends the rest of the night clutching her pa’s gun and waiting for the mob. Daylight finally comes, but it doesn’t bring her any relief.

She needs to get out of here.

Chapter Text

When Lisa was eleven, she started a schoolyard fight. Her parents had to pick her up midday, and Lisa staunchly refused to apologize to the offending girl. As her pa tucked her into bed that night, Lisa had caught a flash of the look on his face before he turned away, clearly not intending for her to see. His disappointment hurt worse than any kick or insult.

Since that day, Lisa strove to be the kind of daughter her parents would be proud of, even as they told her she was already who she needed to be. She spent her nights restocking the stores and her mornings climbing shelves for customers, keeping the balance between the white and black fronts. No friends, no free time, no future except the shelves of potatoes and paint and sacks of flour. This was her parents’ business, their American Dream, their livelihood and pride.

Lisa knows they’d be disappointed in her if they knew what she’d done.

But they can’t expect her to stay in this town haunted by death for all her life.

Lisa’s smarter than they think, and she negotiates a fair price for both stores. She takes her payment, the dripping red blood money, and packs up what she cares to keep into her parents’ car.

She walks through the aisles before leaving, and that’s when she finds it: a large, thick envelope tucked behind the desk, no name upon it. Hesitant, Lisa peels it open.

She gasps at the amount of cash. Dozens of bills, more than she can count, all wound together.

And there’s a scrap of wood, too, sooty and jagged at the edges. Lisa recognizes lettering, the red paint of the L. It’s her mother’s handiwork.

As she pulls out the wood, something falls from the envelope, rolling under the counter. Lisa sinks to her hands and knees to find it. It’s an antique-looking gold coin, heavy and worn. Lisa stares for a long moment before burying it and the envelope in her pocket and hurrying out the door.

And she drives out of Clarksdale for the first and last time.

➖

Lisa heads north, sleeps in her car with her gun in hand, and makes her way forward.

She finally stops when she sees a young girl walking down a street, schoolbooks in hand. Lisa pulls the car into a spot and hurries out, grabbing the girl by the arm. She turns, startled, ready to scream, when her eyes alight on Lisa’s face and understanding comes to life.

“Nĭ huì shuō…” Lisa begins, but the girl is already shaking her head. “Yīdiǎn,” she says apologetically, and Lisa startles at the sound of her parents’ language without the twinge of a Southern accent. “English?”

The girl nods, relieved. “What’s your name?”

“Lisa Chow. Yours?”

“Violet Li.” She looks younger than Lisa, maybe fourteen, but her hair is cut short and close to her scalp, giving her a boyish appearance. “You new in town?”

“Yes. I am.” Lisa takes a breath. “I’m trying to start a business.”

“A business, really?” Violet shifts the books in her arms and looks Lisa up and down. “How old are you?”

“Almost seventeen.” Five months has to be close enough to count.

“Hm.” Violet smiles, wrinkling her nose. “I think you should meet my family.”

And Lisa is reborn.

➖

Violet has a mother, father and two aunts. She’s a middle child, with two brothers exactly three years apart from her. The Li family runs a connected restaurant and kung fu studio.

Lisa knew places like this existed, but she’s still amazed by the number of Chinese people this far north. She finds others who speak her language, and Lisa understands that her history will not end with her.

The Li family doesn’t ask questions when Lisa tells them her parents were murdered in Mississippi. They nod, offer condolences, and bring Lisa into their fold as a new cousin.

Lisa’s ma was the one who cooked, but Lisa learns quickly. She works alongside the Lis, adds a Southern taste to her dishes, and avoids nightmares more often than not.

Violet’s older brother, Raymond, teaches Lisa how to fight. She spends her days at school and her nights in the studio, learning to kick and punch and use her weight against any attacker.

And for ten years, Lisa Chow is happy.

Chapter Text

Lisa’s always had an ear for blues music. Maybe it’s the records her pa used to play when he danced with her ma, maybe it’s the sounds that remind her of her parents’ store on the other side of town. Either way, between cooking and fighting and learning how to keep moving, Lisa uses the coins she has left over after sweets to slip into the record store and find their newest album.

She’s twenty-seven and swiping through cases of T-Bone Walker and John Lee Hooker when she’s thrown back to being sixteen and terrified.

Because she recognizes the name on that album.

Sammie Moore.

She buried him with all the rest after that horrible night. Lisa didn’t know Sammie well, despite not being much younger than him, but he visited the store from time to time. Once her pa hid Sammie’s guitar for him as a favor.

Lisa always assumed he died alongside his cousins, but she was wrong from the start. Did Smoke secure Sammie’s escape before making his last stand against the Klansmen? Would Lisa have found him if she’d traveled down to the black church before escaping from Clarksdale forever?

Does he know who else survived?

Lisa buys the album, then hurries home to play it.

Sing me a song, brother

Sing me a tune

Sing me a song, my brother

Give me something to lose

I’ll sing you a song, my brother

If you’ll listen to me

I’ll use all I have to tell you

How to set me free

Violet finds Lisa sitting on her bed, clutching a pillow and silently crying, and she wordlessly slides up to pull Lisa into a firm hug. Lisa leans her head on Violet’s shoulder, gulping down her sobs, and holds on as tightly as she can.

Give me a chance, brother

Give me a light

Give me a sword, my brother

Guide me into the night

Let me come with you, brother

Let me be at your side

Let me stand with you, my brother

I’ve got nothing to hide

➖

Lisa looks up the publisher’s name on the back of the album and calls for a week until she gets an answer. She finally tracks down Sammie - he’s moderately successful but climbing, playing weekly at a bar in Chicago. It’s only four hours away by car.

Lisa doesn’t tell her family the full story, but she shows them the album and explains that she has to see him. They pack her lunch for the road and give her their blessings, but Violet insists on accompanying her all the way to Illinois. “Family stays together,” she insists, and Lisa almost sobs in gratitude.

They pay for a cheap hotel and ask around until they find The Nightingale. The bar is dimly lit but well-populated, and Lisa and Violet order soda waters and settle in at a table in the back.

Several bands and solo acts play their pieces, and Lisa is surprised to find Violet enjoying herself as much as Lisa is. They snap their fingers and clap along with the music, and Lisa wishes for a dance floor to properly appreciate the artistry on display.

It’s two hours before a black man with a guitar steps onto the small stage. He leans into the microphone, tips back his hat to reveal his face, and Lisa covers her mouth with a gasp.

It’s him, no doubt about it, with the same attractiveness as his cousins and his baby fat finally slipping away. But his face… where did he get those claw marks?

Was it the Klansmen?

Violet turns to Lisa, matching her shock, but Sammie speaks before they can. “My name is Sammie Moore. I used to be a guitar player with the Rockin’ Soul, but I’ve made a change, now. I’m singin’ for my family. This is for me, them, and everyone who came before.”

There’s a smattering of applause from the audience - Lisa and Violet included - before Sammie leans over his guitar and starts to strum. As the music builds, he sings, his voice strong and hypnotic.

I found a pearl

Rolling toward me

I found a pearl

Thought she’d set me free

Oh Lord, my pearl

Far too fine for me

Said goodbye to my pearl

Sent her back to the sea

Once his set concludes, Lisa hurries to her feet, Violet close behind her. She catches Sammie before he can push open the back door. “Sammie Moore?”

“Yeah, I - ” He turns, the casual smile on his face shifting into confusion. “Sorry, do I know y’all?”

“You knew my parents, didn’t you?” Lisa says slowly. “Grace and Bo Chow.”

For a brief instant, Lisa thinks he’ll run. Terror and fear and guilt race across his expression, nearly overwhelming in their amplitude. “Little Lisa,” he finally says, his voice breaking on her name, and Lisa nods firmly. “Yes.”

“Oh. You…” Sammie covers his mouth, eyes going glassy. “I didn’t - I should’ve - oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Lisa squeezes Violet’s. “Could you give us a moment?”

Violet hesitates, then nods. “I’ll be at our table,” she says and steps away.

Sammie shakes his head. “Lisa - ”

“Come sit with me.” Lisa gestures to the bar. “And tell me what exactly happened to my parents.”

➖

Jiangshi.

Lisa’s parents once told her the folktales of the old world, spirits and foxes and dragons. The jiangshi, the undead devourers of life-force, were the more unsettling stories.

And now she’s being told they were real all along.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Sammie repeats, his whiskey glass still untouched in front of him. “Hell, I know I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. I see them every night…” He shudders. “I shoulda gone t’you. I’m sorry.”

Lisa knows she should be asking more questions, laughing in his face, brandishing her gun and demanding the truth. But the haunted look in Sammie’s eyes and the scar scratched across his face set a deep, heavy sinking in her chest.

“How did my parents die?” she asks.

“Your father was bitten early in the night.” Sammie takes in a shaky breath, as if remembering is causing him physical pain. “But your momma… I didn’t see. I’m sorry.”

“Someone burned them,” Lisa tells him. “I saw what was left.”

“I wish I knew. Really, I do. But it was a fight for our lives. I’m sorry.”

Lisa asks her final question. “Did anyone else survive?”

“Just me and Smoke.” Sammie laughs without humor. “But I don’t think he made it long after me.”

“He didn’t.” Lisa reaches into her pocket and holds out her hand. “This was his.”

Sammie takes up the mojo bag, recognition flashing in his eyes. “You should keep this, Lisa. It’s for protection - ”

“It’s for your family, not mine. I have protection enough.” Lisa looks over her shoulder to where Violet is watching them, her eyes dark with warning. “Take care of yourself, Sammie.”

He tucks the mojo bag away and gives her a weak smile. “You too, little Lisa.”

“Did you get your answers?” Violet asks as Lisa slides into the seat next to her. Lisa nods, surprised to find her eyes wet. “All I’m gonna get.”

“If that’s the case, we better split.” Violet leans forward, lowering her voice. “A couple was watching the two of you. They left before you got back.”

“A couple?” Lisa looks to the empty table that Violet indicates. “What kind of couple?”

“Black man, white lady. Both of them lookers.” Violet shrugs. “What, you think they mean trouble?”

“No, but I will.” Lisa sets her jaw. “We’re coming back here tomorrow night.”

Chapter Text

It takes three more nights before the couple shows up again. Violet points them out, and Lisa takes note. It’s too dark to distinguish them amid the crowd, but Lisa bides her time. Sammie finishes playing and steps offstage, and the couple moves to leave. Pressing a quick kiss to Violet’s cheek, Lisa pushes herself up to follow.

She doesn’t have to go far. Arm in arm, the two of them walk from the Nightingale into an alley. When Lisa turns the corner, they’re both waiting for her, somehow having already moved into position, the woman leaning against the wall and the man sitting on a crate. But their speed isn’t what makes Lisa’s blood run cold.

She recognizes the white woman with a cigarette, although there weren’t many folks who’d call Mary Thompson white in Clarksdale. But the black man, pushing his sunglasses down his nose…

Lisa saw him lying dead outside the juke joint. She knows what death looks like on that face, and this isn’t it -

But maybe it is.

Mary speaks first, blowing out smoke. “Hi there, Lisa.”

“I thought that was you,” Stack says, rising to his feet. “How old are you now, thirty?”

“Younger than you,” Lisa says, her voice stronger than she is. “What are y’all doing here?”

“Just wanted to see my little cousin sing,” Stack says amiably. “Mary and I have fun in Chicago.”

“So much fun,” Mary purrs, her smile all teeth.

Lisa slides a hand between the folds of her skirt. “Does Sammie know?”

“Nah. Why would we bother him when he’s still healin’?” Stack doesn’t quite smile, but he gives a flick of his eyes. “Did you get what we left you?”

“What you - ” A memory flashes into her mind. “The money. My ma’s letter. That you?”

Stack inclines his head. “Felt like we should leave you something behind.”

“Where’d it come from?”

Mary laughs in a trill. “No one who needed it, sugar.”

Lisa’s stomach roils. “Did you think you could pay off my parents’ death?”

“We did what we could.” Stack clears his throat. “You and your friend oughta head back home. Chicago ain’t no place for pretty things like you.”

Lisa could almost leave now, the mysteries of her past nearly answered, but she doesn’t move. “Did you kill my ma?”

Stack leans back, hands in his pockets. “No.”

“Did you kill my pa?”

Stack hesitates, and Lisa lunges forward.

She rips out her gun, but Mary swats it out of her hand, already in front of her. Lisa stumbles to a stop. Stack places a hand on Mary’s shoulder, guiding her to the side, and Lisa takes the chance to throw herself bodily at Stack.

They crash to the ground, gravel and garbage flying. Lisa swings her fists, but he doesn’t fight back as she throws herself against his chest and screams. “I knew you did, you lying son of a bitch - I’ll kill you!”

She’ll do it.

She won’t hold back.

“Lisa,” Mary says, more warning in her voice than compassion. “Stack didn’t kill your daddy.”

Lisa makes a sound that’s more growl than sob. “Why should I believe you?”

Stack tries to smile, still not moving to get up. “'Cause I wanted all of y’all to join us. I convinced Bo. And he couldn’t convince your momma.”

Lisa knows she can’t kill them, can’t hurt them, can’t even leave a scratch on their unlined skin. But she imagines it anyway, fantasizes briefly about driving a stake through their hearts and setting their bodies ablaze. Then she stands up and stills her rage-trembling hands. “You gotta tell me everything.”

“Oh, Lisa.” Mary sighs, moves forward for Lisa’s hand, and draws back when Lisa retreats. “Baby girl, you don’t want that. Trust me.”

“Tell me,” Lisa repeats, not changing her tone at all, and Mary glances at Stack. The two of them hold an invisible conversation for an insufferable amount of time, then turn. “Fine,” Mary says evenly.

And they tell her the full story.

The Irish vampire came upon the juke joint. Her pa was bitten trying to get back to her. They fought, and her ma set her pa on fire to prevent any of them from ever reaching Lisa.

Yet here Lisa is chasing after jiangshi anyway.

“We didn’t want that,” Mary says, her voice pitiying. “They wouldn’t have killed you, doll. Your momma just couldn’t bear the chance.”

She holds out Lisa’s gun, and Lisa takes it wordlessly.

If Lisa found the two of them a year after her parents’ deaths, orphaned and alone and desperate, nothing would’ve kept her from destroying these jiangshi. She’d arm herself with mirrors and peachtree wood and jujube seeds. But it’s been over ten years, and Lisa knows what true freedom tastes like.

She can’t bring herself to take it from anyone else.

Lisa tucks her gun away. “We’ll be outta here by morning. You better be, too.”

Stack lets out a breath, and Lisa can’t tell whether or not it’s for show. But he examines her, his sunglasses not hiding the look in his eyes. “I used to bounce you on my knee, little Lisa. I brought you hard candies, do you remember?” He laughs once. “I think my niece woulda been like you. But it’s a hard life, ain’t it?”

“Not so hard as yours,” Lisa says, and Mary smiles thinly in acknowledgement.

“We’ll see you around, little Lisa.” Stack wraps an arm around Mary’s neck, and Lisa steps aside to let them walk past her into the night.

She returns to the table at Nightingale, where Violet presses a careful hand to her arm. “You’re okay?”

“Better than that.” Lisa affords her a smile as she sits down. “Can we stop somewhere before we head home?”

“Of course.” Violet leans her head against Lisa’s shoulder, humming in contentment, and Lisa closes her eyes.

➖

The bridge crossing the Chicago River is a simple, manmade thing above the shimmering dawn-lit waters. But it’s the closest place Lisa could find to connect her to nature before leaving this city for good.

Violet’s arm is wrapped around her own as Lisa leans out over the railing, a light wind blowing loose strands of hair past her face. Lisa wraps a hand around the bar, her fourth finger bearing her parents’ wedding rings.

“Zàijiànle, bàba māmā. Wǒ xiǎng nǐ.” Lisa blinks against the sudden stinging in her eyes, but she soldiers onward with her prayer, Violet at her side every step of the way.

“Wǒ ài nǐ. Duìbùqǐ. Shuì dé hǎo. Wǒ xiànzài ānquánle.” She wipes a hand across her face. “I hope you’re proud of me,” she finishes in English.

It’s a beautiful day to be free.

As they walk back to the road, Lisa looks out at the horizon. Blots of color are spreading across the sky, bathing the city in light.

Last call, Lisa Chow.

“They are, you know,” Violet whispers. “We all are.”

They settle into the car, and Lisa kisses Violet before turning the key with finality. The sun is rising, and so is she.