Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Another twig snapped underfoot, ringing out like a gunshot. He startled, barely stopping himself from jumping at the noise. His body went rigid for a beat, before he continued his mechanical trek forward. In that moment, it felt like even a flinch would be too loud. 

His breathing was the only sound. Though low, the sound of it felt suffocating. Usually he would be reciting poetry about now, or else recalling half-remembered wives’ tales. Such would be to pass the time, and also because he genuinely liked to share his thoughts aloud. To make some sort of idle chatter. And yet, something told him not to.

These woods feel… off, Arthur.

He paused. It had been quiet for far too long, but now it felt tense. The world stopped with him, and the silence suddenly felt forced. Like the words had rushed out, and now everything was rushing in to fill the gap, pressing into them from all possible angles. It was an acknowledgement that felt all too damning, too akin to preparing the chopping block.

“What, you mean like the Dreamlands or-?”

No. 

Arthur knew, of course, that there was something very wrong with where they were. The light didn't feel quite right on his skin; the wind made no sound where the leaves should have rustled, should have swayed. Everything was much too still, yet charged with an unmistakable energy. Like there was something waiting just beneath the skin.

Well of course there was. They had stumbled upon a ritual in an New York apartment building and somehow ended up in a forest that certainly wasn’t Central Park. It would be more surprising if there wasn't something sinister ready to pounce at the drop of a hat.

How exactly they’d gotten here was more of a blur than Arthur was willing to admit, frankly. It felt too akin to some of his darker days, before Parker had pulled him out of that drunken spiral. He could only piece together little chunks. They’d just learned about the meeting of the Order, and how it wouldn’t be for another month or so. He’d gotten it in his head that he should get back into P.I. work to tide them over, and then Marie had mentioned… well she had a friend- or maybe it was someone she’d just met? And they had mentioned an old family heirloom being stolen: a rather ordinary knife with little real value. Arthur had thought it a bit sinister for an heirloom, but he had not room to be picky with his cases when all his Arkham connections were either dead or estranged.

He and John had tracked the knife back to a flat not a few streets down from the client’s house. Odd for such a big city. And that’s where his memory begins to fail him. 

He remembers a chant emanating from around the room, pulsing in his head. Then there were horrible, guttural growling noises. The smell of mold and decay filling his lungs. It was dizzying. 

John was saying something, but his voice faded in and out like crashing waves. There was a scream- or a howl? He fell at some point in between. Then the feeling of something wet spraying his clothes, and the choking scent of blood washing over every other sense.

Then they were here.

“More like Marie's home, then,” Arthur said, with a weary sense of finality.

John gave a hum at that. Not denying, but not entirely certain. I'm not sure, Arthur. Something about this place feels different, but not in any way I can place. It's almost- well it feels somehow heavier than it should, like-

“Like something is watching us.”

The underbrush was growing thicker now, forcing him to lift his legs at odd angles to avoid tripping. They had been walking for a while now. As they went, the concept of any escape from these woods grew all the more distant. At least it didn't seem supernatural in its endlessness; just exceedingly rural.

The warmth of light was fading as the sun began to sink, and John did not answer.

Arthur huffed a bit, continuing to trudge between the trees. “I don't think it's hunting us, whatever it is. At least not at the moment. If it was, then why let us get this far?”

The man's pace quickened, perhaps unconsciously. It made each step louder, but what did it matter if they were the only things making noise out here to begin with?

I don't know, Arthur, maybe it's toying with us. Maybe whatever is in these woods wants to see how far we can get before it rips us to shreds. John's words ended in a growl: imposing, threatening, and so utterly worried in a way that he couldn't voice in fear of something worse answering. And maybe he was right. They'd met more sadistic beings before. But then again, they'd beaten them all the same when push came to shove.

“Then suppose you're right, John.” Arthur was feeling a bit wound up at that point, “Suppose there's something lurking in the shadows, waiting to swoop down and eat us at some unknowable threshold. What would you have us do instead, then? Wait here for it to catch us? Hope it gets bored and leaves?” His pace had not once stopped, not faltered as his legs cut the way through grass and vine toward an end he couldn't see.

The air was growing steadily colder now. John had described the sun peering in from between the leaves when they first arrived, but that had been some long hours ago. With his sleeves rolled up, what leaves brushed his arm slowly grew to feel like ice on his skin.

John didn’t respond immediately. It was unclear if he was thinking of an answer, or just giving him the silent treatment. 

When John spoke, he sounded thoroughly exhausted. As if he had been the one to walk what must've been a good few miles at this point. As if he had pushed his way through hours of rough travel in an, admittedly, very poorly chosen suit. I don't know, okay. But it's getting dark, and soon I won't be able to see anything coming, whether or not it makes an effort to hide.

Arthur's pace slowed once more, and he sighed. Any frustration washed out in a single breath, leaving only a bone deep tiredness.

“No, no you're right, John. We should- we should find somewhere to rest, get out of the open. Until morning at least. We can come up with a plan then, since it seems walking hasn't gotten us much of anywhere. And besides, who knows how far these woods go?” For all Arthur knew, they'd just been walking in circles for hours. Of course, he trusted John. For the most part. He trusted him to point out any obvious landmarks. But this place was dense with plant life, and the difference from one trunk to the next probably wasn't enough to remember where they'd been.

John hummed, seemingly in agreement, and Arthur began to turn his head to give John a better view of their surroundings. 

His voice evened out into a low drone as he began to narrate. Our surroundings look mostly the same as when we first got here. The trees are old oak, stretching and intertwining as they reach up into the sky. They're leaves are fresh and green with the life of spring. Years upon years of bramble sit thick on the forest floor, untouched by hoof or shoe trodden step. Light from the setting sun casts the forest in deep oranges and reds. It looks unwelcoming; if you were to die here, these woods would watch impassively as you rot.

The man gave only an off put hum as he kept stumbling forward. John sighed. Arthur I don't think- wait, go back a bit.

The urgency worried him a bit. After months of being targeted by eldritch monsters, he'd come to expect something grotesquely horrific anytime John urged him to take a closer look at something. Despite his better judgement, he asked, “What, is there something there?”

There was a brief noise of frustration before he answered. Nothing, just turn to the left a bit- no your other left Arthur! Just a little- there! There's a large, sturdy tree about ten steps ahead. It has some thicker branches near the base. If we're careful, we could climb a good ways off the ground and maybe-

A scoff left Arthur's lips on impulse, “You expect me to sleep in a tree? Jesus, John. Will it even support my weight?”

Arthur, I know you haven't been able to look at a mirror in a while, but you're less than skin and bones at this point.

He interrupted with a sound of offense, “Well that's hardly- !”

John quickly continued before the excuses could derail them. I don't see anywhere else we could shelter for the night, and it's getting dark. We could continue walking, but I won't be able to see much longer unless we use the lighter.

“No, no I don't think that would work well in such an open area,” Arthur acquiesced, and began to move forward.

He continued as he walked forward, barely avoiding tripping on a large root, “I still don't know about sleeping up there, though. Are you sure you're not just doing this because you want to feel tall?”

John seemed to get very defensive at that. What, no! Don't be stupid Arthur, I just want to have a good starting distance from anything that might be waiting to get us while you sleep. With any luck, I'll be able to wake you up before they can reach us! 

Plus. He continued lower, and somewhat petulantly. You never let us climb anything fun unless we're running from something.

Arthur stopped after ten steps, and sure enough, lifting his arm brought his sleeve to the rough face of the trunk. He ran his hand over the gnarled bark, looking for any available foothold. When he found one, he wedged his shoe in and began to heft himself up onto one of the lower branches.

“Yes, well,” he grunted a bit, moving onto the next limb, letting John guide both their hands with his, “We'd just have to hope I didn’t roll off in my sleep then?”

The limb under them let out a long creak, and John led him swiftly to the next. I won’t let you fall, Arthur. He paused, considering for a moment. Well, not off the tree. I can't promise anything once our feet touch dirt again. We fall a lot, like at least once every other day.

“I-” Arthur gasped a bit, winded from the exertion, then continued with a breathy chuckle, “That's very kind of you, John. I would like to say though that most of our falls weren’t my fault.”

And since I'm so kind, I'll ignore what you're implying there.

The branches were starting to become thinner. But, as John insisted in a very unflattering manner, each still held his weight. As he reached for the next one, his hand was redirected somewhat to the right. “I still don't think I'd be comfortable resting up here for the night, but we'll at least have a better vantage point for now,” he braced his foot hard against the trunk and heaved himself up again, “If nothing else, you might be able to spot us a- well a village, or a clearing of some kind. Hell, we might not be far from the edge of the woods all together!”

He reached for the next branch, but something caught and his arm didn't go as far up as it should've.

Fuck! Arthur, our bag! It got looped on a branch!

Suddenly, Arthur felt himself trying to correct his balance as he leaned too far forward, tipping without anything to brace against. His arm flailed wildly. For a split second, he felt the rush of air past his ears; the familiar plummet of his stomach, soon to be followed by the rest of his body. He was falling. He was falling out of the fucking tree.

Then he was stopped with a violent jerk. The abrupt change in momentum felt like a punch directly to the sternum. His left shoulder flared with a sharp, tingling pain, wrenched back in its socket against the full weight of his body. Legs still planted firmly on solid wood, he was left stretched out dangerously over the open air, chest parallel with the ground.

“Fuck! Fuck, John you-!” Arthur was panting harshly, head spinning, heart beating out of his chest; yet there was some soft awe as he got out, “You caught us.”

Yes I-. He sounded almost as winded as Arthur did. I did. I caught us.

The two were silent as they righted themselves on the limb, save for some heavy breathing. There was a small struggle as they untangled their bag from where it had gotten stuck. John ended up just breaking the twig off, then shaking it out of the strap. Then they simply sat there for a moment, maybe two. Crouching precariously on the wood.

Finally, weary and done with life, Arthur asked, “How much farther to the top, John?”

The answer was hesitant, and if Arthur had more energy to actually listen, he might’ve said it was apologetic. Just a bit farther now. Let's just focus on climbing until we get there.

“Right,” and with a sigh, he began to heave himself up once more, “right, let's go.”

So they continued to scale the tree. Working functionally as a unit, they slowly developed a rhythm; John moved first and Arthur followed. It was like the steps to a dance they'd done a million times. They weren't in sync. They probably never would be. But they pushed through together, despite every stumble along the way.

As they approached the top, they had to maneuver through many more smaller branches and twigs. Leaves brushed across Arthur's face, and he was sure some had gotten stuck in his hair at that point. Finally, head breaching the uppermost layer of foliage, there was a gasp from someone who didn't have to breathe.

Oh, Arthur. That sound of awe in his voice was not unfamiliar, yet it still stirred feelings in Arthur that he refused to stop and analyze.

He carefully asked, still winded from the climb, “What is it, John?”

From where we stand I can see out for miles. Vast plains of rolling hills stretch past the horizon, covered in dense tree growth. It almost gives the appearance of leafy waves, layered green peaks rolling out before us. Some distance further, a mountain range cuts through the clouds. In the fading light, I can see what looks like a storm slowly brewing not far off. Everything is painted in a deep crimson as the sun lowers in the sky, ever steady. The moon is already out. It's big, bigger than I've ever seen it. Soon it will be a beacon of light as night settles in.

I can’t see a clearing from here, not even the one we first arrived in. I can't see any signs of a town, either. 

Arthur sighed, accepting the information easily, though not with any joy, “Yes, there wouldn’t be one, would there. We wouldn’t be so lucky,” he paused, continuing in a more dejected manner, “Is there anything else of note? Maybe a river or lake in view?”

Not that I can see, no. Though, any rivers that might be there are most likely hidden under the density of the forest. We’re surprisingly close to the mountains, though. In fact, looking closer, I think I can see… Oh. Oh! Arthur there’s- there’s a castle on the mountain!

“What?” was the only response he could give, quiet and dull, yet astonished and disbelieving in one.

Yes, I can make out the distinct spires and branching turrets, though I can see why I didn't notice it earlier. It sits on the side of the mountain, on a small plateau. It looks almost as if it was carved out of that very rock. It’s grander than even Larson’s mansion by a wide margin. The build of it is entirely unlike anything we've seen, Arthur: medieval maybe, but very well-maintained.

John paused then.

Or… maybe not yet old enough to need maintenance.

Arthur’s hand gripped tighter to the branch it rested on. “No, that’s not possible John. I know there are some more traditional countries out there, but none would have such a building this deep into the forest. To be in such condition, it would need to be closer to a city or town.”

And the other possibility?

His voice was more openly defensive than he would like, but he was just so damn tired to think about this shit and be pleasant, “What, so you’re saying we’re in medieval Europe then? With knights and the renaissance and- and the fucking plague!”

The response was surprisingly calm. I’m not saying anything for certain, just that it’s a possibility we should consider. I lived in the Dark World, where so many realities beyond ours collide. I was put there, accidentally, by a random group of humans with a book that I wasn't even tied to! It stands to reason that something with the right powers, the right knowledge to wield, could use that purposefully to-.

“To bring things across,” Arthur finished gravely.

Exactly.

In the resulting silence, Arthur thought of the possibility. The wind, still eerily silent, pulled gently at his hair. Now that the sun had fully set, the air was rapidly cooling his skin. And he truly let himself wonder. All that time spent dead set on his mission, driven by the goal of stopping Larson, of righting whatever horrible wrongs were committed. None of that would be possible if they were stuck in a different world, and in the distant past no less. He thought about all of this, and he thought about John’s recent weirdness. His insistence on tracking down the Order. And he found that at this point, he didn’t care.

When he began to speak again, it was with the worn but steady voice of a man ready to move on, “Well then, that’s one possibility,” he released his grip from the branch he was leaning on, “Another is that we were simply moved in space to somewhere with some important, historical castle. Either way, it’s probably our best bet at finding out where - and possibly when - we are.”

Right. I-. There was a shuffle that had John pause in confusion. Arthur, why are you sitting on the edge of the branch? I can't see the castle anymore!

“But you remember where it was enough to get there?” He didn't seem to be paying much attention.

Yes? But why are- Arthur!?

John was cut off as the man in question slid off the edge and fell down to a lower limb. He landed solidly, though not cleanly, scraping up both their arms. John grabbed desperately at the bark under his hand, and kicked out wildly with his foot, more just in shock than with any goal in mind.

What the fuck Arthur!

He puffed out a tense breath, and settled for mild indignance as he continued to scale his way down the tree without input from his eyes. “Well I'm not going to sleep in a tree, John! Not when we have literally any other option available.”

The being in question was left following Arthur's lead now. Gone was their once comfortable rhythm, replaced by mad scrabbling for purchase, always a step behind.

Okay but Arthur- I- could you stop fucking falling for a second!

The man chuckled, “Oh, but I'm on a roll! Plus, I want to get down as soon as possible so we can start toward the-” he grunted in pain, his leg hitting another branch as he caught himself on the trunk, “the castle. How far did you say it was?”

He answered quickly and dismissively, concentrating more on physically reacting to catch them as Arthur continued making their way down. A few hours walk at least. But we shouldn't be traveling in the dark like this! We can't avoid whatever's watching us in these woods, and I sure as hell don't want to face it on its home turf, in the middle of the fucking night!

Yes, he had thought about this. And again, he found, he didn't care.

“And I can't face it while asleep! The question isn't whether or not we'll have to fight whatever beast lurks in these woods, because we both know our luck with that,” he heaved himself down one last time, and landed on solid ground with the crunch of twigs underfoot, “No, the question is if we'll be ready when it decides to fucking show itself.”

Chapter Text

Arthur was beginning to regret not just sleeping in that fucking tree.

Night had washed over them quicker than he had expected, leaving their way lit by only the moon. Which, according to John, was mostly hidden by heavy storm clouds and, oh yeah, the fucking trees Arthur! Rain had yet to break through, but thunder rolled angrily overhead all the same. Where there was once an eerie silence, now the woods were overtaken by the rustling of leaves and the whipping of branches.

Another branch smacked him in the face, and Arthur was left trying to spit out the taste of bark as someone laughed it up in the back of their head. Despite his earlier conviction, he quickly decided to reach into their bag and take out their lighter. Through all their travels, he was thankful for his maybe unhealthy level of attachment to the bloody thing. Right now though, it was less than he felt comfortable with. He silently cursed himself for not thinking to buy a torch while they were in New York.

John, understandably, was not feeling so courteous as to keep such thoughts to himself.

Arthur, our lighter isn't doing shit. This was the first thing he'd said to him that wasn't terse directions since they'd left the tree. I can barely see three feet in front of us! I mean fuck, Arthur! Did you even think of buying a flashlight while we were still in the city?

He went straight to indignant at that, “Oh, like you did? I don't seem to recall you voicing any concerns, or actually pointing out any stores for that matter.”  

John's response was quick and scathing. It's not like you’d have listened if I did. He then petered down into a grumble. Too preoccupied with throwing yourself at every problem you can find.

“That’s not fair and you know it. And in any case, I was a bit busy keeping us alive.”

The tone of reply could only be described as petulant. Not too busy for a haircut, though.

“I- what? What's that got to do with-,” his confusion turned on a dime at the re-ignition of an old argument, though this time with much more apparent seriousness, “Really, John! You're really choosing now of all times to go on about the movie thing again?”

I don't know Arthur, it just seems like you deigned a lot of things as less important than a fucking trim!

The swinging of their arms grew more violent than necessary. Their left shoulder was aching something fierce now as they pushed a path through the branches. John catching them must've aggravated the not-quite-healed gunshot wound. 

Even as they fell into barely-controlled shouting, their pace was steady. Arthur wasn't as worried now about drawing attention with their volume, though to be honest he was too caught up in their squabble to focus on much else. No, all he could think about was the slowly bubbling rage behind his words, fueled by the soreness in his legs and the layer of sweat on his skin.

“Appearances are important! Do you really think anyone would have taken us seriously if I- well if I'd looked so unkempt? No. They'd probably have written us off as a bumbling hobo!”

Just admit that you prioritized your looks over our safety!

“Oh fucking come off it you- !”

Then, Arthur stopped. His foot planted itself firmly on the ground. Without warning, he paused what was to be a long-winded speech, and froze in place. His entire body became tense, leaving only an arm and a foot that were no longer his still moving with restless energy.

John wasn't paying attention to that, though. He, for one, was frustrated beyond caring. What! Jesus Christ, Arthur what the fuck is wrong with-!

“Shh!”

The audacity. Don't you fucking-!

Arthur interrupted him again with a very harsh whisper, “Just shut up for five goddamn seconds John! Listen!”

And despite everything in John wanting to argue, wanting to keep pushing, he did. He knew better than to ignore Arthur's intuition. He knew better than to ignore Arthur at all. So he shut up, and he listened. It felt like holding his breath.

And then he heard it. A dull thumping, which had been growing in power behind their bickering, had slowly transformed into the sound of hooves. Their distant thundering matched that of the sky. Neighs and whinnies could be heard not long after. Horses, or something that sounded startlingly similar, were heading their direction.

Arthur, is that-?

“Yes, John,” his energy ramped back up as he spoke, though this time with delight rather than frustration, “I think it may be a carriage! And where there's a carriage-”

There must be a road!

Arthur once again took up a quick pace, now focusing on the sound of wheels accompanying the hooves. It was coming from the opposite direction they were heading. This could mean a myriad things, but the one he was focusing on was the possibility of it heading toward the castle as well. And with it, the possibility of a road leading directly there. 

Running through the woods was out of the question, but the speed at which they were moving was still punishing. Arthur pushed through branches with his body rather than his arm, not waiting for John to direct him in moving it. In fact, he barely listened to the directions John was feeding him at all. His body felt like it was moving on instinct, shoulders scraping trees and legs catching vines. There was nothing that could slow him down.

Arthur, stop!

Okay maybe there was one thing.

He panted out, “What is it, John?” His chest convulsed with every breath. The steady approach of hooves beat in time with his heart, both pounding against his temple.

I can see the road now. It's made of a compacted white sand that stands out against the darkened forest floor. It looks pristine, not a single leaf fallen near, not a blade of grass daring to touch it. No dirt or twigs. It looks unused. Cut out from the surroundings like a piece is missing out of the picture.

John's description seemed almost like a warning, though Arthur couldn't imagine why.

Just a few more steps and we'll be standing in the middle of it.

He started forward at that, urgency underlying his words, “Let's go then! I can hear them just around the bend!” Maybe less than a minute more and they'd be right on top of them.

Wait! John hissed in his head, grabbing a trunk to stop them from sprinting out onto the sand. Arthur, we don't know who could be driving that thing! And I doubt whoever they are would be accommodating to a man jumping out of the bushes in the middle of the night, fucking covered in blood!

He could feel his left shoulder catch painfully, and reluctantly gave into the pull that had him stood half-hidden behind a tree. A pause in thought, with the familiar tension of a big decision on the horizon, and his breath finally evening out. When he spoke, his voice came wry and quiet, as if once again caring about being overheard, “Yes, well, I suppose that's true. Besides, historically we haven't had the best luck with catching a ride, have we?”

Not really. John grumbled.

“Then I suppose we'll just hunker down and wait for them to pass. Let them lead the way, and hopefully draw any malicious intent away with them.”

So they sat. Or rather, awkwardly crouched down the furthest they could without something being impaled by a piece of bramble. John led them to scoot just a bit back as the calèche rolled through. 

Arthur was tempted to hold his breath. Though the sound would surely be covered, something as alive as breathing felt somehow like it would draw too much attention. Was it just him or were those wheels not going by as quickly as they should?

Fuck. Fuck, Arthur they're slowing down!

Well he definitely wasn't breathing now.

Turn the lighter off!

“Right! Christ right fuck!” He hissed out the words as he fumbled. He almost dropped it in his haste, before shoving it back into a pocket.

John’s voice continued low and quick, as if he'd somehow be heard from within Arthur’s head. Pitch black horses pull the carriage along. They look strong, like they could go for miles and miles without rest, without thought of stopping. Their pace lessens the closer they get.

As they get approach, I can see the coachman, face barely lit in what light of the moon passes through the clouds. His eyes are hidden under the brim of his hat, but his mouth is visible. He has a full beard. It's bushy, maybe unnaturally so.

This comment stirred some harsh whispering in response, “What, like he's not a real person? Like he's just wearing someone's skin or it's an- an illusion or-?”

No. John was seemingly taken out of the moment at that, returning quickly to his normal volume. No, more like he's- well like he's wearing a fake beard! Like a stage performer; counting on the audience never getting close enough to see. To see how the hair doesn't quite fall on the shape of the face. How it doesn't transition from scalp to jaw, but rather cuts abruptly.

“Huh, now why would he-?”

Shhh!

Arthur's voice was still quiet, still barely audible as he replied, “What? John, why-?”

He knew the answer wouldn't be good, but he felt his stomach drop all the same with John’s next words. He's looking right at you.

Fuck.

The coachman. He's staring out into the woods. We're completely covered by the foliage; we shouldn't be visible from the road. He shouldn't be able to see us!

There was a pause as he seemed to reevaluate. The calèche was now moving at a snail's pace past their hiding spot, no more than a few meters in front of them. No, wait. I don't think he actually can. I can feel his gaze on us, his presence pressing in. It's like he's staring into our souls, sizing us up for something. But his head is still pivoting left to right. Like he knows we're here, but can't pinpoint exactly where without seeing for himself.

Before he could think of a plan, a next step of any kind, a voice spoke up.

It was neither John nor Arthur. Through desperately shallow breath, and the crunch of sand under hooves, rose what sounded like German. Inquiring, soft-spoken German, with a distinct English accent. 

Arthur had only briefly studied German in his schooling years. He had begun only a year before the start of the Great War, and had since then not thought it wise to continue. He could make out a question of why, but nothing further.

It seemed however that John had no such issues. That wasn't the coachman, Arthur. The voice came from within the calèche. Whoever it was asked why they were slowing down so drastically, if they were stopping for something. They sound… worried, scared maybe. It's hard to tell whether they fear what lies in the woods, or the coachman himself.

As John finished, the coachman answered in very suave-sounding German, and horses began to take on speed once more.

The coachman said he thought he saw a deer. He noted it looked sickly.

A few seconds more and they sped past, leaving the two to decide a next course of action.

--------------------------

After his fourth time diving into the bushes, Arthur was feeling fed up.

He was also feeling covered in twigs.

And dirt.

And so many fucking leaves.

They'd followed a bit after the carriage, distance steadily growing but direction certain.

Or maybe not. After some time, they heard noises from the road again. This time, they were coming from in front of them. From the direction in which the caleche had sped off. John quickly pointed them to a hiding spot off to the side; a covered area near the base of another tree. There they once again sat in wait for a carriage to pass.

As they looked out from the woods, however, John said it was the same person driving. Arthur thought he must've been mistaken. It may have been odd for two carriages to be passing opposite each other on such a narrow road, but it was certainly possible. And it could've easily been another bearded man, with the darkness providing so few details to identify by. This one went by without slowing as well, so there wasn’t much time to get a good look. It would be easy, and very understandable in the given situation, to confuse them. But then some time more, another hasty retreat into the bushes, and it was the same.

Then again.

And again.

And each time John was adamant that it was the same calèche. The same horses. The same. Fucking. Coachman.

It's him, Arthur! I swear! I can see him looking for us each time he goes by!

“At this point, John, my only two options are to either believe you,” Arthur groaned in his effort to climb back out of their newest hiding spot, “or assume that this horrible little road in this horribly gigantic forest has attracted five separate coaches in the span of maybe an hour. I think I lost both the will and want to fight you on this after the thorn bush.”

He grumbled out a weak willed apology. I told you I didn’t see the thorns.

Arthur couldn’t be bothered to put forward the effort to reply to that. He just breathed a bit harder and continued walking. 

Well then what are we going to do about it? John was just as annoyed as him at this point. Though maybe a bit more stressed.

He sighed, “I don’t know if there’s anything we can do. We can keep walking, keep diving into the bushes with every pass they make. Or we could wait for the man to go by again and actually talk.”

Arthur we are not talking to the fucking coachman. This was said seething, words squished together in hastened anger. We’re going to keep walking. We’re going to get to that fucking castle. And we’re going to do it together, like we do everything else.

“Right.” 

Despite a valiant effort for determination, Arthur's voice rang through dull. He didn’t quite agree with John. Hadn’t for a while. His obsession with isolating them, though understandable in his situation especially, seemed to be a symptom of a bigger issue. He was constantly on the defensive. He was hiding something. 

A steadying breath cut through Arthur’s thoughts, and John continued, composed as he could be. Now, you’re going to need to bank a little more to the left. The-

He was interrupted by howling. A raucous noise that started up behind them, beginning slowly with the whining and yipping of dogs. The howling grew steadily louder, turning from individuals, to one unified force. 

It rippled out towards them, a wave of canine fear.

Then it began to surround them, encircle them, and deepen. It turned into something rougher, more characteristic of a wilder animal. Something more like wolves.

“Fuck.”

Arthur we need to move. Now.

His breath was speeding up, shallow puffs in the quickly cooling air. He needed to rationalize; he needed to stay calm. “Look, we’re in a heavily wooded area, there are bound to be wolves. We should be completely fine. They aren’t likely to approach, especially while we’re still on the road.”

Oh yeah, and how did that go for you last time? While John hadn’t said anything about it to him directly, Arthur could tell he was a bit miffed at coming back to his spot in their shared body only to discover a giant bite mark on his arm.

The only reply Arthur could give was a heavy sigh, followed by a very emphatic, “For fuck’s sake.”

His words couldn't usurp his instincts, and he started picking up the pace. Arthur had never been one for sports, but these past few months had awakened a newfound interest in running. Not for the first time, he wished he’d worn more appropriate clothes for this.

As he ran, the howling refused to cease. In fact it grew louder, closer. It surrounded them, and Arthur didn’t have naive optimism left enough to hope that it was an echo, that they weren’t being circled by an entire forest worth of wolves. He just kept pushing forward, not slowing no matter the ache in his legs.

Right! Go right!

Arthur refused to stumble, to let his strides falter at the barked order. The turn was sharp as he could manage, so much so that he skidded a bit to the side. Their feet stayed under him though.

After the turn, the road is more narrow. John was still tense, his one hand clenched in a death grip on the strap of their bag. Yet he continued to describe their surroundings, as he always did. The trees now arch over it, giving the illusion of traveling through a dark tunnel. I can’t see where the moon would be behind the clouds anymore. We’re on more of an incline now. Rocks are encroaching with the trees to our sides, jagged and gray. We’re starting an ascent up the mountain.

The new angle hadn't slowed Arthur significantly, but it was noticeable. The baying of wolves grew ever stronger, ever closer to where they were regardless of how fast he ran. Behind them, especially, the creatures seemed to be moving in. And they seemed to be doing so dangerously fast. Within a few minutes, they sounded only a bit down the road behind them.

Arthur, they're getting closer!

“Yes, I can fucking hear that, John!” His voice came out harsh, breathless as he ran.

We need to get out of here!

“And go where!? In case you haven't noticed, we're fucking surrounded!”

We’re going to the castle! It shouldn’t be more than a mile up! We just have to get there. While the idea was solid, John still sounded panicked. Determined, but panicked. 

Maybe it was just the stress of the situation. Or maybe he was lying again. He might not even remember where the castle was. Regardless, they kept speeding up the road. It wasn’t the most reassuring, but it was a goal. An end to reach. Arthur could work with that.

The air was growing colder, and the wind whipped frantically against him, slowing him down. His nose was going numb, and he could feel the sting of something that was either rain or snowflakes. The howling grew louder still. That, combined with his pulse pounding in his ears, left John's voice a faint echo in his mind. And yet, his ears locked into focus on a new noise.

There was the crunching of underbrush to their left. And to their right. Powerful push offs and swift landings. Sure movements that kept pace with them, that threatened to overtake them.

Arthur barely had time to call out an uneasy, “John!”

These wolves hadn’t been howling like the others that still circled at distance. No, they were silent until seconds before they lunged from the trees as one, snarling and barking and ready to rip them to shreds.

Fuck, left! Left!

He did as ordered, feeling teeth graze skin through the worn fabric of trousers. He’d just barely missed losing a leg to waiting, hungry jaws. Adrenaline did its job well, barely letting him notice the sting of a fresh cut on his calf. The feeling of warm blood rolling down to his ankle. Still, reacting to orders instead of actual sight meant he was at a disadvantage. Precious seconds wasted in transit, having to be told how to move. He could no longer rely on the instantaneous travel of signals from eye to brain to muscle. 

John didn’t have time to warn him as another pounced from their left.

The full weight of the wolf slammed into him at once. He’d been hit harder, but damn if it didn’t still feel like getting bulldozed by a truck. He went down in one, the momentum keeping his body scraping against rock and sand for meters. Claws tore through his coat, through his button down and undershirt, and into the little flesh left on his torso. The breath was knocked out of him, and his ribs burned from the pressure.

He’d faced wolves before, but this one felt too heavy as it snarled over him. This wasn’t some desperate attack made by starving animals. These predators were well-fed. The thick forest held room for plenty of game, prey that was surely more filling. It wasn’t hunger that drove them. It was simple bloodlust.

Hot breath puffed over his face and seeped through the collar of his shirt, smelling of rotting meat. Still, he gasped, desperately trying to refill his lungs. He kicked out desperately behind him, arm useless from where it was pinned between his chest and the ground.

Fuck Arthur, I can’t push us back up! The beast has us pressed into the road, its maw of sharp teeth inches from our face!

There was more rustling from their surroundings.

Others are pouring out from the tree line, stalking closer slowly. This is being drawn out with purpose. These wolves Arthur, they're not right. Their teeth are too jagged, limbs too long and sinewy. Intelligence sits behind their eyes reflecting that of crooked men rather than animals.

The one on our back doesn't seem to be focused on us anymore. It's instead glaring out at our surroundings. At the other wolves. Protecting its prize. 

“John,” it came out in a quiet wheeze, lungs struggling to move air past the weight on his back, “John the gun.”

The beast pushed down harder with its paw, claws digging deeper into his back.

I can't- He hesitated, frustration palpable. Even if I grab it, I can't turn our shoulder back that far! I won't be able to shoot the fucking wolf!

Arthur croaked out another answer, “Don't need to. Just-” another gasp, “Just enough to scare.”

Shit, okay. John huffed out once, decisively. Okay.

There must've been a dozen of them circling. The crunching of rock and sand closing in. Growling pierced through the air around them.

And then Arthur's eardrums fucking exploded.

Mere centimeters from his skull, the gun went off. Despite lying on the ground, his head was spinning. He couldn't hear shit. However, he could still clearly feel the weight lift off his chest.

He gulped in as much air as he could, then coughed and sputtered as he choked on a leaf.

Ears ringing, he got his arm under him and began to push up, slightly lopsided before John presumably moved his own arm to do the same. Then he sat there, trying to get his lungs back into a purposeful rhythm.

-thur. Arthur! His shouting faded in after a minute.

The man shook his head with a groan. “Jesus Christ. Fuck! Are you okay? Are they gone?”

They retreated back into the treeline at the gunshot. They didn't seem too scared, though. I don't think they'll be coming back, but we should get going.

Arthur nodded in agreement, getting their feet back under him with some difficulty. Beginning to walk again wasn't difficult, but he definitely wasn't going at the same pace he was earlier. He hissed lowly between his teeth as he felt the extent of his injuries. 

“God, my ribs ache. Are we bleeding anywhere?”

Just on our leg that I can see, but there's probably some scrapes under our suit. And I assume our back isn't in too good shape.

“Right,” he sighed, “How far do you think until we reach the castle?”

A few more minutes. 

A pause.

Probably.

Arthur gave a disbelieving hum.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Jonathan Harker was, admittedly, an easy man to startle. Anecdotes of such rude surprises ranged from a bird flying into the glass of his window, to his lovely Mina simply calling for him from within their own house. Many an innocuous action had spooked him before, and many more would follow suit. 

Jonathan was not, as it were, an easy man to rattle. To shake to his core. To truly disquiet in a way that stuck.

This journey was testing those firmly held truths.

He was a solicitor's clerk not a week prior, but now graduated to full-fledged solicitor, it was as if the world had decided to test his resolve.

Leaving promptly on the first of May, the young man made his way East. He traveled by train, as Mina was so happy to direct him on, and strived to talk with those that would be willing to receive his questioning. Admittedly, the food is what ended up most taking his interest.

Entering on the last leg of his travels, he settled at an inn in the village closest to his client’s abode. He was glad to have refreshed his German before the trip, for none there spoke more than a scant few words of English. The conversation was never limited though, and despite the lack of much vocabulary to communicate, the people were kind. 

It soon appeared, however, that they made their thoughts home, as he had heard those in the area were prone to do, in a prevailing superstition of all things evil. Especially, so it seemed, in relation to Count Dracula. Despite the man's obvious influence — to pay for his lovely stay at the inn, to procure him a space on the coach — the peasantry refused to further address his existence. 

It came to a head on the fifth, which he had been gravely informed was the eve of St. George's Day. The old lady, who ran the inn alongside her husband, had begged him to stay, even just until the next morning. In the eyes of these people, this night was when all hateful specters of the world could reign free. Yet Jonathan could not bring himself to miss this opportunity, this promise he had made to the good Mr. Hawkins. And so he left, a rosary hanging new and weighted around his neck.

He stepped onto the coach, bags taken kindly yet in a dizzying hurry. They sped along, the hills growing steeper, the forest darker. Orchards and fruit trees bled into thick pine and oak, and once breaching the mountain pass, the very atmosphere began to froth with the edge of thunder. The driver’s face held nothing but grim determination all down the road. Spurts of wry humor, infrequent and increasingly dim, never once abated the man’s furrowed brow despite the smile on his face.

Though they arrived at the meeting place rather early, a calèche still drove out from the woods to collect him. Face hidden under the brim of a hat, bearded mouth barely lit by the lamps on their own coach, the man who had come for him did not bring hope for his path forward. Unfortunately, even after his ominous warnings and jests which left his fellow passengers paler than the dead, Jonathan felt he had no choice but to allow this new coachman to take his luggage. To grip his arm with almost strangely strong, ice cold hands, and lead him up onto the seat.

Before he went, he was subjected to glances of pity, wishes of good luck, and even some small gifts of protection. As he stepped onto the vehicle, there was not a single soul who did not turn his way and doggedly cross themselves.

The driver, despite his overtly threatening demeanor, was courteous as to provide him with a cloak and rug to stave off the chill air, and inform him of a plum brandy stashed beneath the seat. Still, the swell of unease he had been valiantly shoving down into the deepest reaches of his bosom now threatened to bubble over.

There was no light left but the moon, and though his German was excellent, the coachman did not offer up further conversation. Jonathan made no attempt to break the silence. This man would have nothing comforting to say to him. He was too preoccupied now, bogged down with due worries about what kind of place he had found himself traveling to, and to what kind of person.

He did notice, in spite of his splintered attention, when the carriage began to slow. Head emptying into blank dread, his heart ran with nervous energy as they slowed to a crawl.

Jonathan peered cautiously out past the walls of the coach. They could not possibly be at the Count’s castle yet. He would have spotted it at some distance, for even such a night could not hide a castle.

But no, he saw nothing. There was only the starless sky, and faint outlines of trees no further than a meter out from him on either side.

He forced himself to speak. However much he may have feared the coachman, such a pace through this forest only made to enhance the consuming sense of vulnerability. Emotions were stirring that would swallow his psyche if left well alone.

And, something he feared to acknowledge, was the press of eyes he could swear to feel boring into him.

“Are we nearing our destination so soon?”

“Hmm?” The answer was much less enthused than the manner he had spoken in before. It was distracted. He was tense, shoulders set and hands clenched on the reigns. Looking to the man’s face, Jonathan could see his head moving steadily. It rotated on a slow swivel that presumably gave him the view all about them. 

“Just that, we have slowed very dramatically, and - and I do hope there is nothing wrong. Are we stopping for something?” He would not let a tremor, from what he attempted to convince himself was the cold, threaten his speech.

The driver took pause at the question. His posture straightened minisculey. His every fiber seemed to force itself back into that air of nonchalance and dark mystique that had been so off putting.

“Ah. No, of course not, mein Herr.” his tone bordered on jovial, but the deepening shadows which crossed his face betrayed him, “I had thought to see a deer ahead. Very sickly thing. It has gone into the woods now, do not fret.”

Jonathan did not believe him. The words rang as hollow lies. He did not know what the driver could be hiding, but it was something that had even him spooked.

And yet he did not protest; he could not open his mouth again. He had barely been able to bring himself to ask why they had all but come to a stop in the middle of the forest. His mind was set. Any further inquiry would bring him no closer to an answer.

A second more, eyes straining to see past the pitch, ears to listen past the indelicate crunch of sand, then they sped off. The night black mares once more took up in their powerful run.

They continued on. A bleakness enclosed their every side, only guided forward by virtue of the white sand road. Some many minutes passed like this.

Then they turned.

Sharply, without warning or hesitation, they swerved. If Jonothan was any more tired, any less wary, he may have well sat longer on his next thought before allowing it to surface. But there was no mistake to be made. The driver had turned them completely around in one quick movement. They were now racing down the same straight road, but in the opposite direction.

He looked out at the fastly passing void, but his worry could do nothing to stop it. To stop whatever hell he had been thrown into. To stop this horrible carriage of doom, hurtling down a path to nowhere. At that moment, Jonathan accepted this inescapable fate. Trapped forever with this coachman, who was surely himself one of the damned dead forced to roam the region, who slunk out of hiding only on the eve of St. George’s Day to steal away a poor unwitting soul.

Ho looked out, and there were eyes staring back from the brush.

Spiraling thoughts violently forced back on course, Jonathan snapped his head back to catch a glimpse of that piercing yellow once more. They sped by too quickly, however, and the dull glow was lost to him. He had less than blinked, and it was as if they had never been there. But they had been.

Those eyes. Not the eyes of a wolf nor those of an owl. 

And certainly not the eyes of a deer.

It was no few hours later by the time the coachman ceased his pointless searching, or whatever it may have been that he was truly doing. So long that it felt like some horrible nightmare. He looked again for those eyes every pass they made, and in each he failed to find them. The feeling of being watched only served to heighten the madness that was no doubt making home in his brain. Cemented now he had something to attribute it too.

Then there came the sounds of wolves. Howls circled them, and Jonathan reared back in time with the horses. They made a turn, right this time, onto a much narrower road. The canopy closed above them; jagged formations of stone jutted toward the road, as if to snare them. Thunder rolled still overhead at irregular intervals.

Midnight had befallen them, as was almost certainly the plan from the very start.

The driver once again began to sleep his gaze out in front of them, head moving from side to side. Jonathan felt dread climb further up his chest. But it soon became evident that, no, he was no longer looking for the “deer”, for they both saw the true goal at the same time: a flame of blue light.

All at once, the calèche halted, and the coachman went off into the woods without explanation. Not that Jonathan ever expected to receive one.

This happened several more times. The blue flames danced in their ghostly ways, drawing his attention further than he would ever have expected. But his spirit was weak with terror, and though frightful in their own right, the lights were all the same enticing. Jonathan was almost tempted to follow the coachman, to give in fully to whatever horror this was for the sake of answers, when he heard something.

The driver had gone so far as to be well out of sight now, and the wolves had ceased their howling. And for a moment, he swore he could hear yelling.

Incomprehensible at such a distance, but Jonathan’s mind quickly filed the voice as one of a fellow englishman.

Then his small world of silence crumbled, as the horses began to whine and stamp in the excited way which they are known to.

He realised with a start that the quiet of the wolves was not of their absence, but rather a cunning ambush. The clouds parted briefly, and the silhouettes of the beasts loomed over him and the equally petrified horses from upon the surrounding rocks.

Fortuitously, or perhaps not so, the coachman returned at that moment. He held his hand up in motion to leave, and the wolves slinked off without delay.

Jonathan wanted to be shocked by this revelation. He wanted, oh so desperately, to claim ignorance; to believe this was all the machinations of a sleepless brain’s wandering. But as he sat back solidly in the coach, and the driver looked around once more before departing, he was brought back to those eyes. The eyes that he could no longer feel watching him, but that he knew just as well were real.

And that one detail forced him to contend with the fact that all of this was hauntingly real. 

--------------------------

He did end up in Transylvania, through the Carpathians and to the Count's castle. Safely, of sound body but certainly not mind. 

To have given up hope of arrival, only to stand before the ancient structure what felt like day long hours later, did nothing to put at rest his unease. No, the pervading sense of wrongness had by this point seeped too thoroughly into his sockets. He could not unsee. Not even as the driver left him with his bags on the Count’s front step, strong hands touching his for what he hoped to be the final time. Not even as the coachman drove the calèche around to another entrance. Not even as he stood there for hours, waiting to be allowed in.

Maybe he could’ve run then. Traveled back the road on foot and escaped this wretched place. He had a feeling however, too solid to ignore, that he would not travel very far.

When the door opened, rusted and creaking from what may very well have been to centuries of disuse, Jonathan did not move.

The man who stood there must under all laws have been Count Dracula. And yet he was too familiar. He spoke in clear, accented English, rather than German. He invited him in once, twice, and Jonathan felt exceedingly tempted to stay there. He let himself believe he had an option, and indulged once more in the idea of running. The Count took his bags, and invited him in a third time.

He took the proffered handshake, and the cold strength of the grip confirmed to him that what little he might have hoped was for naught. 

But the Count was courteous in all manners. The Count carried his bags up the winding staircase, insistent on being an accommodating host. He escorted him to his room, urging him to freshen up after the journey. Jonathan could not help but stop to note how high up this guest room was.

He took that time to worry; to stress and hold back peels of manic laughter which threatened to push through his teeth, tears that made him pinch his eyes closed. This was surely not a trial that all new solicitors faced, but he must endure all the same. A half-baked plan was invented then, to not say anything. To go along with what the Count may expect of him, for what other option would there be? He could not fight, and he could not run. Not yet at least.

No, he would wait.

He would wait until the Count retired for the night, or went to his other duties, or at the first sign that he was not lying in wait behind the next doorway. He would run out and find the stables, mount the fastest horse and ride back to the town. As much as the driver’s — or Count Dracula’s — winding path had worked to confuse him, he knew he would be able to navigate back without direction. He had to.

His entrance into the dining room was a fierce battle for composure. The Count had not let on that he knew anything, and so neither must he.

The table was laid finely, though only for one. His courtly host gave some excuse of having already eaten. Of course he would, for is it not known that the dead do not eat but the souls of those they catch?

Jonathan sat, and he supped. The food, delicious as he may have found it had circumstances been less dire, refused to sit in his churning gut. He could see the Count eyeing him from his perch beside the fireplace, and so handed to him the letter from Mr. Hawkins — who himself should have been the one on this trip — as to not invite any talk.

It seemed that would not be possible however, as his so gracious host began to read the note aloud. The contents on their own were flattering. Had it not been for the almost indiscernible, though no doubt sinister gleam in Count Dracula’s eyes, he would have taken the words only as the complement they were. As it stood, there manifested a darker nature to the last sentences when taken together with who it was that read them.

“... He is discreet and silent, and has grown to manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all manners.”

Jonathan did not think it was the flickering of fire light which made the man's lips appear to twitch, as they would to suppress a grin.

The Count talked at him all through supper, and asked him questions about his travels to which he could barely respond without sounding terse. After, he was expected to pull up a chair next to the fireplace to converse further. At some later moment, wolves began to howl outside, and Jonathan’s polite expression almost gave way to terror. Dawn streaked through the windows by the time he was told to rest.

Count Dracula’s sharp canines showed in a smile as he suggested, “So that you may feel more comfortable to talk when sleep no longer clouds your mind, my friend. Slumber as long as you wish, for I have business until the afternoon.”

He would not sleep. That was one of few things of which he could be certain.

He was led back to his room once more, like a child which required constant supervision, lest they injure themselves or set the house ablaze. There he ruminated on his plan of escape. He needed only wait until the Count left for his business. Surely, that would give him ample opportunity.

So he waited once more for long, empty hours. He thought it wise at some point to stop and record all in his journal that he had witnessed. Indeed half of the account was a faithful retelling; the other was split between reassurance of his sanity, and time spent in a fruitless effort to rationalize to the paper his horrible accounts into something that was not so mad.

As the sun fully lit the room, and morning rolled over to mid-day, he rose from the hunched position in which he sat beside the door. He had listened as best one could to the goings on of the castle, and though he had not heard the Count leave his home, he had last been close to the door hours ago. At some point, he heard the faint murmurs of talking, but they sounded of pure, unaccented English. He concluded it to be the mental wanderings of a weary mind.

His lids laid heavy atop his eyes, steps swaying more than was safe. It was not only tiredness, he knew, but also the dispersion of what energy fear had brought to him.

He walked out of his room with strong caution, weary of any misstep that might draw attention. He looked about, and saw dishes on the table. Not from last night, but new ones, presumably for a breakfast. They were, however, strangely empty.

Not as if unused, but as if already eaten from, and in a rush if he was to judge by appearances. Had the Count indeed eaten something? Was he not so much of the undead as to not require human food?

But no, the main plate was set for the seat he was given last night. Further, what he had seen of the Count’s castle was otherwise meticulously clean, so the leaving out of such things was highly unlikely. Upon closer inspection, there was an obvious note left beside the meal.

It read, “I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me. -D”

The message gladdened his heart to see. To know that the Count was truly absent was a relief.

The feeling, however gracious he was for it, was short-lived. For the disappearing meal left one pressing question: who else was in this castle?

A spike of dread pierced his heart at the thought of some evil servants lurking in the shadows. But no, he would have seen them by now, would he not have? And even if he had missed them thus far, surely they themselves would be of the same ilk as their master, and so not need to eat. And more pressingly, what servant, however maleficent, would consume the food left for a guest?

This led naturally to the idea of someone else in the castle. A true human person. Perhaps a fellow captive? An observer?

He could swear to hearing soft footsteps echoing up from the stairwell. Unbidden, images of piercing yellow eyes entered his head.

Or perhaps, it was yet another monster.

Chapter Text

“You know,” Arthur exhaled out another puff of cold air, “I've never been hiking before. Well, not proper mountain hiking anyhow.”

His voice had gained some strength in the past miles. His ribs hurt no less for it, but his lungs had reset, securing a rhythm. A horrible, rasping rhythm, but at least he was breathing.

Really. His tone felt a bit too judgemental. And how are you finding your first hiking experience? Have you enjoyed it?

Arthur managed a faint chuckle, “Not in the slightest.”

John’s low laughter rested heavily, in his ears and heart in equal measure.

They’d been walking for maybe an hour since being ambushed. There was still howling, but it was distant now. More dispersed. Natural. Like normal wolves in a normal forest who don’t arrange themselves into fucking giant moving rings of terror. 

After a long while sprinting, legs burning and feet blistered, they eventually slowed to a swift walking pace. John of course complained out of worry, pressed them to keep moving fast, but Arthur’s femurs were aching. Like the bones were just itching to bend, to break back into a million horrible shards of raw pain.

As it stood, the cold had numbed every inch of skin, exposed or not. Anything past it was sore and stiff, ready to crumble.

Arthur. John’s voice came through with that familiar dread, the feeling that defined their conjoined lives.

“What is it, John?”

Arthur, the castle lies in front of us.

His legs almost faltered. He hoped without thought that rest would be close. “How far?”

The courtyard is only a short ways ahead. The castle itself is nothing too massive. At least, not compared to others. It sits on a high ledge; a small rocky cliff. The forest we’ve been trudging through lays below. It couldn’t be more than a few hundred feet, maybe less. But in the darkness, it looks like you could fall for miles.

He leaned away from where he hoped the edge sat. “Well let’s watch our step then, shall we?”

Yes, I don’t know if our shoulder can handle stopping another fall.

John paused, as if mentally winding up for what he needed to say next.

Arthur the castle is… it looms over us. Standing this close, I can see it's not been kept pristine over the years. It's worn, yet every angle is more jagged for it. The night sky leaves no room to cast a shadow, but the aura of the building is potent enough to smother and extinguish. Pressing in from above. It doesn’t just watch us. This place wants to consume us. To take everything that we are and destroy all that we would ever be.

If we go in there, I don’t think it will be easy to get back out.

“I’d say the same could apply to every other place we’ve found ourselves in thus far.” He'd like to think that they'd accepted that as a default of their lives now.

But this time we know before we enter, and would now be purposely walking into a death trap.

Arthur sighs, “Look, we’re here now, aren’t we? We had to climb a tree to even spot the damn thing. If you take into account our luck, and just how dark everything is, there’s very little chance we’ll find somewhere else to stay. At least not before running into something worse than a menacing old pile of stone. Hell, we’ve already gotten attacked by wolves once-”

Twice for you. John interjected rather rudely.

“Once in this world. If we’re still thinking this could be another world. I don’t want to have to try and avoid getting tackled on the way back down. You didn’t see anywhere else to go, did you? Anywhere nearby, or I suppose otherwise, though I don’t imagine making too far without a rest stop.”

Well, no.

“Then it seems the only way is forward. Plus, what better place to learn about a horrible cult teleportation ritual than the creepy looming castle that will undoubtedly try to eat us.”

And to think you blamed me for your horrible new life of getting chased by monsters. Also cults. Oh, and the monsters sent by cults. And-

The response was dry, though relenting. “Yes John, thank you, I was there.”

They kept walking for a few more minutes. It was so much colder up here. Yet there was no snow on the road, no telltale crunch under his shoes. From what John said, it sounded as though nothing would dare touch the pure sand path. Still, he knew it was snowing, if just lightly. The small flakes burned against his icy-numb skin. He knew if he still owned the eyes in his skull, he’d see white clouds of condensation with every exhale.

We’re about to cross under the first archway of the courtyard. There are many throughout, layered in a way that focuses one's attention to a single point. Like a black hole, pulling in everything around it.

“A hole doesn't pull things in, John.” Arthur trailed off. “Well, actually, one could consider gravity a pull, but not in the way that, say, a magnet does.” 

The holes in space definitely pull things. Arthur’s lack of response showed a need for clarification. Y’know, like the big ones made of stars? The- the ones that crush planets into specks of nothingness! With the- 

For a second it sounded like he choked on something. 

On second thought, I don't think that's a thing in your world yet. Just- forget I said that.

Understandably, worry colored his next words, “...I certainly hope that whatever the hell you just said is never in our world.”

I uhh- yeah hopefully not.

He quickly steamrolled over the awkward silence following that explanation.

Just ahead, at the front of the castle, sits a door. It’s old, maybe even more so than the walls that frame it. As if everything else had fallen, at one point been destroyed or conquered, and needed replacing; all but the door. It’s made of a dark wood, and lined with metal. As we get closer, I can see that it's studded with rusted iron nails. There’s no knocker, no bell. The sight is entirely unwelcoming. It remains only as a warning to those unfortunate enough to come across it. 

It’s set deep within a stone doorway. There may have been carvings on it at one point, intricate stories or symbols etched in, but they’ve been weathered too flat to identify.

Arthur stopped a few steps into the courtyard, and he could swear he felt the impression of cold hard stone curved above his head. It was foggy here, damp despite the freezing temperatures. The air was thick, weighing down his every movement. It was an unsettling feeling. Like all energy was being sapped from him.

“I don’t think we should go in through the front.”

No?

A sharp inhale to try and clear his head. He needed to steady himself. “No. Are there any ground floor windows?”

None that I can see here. There may be some on the other side.

He hummed, made what he hoped was a ninety degree turn, and began making his way across the massive courtyard.

“You said this place feels wrong, right?” He paused briefly as John moved his own foot to the left, leading them more physically as he had recently taken to doing. “Like it may even be the source of that predatory feeling. Whatever that thing was in the forest. If what’s causing it is actually in there, then it would be better not to let it know we’re coming.”

But what if this is another situation like Marie’s? It could be something in the house, but not the owner themself. Oh, wait, turn here.

Arthur pivoted, feet digging lightly into the road. What would really be helpful was if they found a servant entrance at the back. Somewhere for things to be delivered out of sight, so that the wealthy never had to see the people who built their perfect little lives.

“Either way, I don't think it would be in anyone's best interest for us to show up on someone's doorstep in the middle of the night, caked in dried blood and recently mauled.” Saying that gave him a thought. “Actually, the new wounds might make it look more like we were the victim rather than the perpetrator. Which, hypothetically, would garner some sympathy.”

Yes, all except the fact that it's your back with the open wounds and your front that’s soaked with blood.

“Ah, right, well. Perhaps that would look odd.”

Arthur stopped, reached his hand up to try and feel for the flakey crust of iron red, subsequently remembered that his hand was currently frozen solid and unfeeling, then promptly shoved it back into his pocket and continued walking.

“Regardless, I don't think this will be much like the house of a little old lady living above a grocer’s.”

I guess people in castles aren't known for their outstanding morals. That was a mildly concerning comment. Before Arthur could reply with anything more than an intake of breath, however, John interrupted. Wait! Stop here!

His foot faltered as instructed, half a second behind John’s own.

“Have you found a window?”

What? Oh, no, no there don’t seem to be any on the lower floor. He sounded distracted, edging on frustration, which at least meant whatever he’d spotted wasn’t an immediate danger. For the most part. No, in front of us, is a- well it’s a much smaller building, somewhat connected to the greater part of the castle. The road comes to a stop just here, leading into a large circle where vehicles can maneuver. I can almost make out the end of the coach parked behind it. 

Arthur felt his stomach sink just a bit lower. “Wait, do you mean the same coach that-?”

His question was promptly squashed under John’s musings.

Just give me a second! I’ve almost got it! It’s one of those- y’know those buildings? They have like these big piles of hay, and the little court boys take care of them? Uhm, sort of a barn but not quite? The ones with the horses!

The dread was still there, though now covered by a layer of disbelief and the prioritising of naming the thing they were staring at. Still, his voice was low as he tried to fill in the blank “I- Do you mean stables?”

Yes! Yes, that’s it Arthur! We’re stood opposite a stable.

A harsh whisper answered the declaration, “Christ, John! Just- do you see the driver anywhere?”

He strained his ears for any sound of movement. His entire body tensed in anticipation. There was nowhere for him to go but back around the corner, and John wasn't giving him any directions. Listening for the man was all he could do. That, and ready his hand at the waist to grab his gun, should they need it. All he heard, however, was the light stamping of hooves; the huffing of horses who were growing agitated.

The man is long gone, Arthur. So is whoever rode in the carriage. If he went straight here from where we last saw them, then they’ve been here for an hour already. Maybe more.

“Right, right,” his heart calmed, body untensing with a sigh, “God, It must be closer to morning than sunset at this point. Have we really been walking that long?”

John’s voice was a concerned grumble. We need to find shelter before we freeze to death. I can barely feel my fingers.

He didn’t respond with any acknowledgement past a small tilt of his head.

We walked under those stone arches on the way here. He fell easily back on narration, recounting sight to his only friend; the one sense that was fully and truly his. They caged the road, like the ribs of a fearsome creature. It’s more open here, despite being pressed into the side of the mountain. The courtyard is hidden now behind some low walls and behind the bulk of the castle.

We stand now in a small circle. To one side are the stables, and to the other, lies the castle. It still looms, the non-existent shadow sweeping over all. Closer to it now, I can make out the brickwork of the walls. Decades, maybe centuries without proper maintenance, have left it uneven. Some stick out a bit too far, while others have cracked and fallen, leaving odd holes peppered over the surface. Still, they stand strong; more solid than so many remains of fallen empires.

Arthur’s face became pensive at the description. He might have thought of a solution. As much as his shoulder still ached, as much as his body protested the idea, he’d already been through so much worse. A bit of fatigue wouldn’t stop him. Not now, not ever.

What if we slept in the stables?

That brought him back to the conversation. “Sorry?”

Well, if the horses are sleeping there, then it must be warmer than out here. We’ve slept in worse.

They absolutely were not going to touch on what ‘worse’ was.

He scoffed, “Yes, well, a horse is much bigger than a person. They’re also covered in fur. While it might be less nippy in there, I still don’t know if we’d survive sleeping in there. Besides, if we startle them, the horses may kick up enough of a fuss to draw attention.”

Why would we startle them? They’re obviously used to people!

His tone leaned more toward nervousness as he continued, “Well John, just- some animals aren't very receptive to new faces. Furthermore, they can be dangerous if we upset them! They’re very big animals; one kick could shatter ribs!”

Arthur are you… are you scared of horses?

The defensive retort came after a rather suspicious pause, “No. I’m not- I am not scared of horses John. That’s absurd. I mean, think of everything we’ve faced: deranged killers, a hellhound, a- a weird giant snake thing!”

Mhmm. The hum was short and honestly just a little too smug for Arthur's liking.

“Look, getting back on topic, do you see any way in from here?”

I don’t think so. There aren’t any windows on the bottom floor, and though there is a door, it looks boarded up. We could break in, though the noise might cause more issues. This looks like the end of the road as well. Past this is the side which drops off, leading steeply into the forest floor.

He decided then that it was time to voice the half-formed plan. He said, almost conspiratorially, “And are there any windows higher up?”

Yes; not many, but there are some on the second and third floors of the main body. There are some even farther up on the towers as well.

Something in John’s mind seemed to click as told Arthur this.

You want to scale the wall?

“I do seem to be getting very fond of climbing things, yes.”

Maybe a bit too fond. I'm not sure your back can handle it right now.

Still, with little protest, John brought him over. He took a deep breath, and moved his hand to the uneven brickwork. This would probably be significantly harder than the tree.

A window on the third floor looks broken. We can stick an arm through and break in easily there. Reach a little more to the left- yes. Okay, now foot up a couple inches more. Good, Arthur. 

Once more, they fell into a rhythm. Palms scraping the rough surface, they climbed. Hand then foot, hand then foot. It was less intuitive than before. Each move was more careful, deliberate. This meant slower, which in turn meant some margin more painful. The brick was colder than the night air, and their grips repeatedly faltered as they failed to grasp tightly without feeling in their fingertips.

“You know,” Arthur huffed, and the cold air burning as it circled his lungs, “I’m really not afraid of horses. I- I like them, they might be one of my favorite animals, actually.”

Oh? 

“They just don’t like me back.” He laughed as best he could. It was stilted; just an odd exhalation of breath.

They kept climbing. Hand then foot, hand then foot. He still couldn’t feel his skin.

“I had this dream when I was younger. It started small. Our caretakers would take us on field trips of sorts; not often, but enough to remember them well. A relatively short walk took us some ways out into the countryside. They uh- they had horses out there. Wide expanses of open prairie, speckled with trees, haystacks, and horses. I wanted more than anything to ride one.”

They were at the second floor now. Arthur felt a window there, and of course tried to open it. It, of course, refused to budge. There was a small ledge just beneath it, but nothing beside or below until the ground. He would leave this one alone.

“One time, I snuck away from the rest of the group. I didn’t stand out, so there was little I had to do to hide my little escape. I walked up next to one of the horses, even pet the animal some. Then it tried to walk off, and I followed. God, I nearly got my head kicked off, John. I remember a shout, then being yanked back by the collar as a hoof flew past my face.”

Arthur.

“I’d failed to notice the signs that it was nervous. That it did not, in fact, appreciate a small child running up and scrubbing their grubby little hands all over without permission.”

His throat was dry and aching, but he still chuckled. They were at the third floor window now. He began maneuvering to balance on the ledge.

“I tried a few more times, but then I began to think I just wasn’t made for it. Still, sometimes I imagine what it would be like. Just going up to one, hopping on the saddle, and riding out into the sunset.”

There was a moment where they both remained stagnant. Sitting in the pungency of hopes and dreams, however unrealistic.

…Like a cowboy?

For some reason, that broke him.

His laughter was uproarious. It brought tears to eyes that were once his. It shook his chest, and he could feel John dig his hand further into the little nook at the window. It quickly transitioned into a hacking cough. 

He gasped like a fish stuck on shore.

Then he answered happily, “Yes, John, like a cowboy.”

It took them a few attempts, but they managed to open the window. He could feel some resistance through frozen nerves, the scrape of glass on his hand, and just hoped it hadn't left what he would’ve once thought of as a horrific open wound.

They fell in together, as they always did, and landed in a rather dusty-smelling room. The graceless stumble sent them straight into what may have been a number of cobwebs; however, that was relying on taste alone to distinguish, seeing as touch still wasn’t warm enough to be a viable sense again.

Jesus, Arthur. John breathed out that oh so common phrase that sent shivers down his spine. I thought it was just the outside that was in disrepair, but the inside of the castle is no different. Arthur, this room is ancient. As if it hasn’t been used in centuries! The furniture is grey from dust alone, and the bed is a moth-eaten mess. If the door is fully closed, it’s probably rusted shut at this point.

Arthur made a small humming noise as he absorbed the exposition. He fruitlessly attempted to wipe clean his clothes with his hand, then moved to simply grab John’s hand to work some warmth into them both.

“It could be that this room was sectioned off purposefully. Maybe for structural reasons, or some sort of sentimental value.”

The floor looks relatively stable at least. Nothing seems to be falling apart from anything but age here.

John’s hand clutched Arthur’s in return, trying to wake them both past the chill that paradoxically burned across all ten fingers.

He sighed, “We should look for anything useful. Preferably more clothes; these ones seem thoroughly ruined.”

There’s a dresser to your left- no- okay there, good.

John trailed off into muttering as they riffled through the thing. All they found were unidentifiable remains of fabric, and a strangely pristine dress. The only thing wrong with it was that it was soaked in something dark and familiar. 

John described the blood on the front of the dress looking as if the wearer had embraced something so horrifically covered in it. It was dry. Ancient.

I don’t think we should stay in this room.

“Agreed.”

They didn’t take time to fold the dress back up, instead just shutting the drawer carefully. Disturbing the site of a very cursed death felt better than not leaving immediately. This place was feeling more and more wrong. As they made their way to the door, quickly and quietly, something shifted.

Arthur, turn around.

“John, what-?”

Just look at the fucking window! John’s hand grabbed the strap of their bag as he shouted, while Arhtur’s hovered at his side.

Then came a sound.

It was something light, almost whistling. The tuneless start to a song, carried by the wind.

Jesus Christ. Arthur there’s- there’s a figure at the window. No, more than one, they’re- Arthur they’re floating. There’s three of them, level with the window, condensing from the air itself. Particles of snow and nothing swirling to fill their forms.

He took a step back, and the noise sharpened into laughter. Cruel, rising laughter.

Arthur, go. We need to go!

“Fuck!”

He bolted for the door, full body making contact and knocking it open. It had evidently never been closed, because he would’ve splatted like a pancake if it had been. A cloud of dust clogged his airways as he ran. Cackling echoed behind them.

“What are those things!?”

I don’t fucking know! They’re not wraiths, they just- turn! Turn here! There’s a door open to a staircase!

His foot slid as he spun. Their shoulder clipped the door as he ran through, and he could feel it pulse with agony as John grabbed the frame. Then he felt the empty air under his foot. There was no landing. He had almost flown directly down a flight of stairs.

John released his grip, and Arthur swiftly pulled the door closed at their back. His heart was thundering in his ears, adrenaline at the ready. The laughter grew closer, and neither spoke. It passed their door, and they waited. A minute, two, before the sound grew more distant and eventually faded.

Arthur, I can’t see anything! 

John hissed the words into his brain.

“Fuck, John!” even whispered, his voice reverberated against the cold stone of the stairwell, “Do we still have the uh- the Bestiary in our bag? Christ, are you sure those weren’t wraiths?”

The response was hesitant. They weren't! …maybe.

“What the fuck do you mean maybe!?”

There was something different about them! They were too solid, too focussed. Wraiths are creatures filled with hate, or with some overwhelming emotion that binds them. Those things were too…

The atmosphere of the stairwell was tense.

“Too human.”

Yes. John took a facsimile of breath. As for the Bestiary, I think we still have it in our bag. The problem with checking it is that I. Can’t. See. Anything.

“Right. God, just give me a minute.” He sighed, running his hand over the bag of his neck, only to quickly pull it back at the sting. The oddly fleshy wound on the back of his head remained from their time in Addison. Somehow, he’d forgotten about that one. It was a miracle the barber hadn’t said anything about it. Or it may have just been as invisible as the creature that caused it. Either way, it burned like hell to touch.

On the upside, his hand was regaining sensation; though it was limited to a biting pain of thawing for the time being.

Can we use the lighter at least?

“Were you fucking counting down that minute, John?”

…No.

Arthur sighed again, the noise coming out as more of a wheeze as he pushed them up. His whole body felt like a bruise. Or a cut. Or a million fucking bullet wounds.

“I’ll get the lighter. You just- guide us down the stairs, would you? Something this old, I don’t think we can trust the steps to be level, let alone sturdy.”

His stance was wobbly, but if his legs could hold them then that was enough. Miles to go.

Reaching down, he scrounged in his meager pockets to find the little metal thing. He traced his fingers back and forth along the engraved bands. It was a comfort as much as it was a tool.

I think we’re sort of like cowboys.

His fingers tripped on the button, and he sputtered an off-put, “Sorry?”

We travel alone to an uncertain destination, fighting evil and serving justice along the way. Those we leave behind are deeply affected. And I would say we handle a gun decently, given the circumstances.

Arthur turned the lighter on, and they began their descent.

“Well, when you put it like that,” he huffed, muscle memory trying to roll his eyes, “And what about our horse?”

I mean, between the two of us…

“John, I want you to pick your next words very carefully.”

Well, when you consider who the one doing all walking is, versus the one doing most of the leading, then I think-

“Oh shut up, you fucking prick.”

John’s laughter coated his skull, burying any other thoughts.

As they kept walking down into the darkness, the faintest giggling from behind them echoed horribly their joy.

Chapter Text

Wait, Arthur stop! 

“Hmm?”

Stop and think for a second! We can’t do this! 

His answer was the picture of innocent confusion, “Do what, John?”

You can’t just eat this man’s breakfast!

“I think you'll find that I’m capable of multitudes.” The pleasantness of his voice was of course performative, but the thought of a full stomach made it edge on genuine. How quickly he had slipped back into the survivalist mindset. In all honesty, he hadn’t quite had the chance to leave it.

Arthur.

“John,” he responded with the same tone, because thinking reprimand would stop him was honestly insulting, “You can't honestly expect me to leave a perfectly good meal just lying here.” 

His slow approach toward the only remaining physical form of joy was unimpeded by John’s nagging.

We don’t know anything about this place! These people! We don’t know what they’ll do if they come back to an empty mess instead of breakfast. Fuck, we don't even know when they're coming back! For all we know one of them is in the next room over just sitting in silence, waiting for us!

“True, that's why I'm whispering. It's also why you've so generously offered to hold our shoes for us so we’re not stomping around everywhere.”

Walking without directions was more of a challenge than usual, but he could manage for a stint. This time, however, it ended with him nearly ramming into the dining table. Luckily it was only the corner, just barely skimming his leg. Keeping his voice low wouldn’t help if he knocked over half the goddamn furniture.

I still think we should've just left them. If we're going to take them off in the first place, there’s no use carrying them with us.

“And when we actually need to run from something?”

If we need to run, I hardly think you're going to have time to stop and put your shoes on.

“Fair point, but I still think we should keep them in reach rather than stashed away somewhere we won't have the chance to return to.”

What answered was only a collection of half formed protests and grumbles, which Arthur chose to ignore. They stood now at the table, presumably before the lade out breakfast. It wouldn’t be warm anymore, if John’s assessment of time was accurate. But this close, he could still smell the fresh bread and rich cheeses. He'd killed for so much less.

You can't seriously be hungry right now. You've been eating perfectly fine for days!

“I’m not quite sure I've been the best example of how much a human being of my size should realistically be eating.”

Time had been scarce for a while now. Even if they were in the city for a bit, he was still being chased. They had things to do, goals to accomplish. There wasn’t leeway for such luxuries.

He used to get like this on cases sometimes; only dealing with the bare necessities to stay alive, instead fully pouring himself into the work. Nowadays, the list of what he considered necessary seemed to be growing shorter and shorter.

If you eat that then there won’t be any way to hide our presence! They’ll know we’re here the moment they see it! Plus, why would they leave food sitting out if not for some- some nefarious purpose? What if they poisoned it!?

Arthur hummed, as if really considering that these people poisoned their own food just to fuck with him. The genuine possibility that this was left out to lure him, to distract him long enough for someone to get the jump on them. It wasn’t out of the question. It may even be likely.

Then he reached out to the enticing smell of something made to be eaten, and grabbed a squishy pile of what felt like room-temperature eggs.

Once upon a long five months ago, which felt both too long and too short, he would've balked at the idea. The thought of snatching a fistfull of eggs, barehanded, from another man’s plate, and immediately shoving them down his throat.

Now, all he could feel was the little itch at the back of his head. Not John nor the King; not anything other than purely himself. A wriggling little evil entirely his own. A squirming thing that reminded him of the need to peel skin with his nails, saw tendon with his teeth, pry joints with his thumb, break bones over his knee-

Why are we even still here? John’s questioning complaint cut through the mental nosedive he'd stumbled into.

It’s quiet outside now. The wolves have stopped howling entirely. It’s late enough in the day for the sun to fully light the sky in a spectrum of blues, layered with heavy grey clouds. The air has warmed to a temperature more appropriate for mid-spring or late autumn. 

In here, the dark stone walls block most of the sunlight from reaching us. Cold still lingers at our feet, and around every corner could be one of those creatures ready to pounce. There’s no reason we can’t leave right now and be done with this place.

“We're still here,” Arthur spoke as he chewed, quickly stuffing what felt like sliced meats into his mouth, “Because we need information. And, if we have time, it would be nice to check on my back before something gets infected.”

Arthur, we’ve fallen into a meat pit and scrounge around a cave full of dead bodies with open wounds. I don't think your second wolf attack of the week is what's going to do us in.

“You’re probably right, but leaving these things up to chance is only asking for problems in the future.” He swallowed, and brought another handful to his mouth. Then he choked on a chunk of half-mushed breakfast-something, and had to fight with everything he had not to break into an enormously too loud coughing fit.

John, apparently noticing his sudden wheezy quietness and the fist pounding on his chest, chimed in to help just a little too casually. There’s an empty cup to the side there. Oh! Also a note! It says “I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me. -D”. I suppose that’s a sign it wasn’t booby trapped, then. But that does leave the question of who this meal was supposed to be for.

The wheezing was growing frustrated and increasingly desperate.

There’s a pot of something on the fire, Arthur. It’s probably made to drink? Here, the wall is a bit further- yep, now just a few feet to the left is a hook to- here let me-

He let John take the reins, get the pot onto the table, and felt the ghosting impulse to protest the likely lack of trivet. 

It took a bit of fumbling to pour a cup of what turned out to be coffee. Fucking coffee! If Arthur believed in God this would be the most grateful he’d ever been to him. Boiling hot coffee straight off the fire. His hand got a bit burned, but it was worth it.

His throat was still scratchy, and now missing a new layer of skin; it was definitely something to wake him up.

They hadn’t had a chance to rest since entering this strange place. 

For the remaining hours of night, they’d run around like a collective headless chicken. There was no sign of where to go, no easy trail or path to follow. The place was maze-like, with some doors locked and others leading to curved hallways that led nowhere. 

A few rooms were open, but in them was only more dusty furniture. Still, Arthur was entirely willing to collapse onto any bed, no matter how raggedy, for just a moment of rest. But each time they stayed too long in one place, that laughter began. Tittering and malicious, ready to swoop in if they stayed still for another moment. They barely had time to look for anything. A couple tapestries, old portraits, and no shortage of expensive-looking artifacts flew by as they sped down twisting corridors, trying to find a place they could avoid the creatures.

It wasn't hard to escape them, at least for a short time. That almost made the whole thing worse. They could get away for a minute, maybe even a few. They would hide somewhere, duck into a random doorway, and the laughter would pass them by. Then the sound would circle back around, lingering dangerously close to where they were hunkered down.

They were taunting them.

Arthur was tempted to stop. The entire time, he thought about just ignoring them and taking a break to fall asleep somewhere. But they had to keep going. If for nothing else, they had to find something useful.

Maybe it was more than that, though. Something felt off. There was something about this place, something in the air that told them to keep running. That they were mice and so they must run. They couldn’t stop and fight, couldn’t simply leave and regroup.

It was infuriating, but all too simple to fall into. He was too high on adrenaline, too far into this horrible mindset to question the instincts his brain was feeding him. 

John wasn’t much help either. He demanded that they keep going, but gave no inclination as to what they should really do. He seemed unsure if the weird force was helping or hindering, too preoccupied with keeping them going in this body turned miserable tandem bike.

Eventually, they passed through a larger room with high windows. It was filled with soft-looking furniture that called to him at John’s every little description. He really wasn’t cut out for this life of adventure. 

The giggling was getting closer, and there was only one staircase to go up. 

At the end was a large door. By all appearances it seemed locked, like most of the others. But no, it was just closed. The entire thing was off its hinges, sticking it in place. They managed to open it with minimal shoulder injury.

And after that the creatures… stopped.

They positioned the fallen door shut behind them, and the laughter simply vanished. They counted the seconds, waiting them out in tense silence.

The chase had ended, and Arthur was left to wonder if they were truly safe, or if they had just been corralled into an open maw.

And so here they were. Stuck in this suspiciously clean dining room, with a full breakfast set out and only a couple adjoining rooms.

-thur. Arthur!

“Yes, what sorry?” He couldn’t keep spacing out like this.

Hopefully the food would get his thoughts back on track. He really needed the energy; his limbs were feeling dangerously heavy under all the pain and dwindling adrenaline.

I was saying we should look around the area. It's almost like a different building entirely from the rest of the castle. There are actual curtains here, for one; instead of destroyed rags that are more hole than cloth. Every little thing is spotless. There’s no dust, no dirt, no suspicious blood stains. The plates you just ate off were solid gold, Arthur. Someone is trying very hard to keep up appearances here.

Of course, we’ll wait until you’re done eating. The remark was expectedly snide, but it didn’t quite smother the underlying worry.

“Right. Yes I think I’ve gotten what I can out of it. Sorry, I used to be better at pulling all-nighters,” he breathed out heavily, “Parker and I would stay up for days at a time on some cases. The more time sensitive ones, or the ones we were more invested in for a variety of reasons. He was usually the one who ended up conking out first.”

He chuckled; it was in good humor, but he couldn't help the bite of self-loathing.

“Though I suppose the state I was in, going on a week without shut-eye, I was hardly any more productive.”

John seemed to digest that statement before thinking of what to say.

You're a lot skinnier than you were then.

“Excuse me?”

I just mean-. The pause spoke to how much John had grown in being a person, trying to be delicate, accommodating for the feelings of others. It makes sense that you're feeling more tired than you once might’ve. You haven't been eating right, haven't been sleeping right. We haven't really had a full break since… well since before we got stuck together. What I'm saying is it's not- it's not your fault that you have less energy right now. Even if it's making running for our lives more of an inconvenience.

“That’s very nice of you to say John, but you don’t need to reassure me. Thank you, though.”

You're welcome.

Arthur's mouth creeped into a smile. It was almost wry, and yet it felt like such a fragile thing to wear. So tender in all the worst places.

There are a few doors, if you want to check one out?

“That's what we're here for.”

He wiped his hand off as best he could on their coat.

There's a couple of hallways branching off from this main room. One of them, we came down earlier. Just here though, there are two doors. They both have locks on the outside, which seems odd. The one to the right looks more used.

He sighed and started forward quietly, “While that is somewhat concerning, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about someone locking us in anymore than poisoning their food. As long as they don’t know we’re here, whoever lives in this little corner of the castle would have no reason to lock those doors. In any case, the one on the right would probably be our best bet.”

Right. A bit more to your left then, the handle is just ahead. Other left, Arthur. There.

Arthur slid his sore fingers along wood until they snagged, gripping the icy metal. He pulled it open the smallest amount he could to let John see. They only needed enough to peek through, in case someone unpleasant was waiting on the other side.

Oh. Arthur it's- hmm.

“What, John?” This time, the whisper was soft. He didn’t have to be demanding if they weren’t in danger. Only imploring. Even if standing with his face squished into a door frame was making him feel a bit ridiculous. God, his neck fucking hurt.

It's a small library. The walls are lined with dark oak shelves, making the space appear smaller. There are two rows of freestanding bookshelves as well, arranged in a rough circle around the central floor. Every available space is packed to the brim with books, magazines, newspapers, and other varieties of text. This is a well-used space, not just something for show.

No one's in the room that I can see, though there is a table near the front with a stack of thoroughly annotated books and some scattered newsletters. A few of the books are still open to different pages, and the rest have various papers sticking out.

Opening the door fully now, he shuffled through, closing it gently behind them.

The table has an interesting assortment. 

“How so?”

It’s all English, for one. All different subjects too: history, economy, law, botany.

An incredulous “Botany?” was muttered.

Considering both men in the coach were speaking German, it might be important that they’d be choosing to read only English texts. Maybe there’s something important about them? Not anything supernatural from what I can tell, though.

The idea of piecing something together still stirred a pleasant feeling in his gut. Looking at clues and putting together a narrative always motivated him; offered an easy sense of purpose.

“Good work, John! Yes, that is interesting, isn’t it?”

The man in the carriage did have an English accent. Maybe these are his?

“Hmm, perhaps. Something feels off about that. He seemed afraid back in the forest, right? Or at least wary. If the area is German-speaking, then why would he still have the accent? These books have been here for a long time, and I think that man was as much of a visitor as us. ”

Anything else that might’ve been said was interrupted when his foot found the edge of the desk. He hissed as his toes throbbed in pain.

Sorry.

Arthur braced them against the wooden tabletop. As he did so, he felt their shoulder pivot to accommodate John’s hand moving up. He was about to ask more, see if there was anything obvious that stood out about the text, any connecting thread, when he heard a dull thud. His left arm felt suspiciously lighter.

“Did you just… drop our shoes on the desk?”

There was an empty spot and my hand was starting to cramp.

Arthur scoffed. “You held them for ten minutes. At most. Your hand was not cramping.”

Oh, and how would you know? Maybe I have a sensitive hand.

“I know you fucking don’t because that’s only been your hand for a few months. You’re just being a baby.”

Look, you were the one who insisted on carrying your shoes. I think you should be the one forced to lug them around.

“For fuck’s sake, I would hardly call holding a pair of oxfords ‘lugging around’. And you were the one whining about taking them off in the first place!”

My foot hurt and those things weren’t helping us anyway!

“Listen, I’m all for being more comfortable, but you have to take responsibility for it! You can’t just-.”

He cut himself off. His voice had been steadily growing over the course of the debate, and the silence was deafening for it. Or, it would’ve been, if the sound of a door opening didn’t echo out from the dining room.

Shit.

He was back to a whisper; barely breathing out, “John, did you-?”

John’s voice came like it was said through clenched teeth, but still loud as ever. Jesus Christ yes I heard the door! 

“We need to get out of here!”

There’s nowhere to go except back out there! We can’t just wait for them to come find us! Fuck, they saw the empty plates, Arthur!

“Is there anywhere we can hide?”

I don’t know, we could just stand behind a bookshelf? But if they actually start looking around they’ll spot us immediately.

“Okay, okay fuck. Is there enough room to move around? Maybe we could hide behind a shelf, then circle back to the exit when their back is turned.”

There’s enough space, yes. But they could still turn at any time, or hear the door closing! They already know something’s wrong!

The person had stopped in the dining room at this point. They stood still for a while, presumably observing the mess they’d left. 

“You said there was a lock on the outside? We just have to wait until they’re far enough away, then beat them back to the door. It won’t matter if they see us at that point. Hopefully.”

This plan sounds like it’s going to get us stabbed. Or worse.

The footsteps had started up again, directly towards them.

“You hold the gun then. You decide if it comes down to it.”

They were right outside.

Here, go right and we should be out of view.

The two got behind a shelf just as the hinges began to squeak. Arthur’s breathing became shallow and measured as his pulse quickened. Unsure steps entered.

It's a man. He’s a lot smaller than the coach driver was. He looks very propper, though haggard and maybe a bit sickly. The tousled hair and slightly bloodshot eyes take away from his well-dressed appearance. His clothes are a bit rumpled too.

Otherwise, he has all the hallmarks of a distinguished gentleman. The stranger’s outfit is very put together, but in a way that's older than you’d normally see on the streets. More like he’s going to court. It looks wrong on him; the man himself only looks around his early twenties.

He’s moving toward the table. He seemed anxious when he first walked in. All his movements were unsure. Now he’s surprised, maybe. Off-put.

Arthur edged his way forward as John detailed the man’s reactions.

His focus is on the table. If you go a little farther, we can make it to the door without being seen entirely.

Rather than giving any affirmative, he sped up, ever mindful of his volume.

Stop! Here, the door is here. Reach out a bit above your waist and-

Arthur’s hand grabbed the handle.

There!

He pushed it open quickly, and just as fast slammed it closed behind them. 

“John, the lock!”

You’re at eye level with it! It's one of those sliding bolt ones!

Quickly, he scrambled over the surface near the wall before finding and sliding the thing closed. Not a second after, there was a voice from inside the library.

“H-Hello?”

It came muffled, and a bit far off. The man spoke in clear English and a notable British accent. There was no doubting that this was the man who had been in the calèche. The tone was meak; very much afraid, yet so utterly bewildered that Arthur almost answered on reflex.

Arthur, we need to go. Let’s find a way out of here before something goes wrong.

“He doesn’t sound malicious. Or at least hasn’t leaped to anger yet.”

The door shook with some effort, and the voice chimed in again, “Pardon? Who are you? Why have you locked me in here? Are- are you a servant of the Count? I will have you know I was invited here upon his wishes, so I am not terribly sure he will find it appropriate that you have trapped me in this study alone!”

Leave him! We have bigger things to worry about! Besides, even if he doesn’t know what’s going on right now, that doesn’t mean he won’t shoot us once he gets out.

“And you think he’s carrying a gun on him?”

John’s replies were growing more aggravated. A gun, a knife, a fucking banjo that summons giant monster to rip us to shreds! The point is that he could retaliate, no matter how nice or scared he sounds. He’s a danger until we know more. Anything he tells us could be a lie.

The man spoke, and now it came from even closer, as if he had pressed his face to the door in an effort to be heard, “Who are you addressing? Excuse me, sir, but would you please let me out? We can discuss at length whatever it is that troubles you! You must know however, that if you are not of this wretched place then you are in grave danger! I implore you, simply listen!”

Arthur.

He sighed.

“No, you’re right. We need to know more before doing anything that could come back to bite us. Gather evidence and such.”

The frightened Englishman called out, “Pardon?”

“Just thinking aloud!” he turned to talk at the door, “Look just- sit tight there, alright? I’ve encountered the things lurking in this castle-”

Arthur, you can't just go around telling people-!

“-and if you really do just want to talk I’ll hear you out. But first, I need to check some things for myself. Don’t worry, they don’t seem to come to this area, so you should be fine!”

The man went unspeaking for a moment, then asked, “Things?”

Arthur! This time it was even more insistent than before.

“Yes, yes, we’re going. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

What??

“Just- nevermind.”

He moved steadily away from the library and the man trapped within.

Do we want to go through the door on the left this time? The man tried to speak up again, but John talked over him well. That compounding with distance made him easy to ignore. 

“It sounded like that was where he came from, so it would probably be best to check next.”

They walked back into the dining room and around the table. Arthur remembered suddenly that the plates on said table were made of gold, and that while they might be in a different place, time, or even world, the substance evidently remained valuable in some capacity. So maybe he pocketed one as they walked by.

Or tried to.

The motion was smooth up until he actually had to grab said object mid-walk. While blind.

The sharp cacophony of metal against stone rang out through the air.

Arthur took a moment to breathe. It was okay. He was fine. He’s not embarrassed by failing to steal a plate. No one was around to judge him. He didn’t have to acknowledge it. Just move on.

So are we going to pick it up or were you making a statement?

Deep breaths.

They entered the other door after one of them shamefully put the plate back in its proper place. 

The room is bare; an octagonal little thing with the same naked-stone as the rest of the castle. There aren’t any windows; a single lamp hangs to light the enclosed space. A door sits in the wall across from us.

“Well let’s see what’s next, shall we?”

He brings them to the next threshold, and throws the surprisingly heavy thing open.

It’s a bedroom. It’s unlike any of the others we’ve come across. Inside is a roaring fireplace, a plush bed, and a grand window. An open and empty dresser stands in the corner. Directly in front of it lies a luggage bag, still mostly unpacked. There’s a shaving kit on a bedside table.

The bed itself is pushed against the left wall, opposite the fire. A few blankets are tangled at the bottom corner, with- Arthur what are you doing?

“Taking a fucking break.”

He stumbled forward, his body finally giving with the knowledge that rest was so close. Knees hitting the edge of the mattress, side almost ramming into one of the bedposts, he flopped down with little care. That proved to be a mistake as the rough stitches over his stomach panged in agony, but his bones might as well have been jelly.

But we’ve barely even-

“John, we’ve been either walking or running for what’s been around a day straight. The creatures who’ve been chasing us down halls for hours are seemingly unable to come up here. That, or they simply want nothing to do with this place. The only two people who we know could enter are either conveniently absent, or safely locked away in a room full of distractions. If something comes up, you wake me. Or, here’s a thought, take the gun and just shoot its fucking face off! I’m going to have a goddamn nap.”

He worked to untangle the blankets, pulling one over them both. John’s hand was left loosely tucked at the edge in case he wanted to move it later.

What about our back? You seemed worried about it earlier, and there’s a second door over there. It could be a bathroom!

“We’ll look at it if we’re still alive two hours from now. More if we’re lucky, but right now I’m really just banking on two.”

The pillow was feeling stiff, so he readjusted to smush it before settling back down.

Everything hurt, but he was going to sleep now. One peaceful moment of sleep. It would be better when he woke up. The sun would stream through the curtains, all his wounds would be healed, the answers to all their questions would be promptly relinquished, and the whole world would clap and cheer. Or maybe he just wouldn’t be as tempted to dig his fingers into practically fresh bullet wounds and bash his skull into a hard surface to try and keep the adrenaline flowing and his eyelids open. It was a miracle John hadn’t started complaining about how long his blinks had become, stretching wakefulness thin.

Laying here, he could almost convince himself he felt peaceful for the first time in a long time.

We left our shoes on the table.

Maybe if he died in his sleep he wouldn’t have to deal with this shit anymore.

Chapter Text

The world had, in such a brief span of time, become only foe to Jonathan Harker.

That was all which he had experienced as of late, and so that was what he must believe. Surely, there was reason as to why his mind had been plagued by so powerful a madness from the moment he had stepped onto that coach. That horrid way of thought, which had taken upon itself to fester and grow in the long hours of lifeless day he had spent confined in what was named his chambers.

He found himself in a familiar position; lowered to the floor, back pressed to the firmly shut exit of his new prison. He did not delude himself so far as to believe that a library was the most inhospitable place in which he could be held, but that was not the point.

The main issue was that he had been swiftly and wholly cut off from even a semblance of normalcy.

At least when he had only been amicably guided to a room, he could go as far as to think he had the upper hand in knowledge of his entrapment. That maybe what many exits must be set throughout the castle were not entirely barred from him. He had his luggage, a warm bed, an open window, and the freedom to roam that any guest would be granted.

That was before he left his room to find an empty plate where, presumably, his breakfast had been not long ago. Just as the brightest philosophers of his time, he ventured to find some reason for the so small yet befuddling crime; to provide some answer to this missing meal that could mollify him.

Of course, his horror had not ebbed as he began his cursory look for a culprit.

Jonathan could swear to hearing whispers and murmurs every which direction he turned! His skin itched with the feeling of being watched. Like the presence of something vast and terrible loomed over an unseen horizon. As if all those spirits who had lost their lives here were the jeering crowd waiting for the lion to eat him. Any further thought was encumbered with the urge to escape back to the room that had been named as his; hide away like the coward which his heart screamed he was.

The deep sense of paranoia rooted him in place, until at once his attention directed itself to whispers that stood out against their brethren.

Dread did not abandon his gut as he made move toward the unmarked door across from the dining table. His feet carried him slowly, and with no small amount of reluctance. Unfortunately, curiosity prevailed over fear, as it so often did, and he stepped past the threshold.

All whispering ceased in unison.

It was a library. Nothing too grand, and certainly not impressive in comparison to some of the more research-oriented ones he had visited, but not to be dismissed as a collection of literature. In fact, from the doorway, there was visible a large table — seemingly having been used as a quite massive desk for some time now — covered entirely in various books and manuscripts. It was the image of the perfect study, if not for a single detail.

On it also lay a pair of shoes.

They were as innocuous as anything; so much so that they had nearly slipped his notice entirely. There was even a small section on the table that seemed perfectly carved out for them, where they did not obstruct nor stain any of the delicate documents precariously surrounding them.

Still, no degree of respectful placement could make up for a dirty pair of oxfords standing proudly on a table.

He hesitated in his approach. Beyond the baffling sight, he unconsciously noticed something else: the heavy weight of a single stare settled upon his shoulders. His legs were left trembling under it. Even so, his incredulity would not yet give way to fear at the so bizarre turn.

As he went on, still with a careful gate, he heard something.

A deep breath.

He whipped around at the rapid slapping of footfall on tile, and witnessed a man! There ran a scrappy waif of a man, bagged up so thoroughly and caked in dirt, sprinting from behind a shelf and through the door.

Jonathan was shocked into silence as well as the deadly affliction of inaction.

The sound of a bolt sliding into place freed him from his stupor far too late.

Confusion and fear had moved as one to strangle his very thoughts, and all that was left to him was the ability to call out a shaky, “H-Hello?”

Upon the utterance, he felt all hope crumble. Soft questioning had never saved a soul from damnation, and he was not destined to be an exception. Stories of heroic young men outsmarting their wicked assailants with clever words were only lessons for children to model and fairer people than him to cling to in times of sorrow. But he had been taught in such congenial speech, and so could only emulate it, even so submerged in this terror.

These thoughts were halted when, much to his surprise, he got a response; though not an answer.

An unintelligible mumble passed through the wooden surface. He walked hastily over. Grabbing the handle and pulling with all his feeble strength proved that it had been soundly closed, and his heart once more raced with feeling. He took a deep breath; it was necessary that he remained composed. The feeling of eyes pressing through his skull had left, and while that did not assure him on the idea of the man being any sort of benevolent force, it also emboldened him to speak.

He asked again, “Pardon? Who are you? Why have you locked me in here? Are- are you a servant of the Count? I will have you know I was invited here upon his wishes, so I am not terribly sure he will find it appropriate that you have trapped me in this study alone!”

Jonathan could not tell, should he need to answer to his own words, whether the ‘alone’ was referring to being limited to one room, or being entirely isolated within it. He was not certain himself as to why he asked his allegiance. That man — or perhaps monster or spirit of sorts — could not possibly be something of Dracula’s kind. He was too disheveled, and dressed not in something befitting royalty nor servitude; however, he was at a loss for any other idea that would not be even more distressing.

What came from the mysterious man was not a reply to him, or at least, if it was, it was not one which made sense.

“And you think he’s carrying a gun on him?”

Was there in fact another in the castle with him? Or rather, with them? He pressed his face to the door in an effort to further hear and be heard. Maybe — and he very nearly did not allow himself to think it — this man was not some other horror come to claim his soul. It stood that there was, in the absolute least, some miniscule possibility of this being one, maybe many, of the vicious Count’s other victims. 

He once more tried, voice frantic in fear yet with some small glimmer of kindled courage, “Who are you addressing? Excuse me, sir, but would you please let me out? We can discuss at length whatever it is that troubles you! You must know however, that if you are not of this wretched place then you are in grave danger! I implore you, simply listen!”

Once more, he was ignored. “No, you’re right. We need to know more before doing anything that could come back to bite us. Gather evidence and such.”

When he spoke once more, “Pardon?”, it was perhaps a bit more desperate than would be deemed proper.

“Just thinking aloud!” 

Finally, the man addressed him! Upon this change, it struck him finally that the man’s choice of word was quite odd.

The stranger began again, “Look just- sit tight there, alright? I’ve encountered the things lurking in this castle, and if you really do just want to talk I’ll hear you out. But first, I need to check some things for myself. Don’t worry, they don’t seem to come to this area, so you should be fine!”

His breath caught in his throat.

All at once, the feeling of those horrible yellow eyes rushed back to the forefront of his mind, and he could not repress a flinch. They were there, he had felt them in the castle, in this very room even! How stupid had he been to ignore that even for a fleeting moment!

A tremble took hold of him as he softly questioned, “Things?”

But the man was no longer listening to him. No, he had either gone back to talking to some unheard other, or he was simply a mad-man doing as a mad-man does. He only mumbled, the sound of his words growing steadily farther from the door.

“Sir?”

He called quietly, and there was no answer.

He tried the door again, helpless to the panic clawing through the lining of his throat. The wretched thing refused any give at his scrabbling mess of pushes and pulls. 

Jonathan was stuck there. He was alone in a room, with the possibility of any number of unnamed fiends circling just outside, and nothing left to him but a pair of incredibly poorly kept shoes.

He still had no clue as to why they had been left as such, and in all that he had witnessed thus far, he was afraid to touch the mangy things.

Now he sat against the door, the ground beneath him cold and harsh to his delicate palms. Once more, he bemoaned his desolate situation.

Jonathan looked about himself dully. There was no effort put into the action, for the simple truth that he did not think escape was possible. No windows appeared along the wall, no other doors or passages. He doubted that there would be any hidden in even the very back, behind a scant few extra rows of shelving.

Still, with the freedom to look and thoughts of escape behind the very surface which bore his dejected weight, he could admit to himself that the library was, in its own way, charming. Stack upon stack of precariously balanced books, with some looking no more than a decade old and others more ancient than he could ever know. The dark wood and warm lighting made for an atmosphere which brought memories of a bookshop he had once visited. It was crowded and gloomy, and not at all something of his preference, but Mina had been so happy to show him the little thing that he would not dare to dislike it.

He was then struck so painfully aware with the notion that Mina would have loved this place.

A little hovel, sequestered away in the dim corner of an ancient castle, with the smell of dust and worn paper and leather smothering the senses; he could picture her at that table, surrounded by all her maps and noted schedules, hopping from trains to birds to school lesson plans. He would much rather be stationed in a window booth, curled up with a short fiction novel or jotting down some vague ideas for a future outing, but if she asked he would stay a million years to accompany her in her musty study room.

It made him ache, when paired with the overwhelming evidence that he was not meant to leave. There was all possibility that he may never see his fiancée again.

No.

He would not let himself rot away under this faux comfort of hospitality, in this home of villainy. 

Jonathan stood with some large effort, and stumbled forward atop new legs. Trapped did not mean helpless. After all, there are much worse places to be than a library.

--------------------------

Carfax.

The first page the atlas opened to was a map of England, full of circles and little notes.

One was in Carfax, while another two were in Exeter, and yet another one in Whitby.

Of course, he was aware of the Count’s interest in the Carfax property; he was sent here to assist the man in purchasing it. But the other three- he had not truly conceived of the true meaning of such a malicious force being delivered onto his home country, let alone on such a wide expanse!

Count Dracula was to be leaving within the year, some too few months from now.

And what of Jonathan? He would be long gone by then, one way or another. 

The plethora of information lying on the table did not stop there, however. There were a handful of names that reappeared throughout the papers, which were presumably those of moving companies given the rough box estimates listed beside each.

There were also a number of articles delineating supposed werewolf sightings throughout the island’s history, which he once would have soundly disregarded as one of the many failings of humanity's more fanciful imaginings. Records of witch trials rested not far from those.

Alarm and intrigue took hold of him in equal amounts, and he began to read some of them. He quickly discovered that these accounts were less than compelling, even given his recent experiences. Still, some of them were interesting, maybe even funny in their sheer absurdity. If one were to ignore the real deaths of innocents at the hands of a faulty and unjust religious legal system, that is. It was not the worst thing to find so deep within the den of wickedness, but there was beneath it that pervasive sinister undertone of cursed knowledge. The Count was checking for competition.

Jonathan's blood ran cold at the sight of books on city populations and centers of commerce. While he had been under no illusions regarding the intentions behind the move when first learning the beast's true nature, confirmation made it no amount easier to bear.

He very nearly let himself spiral back into a catatonic state at the sight of them, when he heard footsteps ascending the stairwell. He attempted to persuade himself into thinking it was that strange man returning, having found whatever evidence he required and now taking action to save him, having realized the error in abandoning him. But no, the stranger had been nearly silent on his feet. What were presumably the man's shoes still made themselves home amongst disarrayed papers and carefully annotated, leather-bound pages, attesting to that fact.

The shoes!

Urgently, and without any real thought as to why, Jonathan lunged forth to grab the offending footwear. But where to put them!? He rushed around without actually doing anything, panic hitting him as if he were a wife in a desperate bid to hide her lover from a vengeful spouse. The notion was sickening, but the fleeting thought almost forced through a bit of laughter, as strained as it might have been.

All the while, the Count — for those were his heavy boots upon the stone floors — grew steadily closer.

At last, Jonathan made a swift decision to shove the objects into a corner of the room, against the furthest wall and on the lowest shelf, and replace the books over them. They stuck out slightly, but it would have to do.

The steps had reached as far as the dining hall now, and he grabbed Law List from one of the many piles, then quite nearly launched himself onto the small lounging sofa squirreled away against a wall.

As he hastily flipped through and landed on a page he recognized enough to exposite on command, Jonathan forced his pulse to settle. There was nothing of interest here, simply a mildly frazzled house guest who had gotten himself locked in with so much lovely reading material, and had decided to make the most of it! If there was another living soul on the estate, then Jonathan surely was not privy to his presence. 

His mental speech must have covered all other sound, because the door opened without warning.

The Count’s aura flooded the space between them. In his earlier state of mind, he had not been able to feel the sheer difference from the haunting presence to blessed absence, but that stark contrast could be no more obvious than in that very moment. This beast — for he would never dare to think of him as man again so long as either may still walk this earth — had an aura unlike any he had ever been forced in his many years of work to tolerate. It was truly stifling. A cloying, choking feeling came at once through his whole body at the entrance, every inhale like the coldest ice, which sent knives into his lungs and kept him far too aware of the fragility inherent to the human form.

“Ah, friend Jonathan!” the creature began, as if surprised to come upon him here, “You are well-rested now, yes? It is good to see you have taken an interest in something within my abode.”

He almost replied that this was not so on instinct alone, which in itself was a testament to how little rest he had acquired over the course of the past day.

His answer was a simple, yet hopefully sufficiently agreeable, “Yes, the library was a nice surprise to find so close to my guest chambers!”

 “I am glad you found your way in here. I was very certain that there would be much to interest you. Am I to take it you are happy with the material?”

A grin split across his face which Jonathan knew hid behind it the most vile of thoughts and intentions, for the eyes of a predator would always give them away.

Calm and collected. He must remain the professional solicitor he swore to Mr. Hawkins he would be upon agreeing to taking his first job abroad. The difference in circumstance only made the prospect less formal, and rather more life-threatening.

“Hmm? Oh yes, well I thought it pertinent to keep regulations at the forefront of the mind, as I am here so to assist you in your endeavour to my lovely homeland.”

The Count stalked closer, and Jonathan dreaded that he may insist upon joining him on the suddenly too small seat. Instead, however, much to his relief, the beast approached the table where lay the spread of damning evidence.

“How wise of you,” he hesitated, sights set on the table, but brushed over it before Jonathan could interpret, to continue his thought, “These texts have been companions to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to know her is to love her.”

The ice had spread now from his lungs to settle over every extremity. Oh, how such sweet words could twine with such horrid intent!

“I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But alas! As yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak.”

In those words is where evil revealed itself, for the sharp canines of the Count gleamed in the lamp light, and the red eyes grew more fearfully striking by the second. The monster was planning to make a new home amongst an unwitting people, and do so as imperceptibly as possible for his like. 

But Jonathan would not allow himself to falter. He was calm and collected.

“You judge yourself so harshly, Count,” he barely refrained from splitting the words with vitriol, “You speak English thoroughly, and by this wide variety of text, you must know a great deal more!”

That facsimile of man went on to assuage him with similarly false humbleness, and then, in a turn that so sickened and gladdened Jonathan to the same extent, asked that he may, in staying with him, teach him in his wrongdoings of the spoken language.

Of course, there was nothing that could be said by him to cheer Jonathan, but he nonetheless took what little, horrible comfort he could from the knowledge that he would live another night. Perhaps even, he would live many more, if given another opportunity to escape that was not so tremendously sabotaged.

He did not make the world privy to his thoughts however, and let his face remain pleasant as Dracula continued.

”We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. No matter what I may learn, there are none in your dear London who would not know me for a stranger. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to me many strange things.”

A curious look came across his features then which Jonathan could not interpret, and the fiend moved closer to the sofa.

“Here, there may be to come for you many strange things as well. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be.”

A contemplative look turned to one of calculated focus which sent a shudder down Jonathan’s body. Still at a distance, yet not far enough, the tall figure loomed over his seated position.

“Have you then noticed anything strange while you read?”

The lock. It almost sounded like the Count was not sure if Jonathan had been aware he had been locked in. An avid reader might not be aware of the small sliding sound of the bolt. He must have had some suspicions of him, but there was no need to give into any of them, not at this junction. Who was Jonathan to turn down such a convenient out?

He took great efforts to impress in his voice the pinnacle of polite confusion, “No?”

Dracula would gain nothing from him willingly.

But there were still remnants of mud on the table, and no polite member of society, no matter their blissful ignorance, could have been engrossed so much as to have missed that.

He asked again, thick silver eyebrows now raised in awful intrigue, “Nothing at all, my friend?”

 “Well, ah, there was some dirt I had noticed on the table, but I would swear to you that I did not bring it! I have no knowledge as to who left it there, in fact.”

A dark look overcame Dracula’s countenance then.

He spoke in what may have been a light or jovial tone, but with eyes that spoke of something completely opposed, “You would do best not to swear on anything to me, my friend. You will learn, I hope, that such is one of the gaps between our cultures.”

Jonathan, though he may loath to admit, did not have to act in seeming properly repentant.

“My apologies, Count. I only wanted to make clear that I had no involvement in the sullying of your lovely work space.”

At this, his features once more softened. As much as they could, that is, for everything of him was by nature sharp and unnatural.

“It is I who apologise if I have sounded harsh, dear Jonathan. This difference in our ways is something we must both learn to amend. And we will, I trust, do so over the course of your stay.”

His smile edged on something genuine in that moment, despite the prominence of his teeth making the thing in whole look quite close to a snarl. 

Jonathan saw the opportunity for a new topic of conversation in that, and jumped readily into it. It is surprising how conversational one can be when trying to gain information to save his life.

“I do have some questions I would like to ask you, so that I may better understand this place.”

And so they fell into a lengthy talk. The Count enjoyed himself to the fullest, and was strangely forthcoming with answers to his questions. There were some topics however, on which he remained cryptic, or pretended not to understand. Of course, much was asked of him in turn, but nothing that he felt would be daming to himself or the fates of those he held dear. It was, over all, a genial time. Despite this, he did not delude himself with the idea that his convictions may have been wrong, for every little action was still not that of a living human, and hints to that truth were ever at the ready to be seen. The knowledge that he was interacting with so vile a creature, and so normally at that, did not fail to leave him with the bitter taste of guilt.

As they questioned one another, and the Count divulged many stories of his people and land, he encroached. Soon, he was so near that it would have been awkward for him to remain standing. No, it was only natural, as Jonathan had been inching his way to the corner of the sofa furthest from him, for the creature to take up the now empty space, and sit.

The new proximity sent Jonathan’s head into a horrible spin, his brain clouded once more with fear.

He kept up conversation only until he could feel a hand touch his, could smell the iron from his breath, could see a horrible gleam in his eyes. All at once, Jonathan’s body became his again, though he could not remember when it first froze.

An excuse!

“Would we, uhm,” he stood even before finishing his sentence, “Would we like to begin discussions on your new house, Count?”

While their conversation had most likely been making its way there, the change was still abrupt. Jonathan did not imagine he could handle an ounce more of politeness at the moment however, and the disgust and terror made his stomach sink, while at the same moment, trying to push their way out from his throat to spill onto the floor and into the pointed ears of his captor.

The Count’s grin went tight at the edges, and his hands were brought neatly into his lap, as if they had not been making their way toward him some brief seconds earlier.

“Yes, that would do very well to start on, if we must.”

He did not wait nor say anything more before leaving the room, denying his own desire to sprint out and down the hall to find some unlocked door and escape. Instead, Jonathan made his way passively back to the room where his belongings still remained, unpacked and not as comforting as they had felt earlier in the day.

As he entered the octagonal room just before it, he heard a small shifting noise. He became quickly frozen onto the spot. There was not place for him to be as nïaeve as he had been some long hours prior. While it could have been any number of things ahead, there was little doubt that this was the stranger from the library. A being, man or not, who knew nothing of other than the fact that he was barefoot and talked to himself. Neither of those things were comforting to him in the least.

Still, knowing full well what may wait ahead did in no manner prepare him, or in fact give him any ulterior path.

He must enter to retrieve his papers on the property that he was to show the Count. He could not stall for too long, nor go back to him without them, or else risk appearing dishonest. There was no possibility for him to tell the truth either, for he had little idea regarding the stranger’s allegiances or motives.

There was nothing for him to do but open the door, and desperately hope that his senses had lied to him.

Stepping through the doorway with held breath, he moved his gaze about the space. With a fast glance, not a thing looked out of place. As he took a step forward, however, more and more inconsistencies made themselves known to him. The bed looked more rumpled than he had left it. His luggage looked as if it had been shoved around somewhat.

Before he could examine further, Jonathan was stopped by a horrible feeling. A gentle, spine-chilling pressure.

There was something cold and metal being held to the back of his neck. 

“I think we're ready to hear you out now.”

Chapter Text

Arthur awoke as everyone does: to the thundering stomps of his new mortal enemy. Screw Larson, no decent person walked that fucking loudly and got to live. Did people really have no decency? Seriously, why not have a little respect for the man who broke into your house and decided to take a power nap on your bed.

Still, it was nothing burying his face in the mattress and shoving a pillow over his head couldn’t fix. His new convictions of murder could wait another few minutes. 

What came swiftly after was the utter betrayal hitting him at the pain of a finger digging into his side. His brain sat in an uneasy haze of incomprehension, yet to connect anything in the waking world other than his absolute hatred for the two forces now accosting him. If he had the energy, he would’ve startled awake, or at least slapped the offending limb away from his tender ribs. There were apparently some kinds of tired that a good meal and sleep couldn’t fix. He refused to acknowledge that the kind of exhaustion that affected him would most likely never be fixed, because he was holding onto life by his teeth alone right now and if he actually let himself think about these things he’d crumble into a sad pile of mangled, woebegone flesh.

He could hear something else that might’ve been words once, but it was like trying to parse what someone was saying at the bottom of a lake. The finger poking his side turned into a hand shaking him with a force just shy of violent, and that almost got him to roll over. Maybe he’d eventually kick off the blanket and start rubbing at his crusted-over eyes. His eyes. His eyes?

Then the footsteps were suddenly a little too close, and he was sitting straight as a post.

The floaty feeling transformed in one dizzying spin into a sinking feeling in his gut. His mind was back in a broken body that wasn’t all his, in a world that was just as cut up between chunks of familiar and alien. He was in a castle haunted by giggling ghostly women and in the bed of a man he’d probably left locked in a library.

Jesus Christ, finally!

And there was John. John, who was his captor and captive in one, his tormentor and victim. His best and only friend.

Arthur, there's someone coming! We need to hide!

The words were filled with an intense demand for action. It was something he’d grown accustomed to quicker than he maybe should’ve, despite saying he wouldn’t be bossed around. Really, a life of adrenaline was the only thing keeping him going at this point. First Parker, then John. Maybe not having a second to live in the space between deadly encounters was the only thing actually keeping him alive. He needed to be instructed, dragged through his own sorry existence.

Arthur didn’t move.

Arthur! Fucking listen! At least talk to me!

There was anger in that voice that had been thrown around a lot over their shockingly short life together. It hurt in that same way it always did, that made him want to snap back twice as mean. But he didn’t. His lack of reaction wasn’t from the weight still tugging down each little twitch of muscle. God knew it wasn’t from some new-found level of emotional stability.

It was simply that something told him that they weren’t the ones in danger. Not unless they made themselves a target. Maybe there was nothing actually telling him that, but he really fucking hoped it was true.

In lieu of any sort of answer, he grabbed John’s wrist, rubbing small patterns there with his thumb.

A-arthur?

He kept quiet, listening as heavy boots drew nearer.

They’re in the dining room now. His grumbling hid the nervous worry Arthur knew, or maybe trusted, was there. It was getting hard to tell these days. I assume you have a better plan than pulling the covers back over yourself and hoping they don’t rip your throat out?

The steps stopped where Arthur guessed the dining table was. Well, not quite guess; he was getting quite good at creating mental maps these days, even with John’s ever-nagging directions.

His heart didn’t race, didn’t beat in his ears at the suspiciously long pause. Maybe it should have. His breathing came just as oddly relaxed. For some reason, and maybe it really was his lack of proper rest, he felt calm then. As the footsteps continued, this time away and toward the room next to theirs, he could almost feel John’s shaky exhale as much as he could hear it.

They heard as a door that wasn’t theirs opened, and they waited.

It closed, and they still gave it a good few minutes.

Then Arthur unceremoniously flopped back with a groan.

I don’t think they’ll be coming back soon. 

Arthur only hummed in response, not quite ready to give in to actually being awake and needing to communicate. His hand still held John’s gently.

Unless of course the man we locked in the library decides to get chatty. He definitely sounded like a talker.

He sighed and released John’s wrist, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Please. His judgement was palpable. We barely stood there a minute and he managed to word-vomit an entire dramatic monologue.

“Yes, almost like he had no one else to say it to.” Arthur wheezed a bit as he sat up. “If he was trying to warn us about what lurks in these halls, then I hardly think he’ll go blabbing to it the very next moment.”

So you think whoever just marched by is another monster?

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pushed up to stand, “In a human form, yes. Whether naturally or not. But he obviously thinks he’s alone here when it comes to allies, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so desperate to reach out.”

John piped up in that serious way he did when sharing insight he thinks is important. Except we know that the coachman must still be here, or at least was until recently. He also mentioned a “Count”.

“Right, I still haven’t figured out where the coachman falls in this. When the man mentioned this ‘Count’ though, he seemed a bit rattled, didn’t he?” Arthur stumbled around for a second, trying to find his shoes. Normally, he left them in the same place beside the bed. Bella had at least gotten him out of the habit of wearing them to bed back in their university days. Then he remembered they’d left the damn things in the library, and barely stopped himself from ripping out his hair. It was a miracle he hadn;t already gone bald from stress. Even more impressively, he refrained from aiming a long-winded ‘I told you so’ speech at John.

Maybe he was just scared because a blood-covered hobo appeared out of nowhere and locked him in a windowless room.

“Yes, well,” he spun in place as if to look around the room, “Really, that’s his own fault for being so easy to ambush. He needs to start putting his guard up if he knows there’s something that could kill him right around the corner.”

I’m sure you’ve learned that from experience.

He laughed in one short exhale ,more of a pointed statement than anything, tastefully clarifying with, “I think you’d do better saying ‘we’ there, John.”

Stretching in the morning was a habit he was trying to avoid falling back into, because even if his joints were stiff and his muscles cried for movement, it was practically impossible to do without pulling one open wound or another. Still, he flexed his fingers lightly and shifted his weight onto the front pads of his feet a couple times.

“In any case, we’re probably on a timer, so we should get to doing something while we have the chance. We can at least go ahead and look through the Bestiary for what those women were.”

Before he could reach into their bag, John corrected him. Actually, I took the opportunity to turn through it while you were sleeping.

It was a thoughtful gesture, even if it might’ve been one born out of boredom. John had taken the time to prepare them while Arthur was unconscious; while he was off in dreamland, being useless. For some reason, that didn’t make him feel better. His head was on solidly now, and he couldn’t help the immediate thought that John was hiding something from him. When was he not these days? His mind screamed not to trust him, that he’d taken the opportunity while Arthur was unaware to plan something terrible, to get one over him.

But then followed the more logical assurances: even if he were awake, what difference would that make? It almost sounded like John himself was saying it, feeding him those damning little words to pacify; but he couldn’t dispute them for all he tried. He had no eyes to read the Bestiary himself, nothing that he could do to fact check whatever John said he learned from it. And maybe some small part of him still seethed at the notion, but that was nothing new.

They had things to do though, and re-treading the issue wouldn’t be doing them any good. So he listened.

I couldn’t find anything like them. 

That took him somewhat aback, so he asked, “Nothing?”

Nothing.

“And you’re sure there was nothing- well that there wasn’t anything close to them either? No evil, cackling women of any kind?”

There was something in John’s voice as he answered, which Arthur almost took as joy. Maybe it was nothing. It was so small, so hesitant; and yet it struck out so far from the problem at hand that he couldn’t help but catch it. The closest thing I could find were the wraiths, but like we thought earlier, there were some inconsistencies that ruled them out.

“You don’t sound too upset about that.”

If they aren’t in the Bestiary, maybe they aren’t a real threat.

His response sounded organic enough. It conveyed the thoughts of someone who’d thoroughly contemplated the issue, and had come to a pleasant conclusion. That would make sense if he read it an hour or so ago. Then again, it could have just as easily been a well-rehearsed lie. Fuck, he hated this.

“I don't know if it’s safe to go that far with it.”

I agree; better to stay vigilant.

This little dance was going to get someone hurt, but there was nothing to do about it.

He sighed, “Onto the next order of business, then. You said there were bags in the room?”

Yes. They’re on the other side of the bed from us. It’s late afternoon now. The sky has grown darker through the window, and the fireplace is little more than sizzling charcoal. When we first entered, the room was well-lit and comforting. Now, shadows loom from uncertain origins, with dust and cobwebs becoming more obvious in the little corners.

Arthur walked around the bed, letting John adjust them in places where he would’ve turned too soon or too late.

Here, the luggage is at our feet. There are two modestly sized bags and a trunk. The farthest right looks like it might be full of more of the essentials.

“How so?”

It’s the only one open, for one. The shaving kit on the side table probably came from that. There’s also a comb and some soaps, a toothbrush, a wallet, and a few books.

John quickly adopted a much more critical tone.

Actually, could you move some of the- yeah, thank you. Jesus Christ, Arthur. 

The suspense was, admittedly, not killing him at the moment. His, “What is it, John?” was for once very lackluster.

This man must have at least ten pounds worth of literature in this bag alone! What, did he expect to read all this on the way here? Does he really have nothing better to do?

Arthur let out a laugh that was almost a scoff, “We’ve got a good few pounds of paper ourselves.”

Ours are to protect us from murderers and ravenous beasts.

“I- fair point, but-” he cut himself off with a sigh, “Some people just feel safer with familiar things at hand. Hell, I used to know a boy who would bring a bag of rocks with him to class. He even brought them to the bathroom.”

But books are meant to be read! I could understand one or two, but there are almost a dozen in this thing!

Arthur couldn’t really fight him on that, not while he could feel the giant pile as he blindly sifted through.

But he couldn’t just completely give up an argument, “Well, what are they then? The names of the books, I mean. Maybe we can find some connection behind them all.”

There’s The Sorrows of Werther, Othello, A Study in Scarlet, Frankenstein. John scoffed again. The fucking Law List. Then there are more that don’t have titles I can see.

A smile grew as Arthur asked, “Did you say Frankenstien?”

Yes, do you know it? He sounded genuinely curious, and Arthur always forgot how nice that was.

“Well yes, I know all of those-”

No need to brag.

“Hush,” he was fully grinning now, “I just, I’m pointing that one out in particular because- well it’s a rather interesting deconstruction of humanity and our biases. Of course, the author was only a teenager at the time of writing it, so the concepts are simple at times, but I think it makes the novel easier for a lot of people to really sit and digest the topic.”

So you think it’s a good read, then?

“Yes! In fact, remind me to show it to you later. I think you’ll either love it or hate it, and either way, I want to know your opinion.”

Sounds like a fun time, I guess. It wasn’t an enthusiastic yes, but he was definitely considering it, so Arthur considered it a win.

There was about a minute’s break before anything else was said, in which Arthur imagined a future full of maybes. The little promises they made, little goals they’d planned out in excited mutterings, felt so painfully like schoolboys in the yard making pacts. Promises made in a nïave stage of life, which would ultimately wither as time moved on. A future together they would never get to. Everything kept getting away from him; as soon as they were close to an end, something else always came to rip the rug from under them and shoot him in the leg for good measure.

I suppose we should probably look for something more useful than reading habits.

“Right, right yes. Let’s start with the wallet?” Arthur shook off the feelings and began rifling through things at John’s order.

They soon found that wallets were much less customized here, or at least they were in this man’s case. No photos or any sort of ID were present. All he had were some bills and a few business cards.

Despite the lack of substance, the business cards were surprisingly helpful. One of them had a date stamped on it for whatever reason. It came as less of a shock than he expected to hear John read out 1887. The lovely little collection of books had done well in preparing them for this.

They were in 1887, or at least sometime close. That was something, then. They probably weren’t anywhere past the late 90’s, since he doubted the man was carrying something over ten years old if he only looked like a kid in his twenties. Still, looks could be deceiving.

From there, they went through the rest of the man’s luggage, which turned up some interesting results.

For one, it was strikingly obvious just how much he didn’t belong in the castle. Among the books was a polyglot dictionary that had, apparently, been put to good use.

Along with providing more evidence to the fact that wherever they were was very close to Arthur’s original world, it also made it clear that they weren’t actually in Germany. It seemed more likely that they might be somewhere in Hungary or Romania actually, which left Arthur completely out of his depths.

In the bigger case, they found a number of letters and documents. It seemed that the stranger was here on business. They found many mentions of an astonishingly creepy London house, which the stranger was helping advise a man to buy. There were a few pictures with them as well, which didn’t put it in a better light in the slightest. Why anyone with this kind of money would willingly move there was beyond him, though he got the feeling that an old mansion next to an insane asylum probably fit the owner's tastes based on the company he kept. God, were those bars on the windows?

A few papers deeper, and they found that the owner of the castle they had so graciously broken into was a man named ‘Count Dracula’.

Only a little past that, and they got into some more personal letters. A very sweet note from a lady named Mina suggested the man’s name was Johnathan. John took a bizarre offence to the idea, which was one of the less weird things he’d gotten hung up on in the grand scheme of things.

Suffice it to say though, Arthur steered clear of the topic. If John was in one of his moods again then there was little he could do but ride it out.

They were in the middle of arguing whether or not to steal some of the man’s larger clothes and check if the adjoining room was a bathroom, when they heard a door open.

Footsteps were rappidly approaching the bedroom.

The shoes sounded smaller than those a couple hours earlier, the steps lighter and less deliberate. There wasn’t the practiced power of a soldier behind them. Instead, it sounded like a flighty bird given human form.

“The door?”

Arthur barely heard himself ask as his hand reached toward his belt.

Turn a bit- there. About five paces forward and you’ll be next to it.

He whispered, “And we’ll be behind it when it opens?”

Right.

The door to the octagonal room, just one away from theirs, opened. He drew the weapon from his waist.

--------------------------

The man before them trembled. Arthur could feel it through that little point of contact, where the barrel of his gun connected to the small divot between vertebra and skull. Had this been a year ago, he might imagine it was a tremor in his hand; human care and indecision waring with self-preservation. Had this been eight hours ago, it would have been his body shaking with exhaustion.

As it stood, and as they stood alone in this box of a room, it was the man before them shaking.

He’s a bit shorter than us. I can’t see his face from here, but his hands are clenched into fists, and his breathing is getting heavier.

He really didn’t want to be mean, but Arthur had been past the end of his rope for a long time now, and God damn it being polite was fucking taxing. There were only so many times he could crawl out of the gutter a better man.

The gun got shoved harder into the man’s spine. Not enough to hurt, but he wanted answers. Arthur asked, “Well? You wanted to talk, didn’t you? Let’s hear it then.”

His words were no louder than a murmur by the man’s ear. The threat of some unnamed other in the room adjacent imposed a need to stay quiet. It also was what made caution the go-to option. He’d rather be a bit too heavy on the menacing at the start, rather than have the man scream for help at finding a strange, scarred, grime-covered man in his bedroom. Even if the man wasn’t trying to, some people didn’t know when to shut up.

You might want to ease up, Arthur. John piped up with faux concern, voice close to mocking. The suggestion was still sincere, though. His shaking is getting progressively stronger. He’d be vibrating out of his own skin if he could. We won’t get anything out of him if he’s too scared to open his mouth.

He sighed, but didn’t move away yet. “Look, I understand if this is a bit much for you right now, but I really just need to know-”

“Put down your gun.”

It was only a whisper, but the words were spoken with such conviction that Arthur’s grip nearly faltered. He could feel John’s limbs freeze in place, rather than continue the constant swaying he had taken to doing. 

Arthur responded lowly, a warning more than a question, “Excuse me?”

He’s moving his arms up now. He’d returned to a more neutral voice. The motion is slow and deliberate. I don’t think he has any weapons on him.

“You will kindly disarm, and you will allow me to gather what papers I need from my belongings.”

The man’s voice was firm, an unfaltering statement. He moved away, the small resistance of flesh against the end of metal disappearing, and Arthur let him. The gun remained stationary, not following the motion, but still roughly level with the stranger’s face.

He's turned to us and- Arthur this man is very obviously afraid. He refuses to look us in the eyes, and his trembling shows no sign of easing. This anger is a farce, a shell to protect his delicate innards. If we keep pushing, we could easily-

“No.” He was better than this. They were better than this. One new terrible turn of fate would not make him into a cut-throat killer. He tried to ignore the knowledge of everyone who had already been left dead in their wake. There were times for violence, and this was not one of them.

No?

“No?”

The man’s response failed to hide his worry, even if it was clear he had tried to sound firm and sure of himself. Johnathan really was just a kid, wasn’t he?

Arthur quickly amended, “No, I'm sorry for how I've acted.”

Hmm.

Finally, he lowered his arm. He stared meaningfully at where he hoped the man’s face was and, in a show of good faith, holstered the weapon.

He brought the newly freed hand up to gesture vaguely as he continued, “Just- there are a lot of things out there, and in here as well, that wish us harm. You seem as much of a victim to them as me, and threatening you wouldn’t be helping anyone.”

“Yes,” Jonathan let out a sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for hours, “Quite.”

I’m not sure if the man fully believes you, Arthur. In fact, I’m not convinced he trusts us enough not to pull the gun back out and shoot him for the fun of it. His legs still look wobbly. While his posture has relaxed somewhat, the fear in his eyes is intense. His gaze keeps darting around for short moments before focusing back on the space beside our head. 

Well, that left less chance for him to notice that Arthur’s blind, so maybe that’s a plus.

Now that we’re closer, he looks even younger. His face is still rounded with youth, with no wrinkles that come with patterns of life and expression. It makes the bags beneath his eyes stand out even more. His hair is only slightly less wild than when we last saw him. It looks like gravity flattened it out a bit rather than him making any attempt to look presentable.

John’s observations were helpful, but the silence was definitely reaching unnatural territory.

“Arthur Lester.”

He bit the bullet and offered his hand first, hoping to avoid looking like an idiot later. Sometimes losing his eyes meant getting mauled, but more often it meant looking like an ass if he wasn’t careful. 

“Jonathan Harker.”

Ha, Harker. What a stupid last name.

Arthur ignored John’s vindictive little mumbling as he shook hands with… well he supposed it would probably be best to call him Harker. Harker’s palm was sweaty.

“I would really-” Harker stopped, then restarted, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have much time at the moment. The Count is waiting on me to acquire some documents I have regarding a prospective new house for him in London. If I do not return soon, he may seek me out here.”

The young man’s voice was defined by polite nervousness it seemed. It was probably in part due to the fact that the man he was talking to had been holding a gun to his face not two minutes ago.

“The Count?”

Feigning innocence was fun when the other person was too scared to notice.

Do you think he’ll notice that we dug through all his stuff? I mean he probably saw it when he walked in. We didn’t tidy up that well. I blame you.

Being unable to defend himself to the man in his head for fear of sounding insane was decidedly less fun.

“The horrible Count Dracula is the warden of this hellish prison.” He practically spat the words, which was a startling change.

Harker’s turned away from us now, making his way toward his luggage. He’s still careful not to leave his back fully exposed to us.

Arthur could hear the man rummaging through his things.

Harker’s voice was a dark mutter as he asked, “Have you not yet come across his path?”

He’s not looking at us now, his movements harsh and clumsy. The rush to leave would be insulting if he didn’t look so fully convinced that a demon’s going to break through the door at any moment and tear his face off.

“Hmm”

The rummaging halted. “Pardon?”

“Ah, no. W- I entered through… unconventional means.”

They’d already been talking quietly, but Arthur’s voice still plummeted to near silence at the end of the sentence.

There was a lul where Harker presumably didn’t know how to respond to that frankly very concerning statement. Maybe Arthur should stick to holding a gun while talking to people. He didn’t fuck up talking this much while he was holding gun, mostly because he let the weapon do the talking for him.

Nice save. Came the dry voice of his overbearing little narrator.

His response was of course a quick, “shut up,” hissed under his breath.

John ignored him, which was totally childish. He's holding a stack of papers now. Some of them are ones we haven't looked through yet, but the majority just look like details on the old London house.

Harker cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, but I must be going. If I do not return, the Count will begin to suspect something is amiss. We may talk after dinner, when we may be free to fully exchange stories.”

Before Arthur could respond, he heard shoes quickly shuffle across the floor and the door slam shut.

He’s gone. He probably won’t be back for another few hours just by the sheer volume of paper he carried out. 

John paused, and Arthur could feel him worrying the fabric of their trousers.

Do you want to go back to sleep for a bit?

The idea of falling back into the plush bed was tempting. He'd had his rest though; any more would only cloud his mind, distance him from what facts they'd gathered. No, they both needed to be awake and aware to process the picture that was forming.

Arthur rolled his shoulders, which, to his pleasant surprise, were aching about evenly. It was the little things. 

“I’m not sure how much that would do now. Plus, even with you watching out for us, I shouldn’t be unaware while someone could barge in any second.”

I don’t think Harker will be telling anyone about what happened. So far he seems to be on our side, even if it's only because he's more afraid of the Count than he is of us.

“Right, he’d rather choose the man with a gun to his neck than this mysterious Count Dracula. That's as good a sign as any, I suppose.”

You should’ve seen how his face twisted when he mentioned him.

Arthur chuckled, “How bad was it?”

John echoed back with his own deep laughter. He had such a carefully neutral expression, almost completely impassive. It was almost eery how disconnected it was from the rest of him. Then, the moment he mentioned the man, it looked like he tried to swallow a rock. The whole thing was honestly disturbing.

“God, well isn't that an image.”

They just stood there laughing for a bit. Not too loudly, not while knowing who else was nearby, but comfortably.

Then it petered out, and the moment was over.

“You know, I think I’d actually like to see if we can get that shower. My back has felt concerningly tingly for a little while now.”

Why didn’t you say anything?!

“In all fairness, we were a bit busy.”

We really weren’t!

Chapter Text

Harker’s room was quiet and empty. It could barely be considered Harker's, as his only personal belongings still sat backed away to the side of his bed.

There was little to do but necessities, which left the following hours of hushed waiting surprisingly relaxed. That is to say, the only trials they were faced with were trying to actually see themselves in the small mirror, then taking in and bemoaning the ruined state of the outfit they’d had for less than a week. Finding the mirror was the more harrowing of the two, but maybe that was because he’d grown more used to crawling out of hell than he had life’s less consequential inconveniences. Really, John describing their state was more trying to comb across all the blood to find which of it was actually his.

In retrospect, it was a miracle Harker hadn’t cried out on pure instinct. The sight they made, when taking in just the sheer amount of blood they’d managed to drench themselves in, was not pretty. Maybe the man really did see them as the lesser of two evils, might’ve been more alarming if Arthur wasn’t used to facing down too many beasts with too many teeth. Again, it should probably be more worrying, recognizing how far his perception of things had skewed in the past few months.

Self-reflection aside, it was lucky that Harker hadn’t yet seen the state of the bed under the covers, which John relayed, in no uncertain terms, looked like a murder scene.

To give some credit to the man, it had become difficult to tell what was dried blood, and what was simply layer upon layer of dirt and muck. He didn’t know if that would be a point to Harker’s preservation instincts, or a point to his own ability to not look quite as murder-y. Either way, it was better to try and mitigate that in the future, now that they had the time to fuss over appearances.

The adjoining room, as it turned out, did have a small bath and sink. The idea of an ancient place like this having any sort of plumbing felt odd, but relief at the convenience meant they moved past it quickly.

As John helped him peel off their clothes, and he did mean peel, he could feel the burning tug across every half-sealed wound on his body. Their shared shoulder ached at the stretch, the other pounding with raw hurt as the still-healing gunshot from the Butcher was pulled too far against its shoddy wrappings. His back felt worse, but only because it was still fresh; the minimal scabbing cracked, and new paths of blood began to trace their way down from the inflamed gashes.

Arthur was due for some old fashioned human maintenance.

John helped him fill the tub and get the water ready. It was a task which only needed small corrections as they worked together, lending itself to a long silence which grew between them. It was predictable, comfortable. Despite knowing better, they let themselves exist in that little bubble of safety for a while. The bath and shave were done with little hurry.

Their shaving kit remained out afterward. John had actually found the time to stock up on some bandages, though Arthur had no idea when, or frankly how. The torch debate was brought up lightly this time, as he held the mirror at the proper angle for John to clean and bandage some of the deeper claw marks.

The whole process was more difficult than it had any right to be, leading John to break their soft calm by diving into a thoughtful critique on the limits of the human arm, and the poor placement of backs as a whole.

The slash on Arthur’s leg, nearly forgotten despite the pain, was also taken care of.

They sighed in something close to unison, as the last of the blood, old and new, was wiped away.

Of course, there were other wounds still visible. There wasn’t a square foot of skin left unmarred by the pink of new scar tissue, the red of blood-made scabs. Most of the bullet holes were closed up, at least, even if some still hurt like they were fresh every so often. 

His stomach was still an active problem, which in turn meant it was something he was putting off until later. Maybe a better man would call it avoidance.

The creature from the mines really had run him right through. To talk, walk, or even stand was a constant reminder, but a man can get used to anything that doesn’t kill him. You can’t tip-toe your way around something like that for long, though. He could feel the hole, the edges scraping his spin and ribs, like a poorly planned tunnel. It felt like being ripped open with every breath, every shallow movement. 

The sensation came with the sort of distant knowledge that he should be dead. That wasn’t something he was equipped to deal with, and broaching the topic even to himself would feel too much like an admission. The stitches still pulled too taut for that; if he acknowledged the fact, the world would seek to correct such an egregious error.

John didn't mention the raw skin slowly accumulating, nor the places where it still refused to grow back. Arthur didn’t know if he should be grateful for that. Maybe it was some kindness to him, so disgustingly mangled as he must be. Maybe he was just as afraid that voicing it would be what finally revealed he was nothing but a corpse held with string.

No need to dwell on it. 

The issue then was that he was standing naked in a stanger’s bathroom. Unsurprisingly, he felt no desire to rush back into his old clothes. They were half-way to being torn apart already, and any moisture touching them would no doubt stain him again with mud and viscera.

What a relief, then, that they had a much better solution only a few steps away. There were very few options, but something was bound to fit at least passably.

Wriggling into clothes was not nearly as excruciating as fighting his way out of them, though the buttons were somewhat of a pain. He did mean that in a literal sense too, as regaining full feeling in his hands had revealed some nasty cuts they had to methodically clean and wrap.

After the ordeal of dressing, John made it a point to describe Arthur’s new look to him. It was made in more words about suit cuts and lapel stitching than he’d ever dreamed of remembering, but that he must have stored somewhere up there if John had pulled it from that little tether which seeped human knowledge across their consciousnesses. He’d surmised that it was a bit fancier than anything he’d worn to anywhere but an important client meeting and his own wedding. What took some of the impact out was that the sleeves came a tad short of his wrists, and the trousers fit similarly.

John didn’t seem to notice that though, or in any case, didn’t mind it.

Arthur could feel his face warming by the end of the speech, and John gave a decisive little hum.

You look rather fetching, Arthur. It was said so earnestly, too.

The description sounded so natural that Arthur couldn’t help but snort.

“Fetching?” he asked incredulously.

He was still turned to where they’d propped up the mirror, blindly adjusting his shirt collar by a force of habit he hadn’t quite gotten rid of.

Nice. This time, it was said in a grumble, but nonetheless, it was entirely sincere. You look nice. Handsome. The color of the jacket compliments your features well.

And those sweet few words brought back that unidentifiable warmth to his chest. It made itself home next to the distrust that still simmered there, and the far-superior need to keep making it over the next hurdle first, which forced a lid over all of it.

“Well then, you must have very good taste in jackets.”

It was a dismissal made for lack of anything that wouldn’t turn his guts inside out, and the moment ended. They sat in a calm soup of unspoken emotion.

The atmosphere wasn’t stifling, per se, but it was uncomfortable. And maybe he didn’t want to settle for that anymore.

Instead of saying anything, Arthur began humming quietly. At first John just listened, silently helping to collect their things. Then slowly, over the course of minutes, he started to hum along.

--------------------------

John was well into Captain Robert Walton’s letters when Arthur finally heard steps coming their way from the dining hall. It had grown dark in the past few hours, and the cold began to creep in from the window. There was a fireplace, but they’d only lit a single candle on the bedside table, hoping there wouldn't be enough light to see from under the door. These footfalls were quiet, so he didn’t bother moving for the moment. He could hear heavy boots going down a different hallway, then vanishing altogether.

He's going to die. What’s even the point of sailing out into an icy abyss? Why go North when you can sail the normal way that they already know works!?

Arthur couldn’t say for sure how long they’d been going at this, but he knew that by this point they’d spent longer on John’s opinions on the novel than actually reading the thing.

He’d already asked a good few pointed questions along those lines, and it was quickly growing tiresome to answer with some variation of the same thing over and over. There was only so many times one could vaguely say something about ‘the glory of discovery’, ‘human nature’, and ‘narrative foils’ before it got tedious. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to start Frankenstien while they waited.

The interrogation was interrupted by the sound of a handle turning, and Arthur looking to the door. John apparently still hadn’t realized someone was coming.

Despite his constant complaints, he was indignant at the unplanned interruption to his reading time. Arthur! Turn your head back, I can’t read if- !

He could hear the door connecting the dining hall to the small octagonal room before theirs open. 

Oh.

John cleared his imaginary throat.

There’s, uhm, someone standing in front of the door. Soft yellow light spills from beneath the wooden door. It moves slightly, swaying with the lantern that no doubt holds it. Whoever’s there is hesitating, maybe scared to find the room empty, to realise they were always as alone as they’d feared.

It almost sounded like John was about to ask him if they could hide under the bed. Arthur never liked to be the monster of the story, no matter how often found himself playing the role.

Past some weird barrier in his brain, he could feel John placing the book carefully on the bed. He could also feel as that same hand moved to rest on their gun.

There was some small noise of wood against metal.

They’re opening the door slowly now. The light from their lamp, which now hangs from its proper spot on the wall, moves in a wave over the room, completely drowning our dim candle.

At the reminder, Arthur reached over to pinch out the small flame.

He felt John’s arm move back to their side, fingers drumming out his excess energy.

Harker now stands in the doorway. There’s something that looks more put together about him now, like he finally believes the part he’s been playing. His hair is still a mess, but he’s not shivering with fear anymore.

Shoes scuffed along toward the wall opposite the bed.

He hasn’t acknowledged us yet, instead moving to light the fireplace.

After a minute, a small crackling started, and dry warmth flooded the room.

The man is ready for something, Arthur; he’s steeled his nerves and is coming to us with something thought through and well rehearsed. His steps are sure as he comes in, and he opens his mouth to speak. 

He’s looking at us now and- oh, nevermind, he’s stopping. His face noiselessly shrivels in disgust maybe? Appal? Either way, his mouth is closed.

Not so noiseless that Arthur doesn't hear the man choke on an exhale. And following that, the stutter-stop inhales of someone failing to start a sentence.

He still hasn’t met our eyes, but I think it's less out of fear, and more because he’s busy taking in your new outfit.

John’s smugness echoed tenfold in the following silence, in which Arthur could feel eyes raking across his covered flesh.

Do you think he appreciates the belt choice? There weren’t many options in his luggage. 

“Is that-,” he cut himself off with a cough, then tried again, “Sir, are you perhaps… wearing my coat?”

Arthur did his best to sound casual as he replied, “Hmm? Oh, yes, I thought it might be better if I changed, and, well, I didn’t really have any spare clothes with me. I can imagine I wasn’t a pretty sight, walking around like… that. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow these?”

We both know he’s never getting these back.

There was a shuffling little step, as if Harker didn’t know whether to back away or come closer, but the man powered through it, “No, no of course, it would be only natural for you to want to remove those sodden garments from yourself. I- you will forgive me for not expecting such a, ah, sight, as it were, upon entering my room.”

“Right, I don’t suppose a strange man stealing your clothes and lounging across your bed is a sight you often see.” He tried for a bit of an awkward laugh and failed stupendously.

“It is, in fact, not,” there was a little indignant squeak to his voice now, which, well, that’s interesting, “However, I was, uhm- there is a more concerning point…” Harker trailed off uneasily at the tail end of the sentence rather than make any clear comment, which was a bit annoying when all he had to go off was sound.

He looks to our hands. His expression is almost one of disdain now. There’s, oh, right, there’s a few blood stains on the bad cover here, around where our hands rest.

“Shit.”

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath as he snatched his hand back from the bed, feeling John do the same, and instead moved it to lay politely on his lap.

Right, fuck, well hey this wasn’t worst thing he’d done since being fucking teleported here so really Harker has no room to complain.

But rules were rules, and being an Englishmen required strict adherence to the rule of dull properness before all else.

“Ah. Sorry, I hope that isn’t too much of an issue… I could pay to have it cleaned?” He offered the weak apology with a vague gesture to the bed they still sat on.

Do we have the funds for that?

Arthur tried to answer without looking like he was talking to himself, muttering, “I swear I remember having a ten somewhere in my old trousers.”

That got a small laugh out of John, if nothing else.

Harker shakes his head.

“No,” he sighed, as if once more recentering his convictions, “No, we are faced with certainly a more pressing matter than laundry, I dare say.”

The seriousness with which he said the line disturbed the calm energy Arthur and John had found themselves in. Of course, their brief time in the castle had been one of their more tame trials so far, so maybe they weren’t treating the whole thing as they should be. At least in Arthur’s case, he’d had a million other things running through his head, so the gravity of Harker’s situation wasn’t something he’d considered yet.

Jesus Christ this man is dramatic, Arthur.

Arthur patted John’s hand in a mock consoling manner, standing as he settled with himself what to do.

“Well, would you like to explain your side of it first, then?”

He looks startled by us getting up; if you took another step forward, I wouldn’t be surprised if he sprinted out of the room. Should we really be trusting him to tell us anything important? Or sharing anything with him, for that matter?

In the middle of John’s opinion piece, Arthur could hear Harker start to speak.

This could be some- OW! Arthur, what the fuck!?

Arthur dug his nails into John’s palm, then dug harder in hopes that he would get the message and shut up for a minute. What he got in reply was bitter grumbling which, thankfully, wasn’t loud enough to drown out Harker’s words.

“-not but a week ago. I had been passing from train to train on my way here from my home in the town of Exeter. Thankfully, my fiance Mina had provided a very comprehensive guide of the train systems to even the farthest reaches of Romania. At first, the trip was very rewarding. I allowed myself a stop at the British museum, which was very enlightening. I also picked up a myriad of recipes as I ate and conversed with locals between stops. It was a pleasant ordeal at first, and one which I had thought myself prepared for, but no man could have anticipated the true extent of what delays awaited him as the stations grew further South. I had waited close to an hour past the scheduled time for one. This, as one may expect, had left me feeling put out, as you may say, to some degree. Now, I myself not of course a patient man, but-”

Arthur if he doesn’t get to the fucking point in the next few seconds I’m going to shoot him.

“How about!” Arthur hastily interrupted Harker’s rambling, which had started and continued as a nervous jumble of exposition, “We start with who this ‘Count Dracula’ is, and what he can do. You described him as a ‘warden’, correct? Why is that?”

Harker is shocked at being stopped, wide eyes flickering to us briefly before returning to stare out the window. He still won’t look us in the eyes. 

There was an awkward cough from the man.

He seems steadier, now that he has a question to focus on.

“The Count is a manner of fiend which I have not yet identified the true nature of, but those of the village closest had repeated a word — more alike to the fearful repetition of a terrible moniker — which I now believe to have been in reference to the very creature: ‘nosferatu’.”

Arthur, that-

Before John could comment, Harker rushed through the rest of the explanation, as if fearing disbelief or questioning. “From what I know of the language, the name is that denoting either a werewolf or a vampire. Indeed, that beast which poses itself as a man does have an affinity to the wolves of the forest, seeming to direct them with a wave of the hand. His features are appropriately hideous; he has cursed the world with a visage of sharp nails, red eyes, and canine teeth which gleam, sticking too far from the gums and over the ruddy lips. His hands are made from the frigid flesh of a corpse, his grip stronger than that of any man.”

The description was given with an almost palpable hatred. The end of the speech was only gifted to them via Harker’s need to breathe. He’d said all of it one unstoppable torrent before finally giving into his lungs in a large inhale, leaving them to process the details.

You don’t think the ‘commanding wolves thing’ could be related to the behavior of the ones we ran into earlier, do you? If they were following after the carriage, it would make sense that they’d run into us eventually, then pass by. It would also explain why it felt like they were chasing us for a time.

Arthur hummed in agreement, hoping it came across to Harker as some sort of thinking aloud.

It was only a short moment before he started up again, apparently taking the noise as a sign to continue, “It is not only his appearance which reveals his true nature, but the very manner of my arrival, which he orchestrated, and which I am now certain was not meant for me to return from. The Count had disguised himself as a coachman to deliver me to his castle, taking turn after turn through that horrible forest. There were…”

There was an awkward pause there. One might have mistaken it for a break for breath again, but there was something else to it. It felt like an omission of some kind. It passed too quickly for Arthur to analyze before Harker began again.

“There were strange, ghostly lights along the path, which I have no doubt delineated our descent into more wretched lands. Wolves circled us through a larger portion of the journey, teasing the edge of the surrounding tree line for hours. It was at some point when they became too close, that he raised a single hand and bid them leave, and the wolves obeyed!”

So the coachman and the Count-!

“-are the same person. That would explain the strange disappearance.” Arthur finished John’s thought under his breath, nearly grinning as the pieces began fitting themselves together.

Despite being directly involved in the situation, there was a strange distance from the actual events that they’d managed to maintain, skirting around the central mystery. This artificial separation was something Arthur had experienced while tracking down leads on cases. It was a feeling which left him full of an almost giddy energy, as if it were all some big game rather than real people facing real tragedies.

“Pardon?” Harker asked.

You really need to get better at whispering.

Arthur ignored John as he tried to explain, “Ah, w- I had seen the carriage going by earlier, and was wondering where the driver had gone after I found my way into the house.”

There was an odd silence for a moment, during which Arthur was afraid he’d grown skeptical of his quick cover-ups.

Then came an airy little murmur.

“You were in the woods…” It was a statement, not a question.

Arthur, I’m not sure what’s wrong with him, but Harker has paled considerably. He looks queasy, as if the idea of us being out there is the confirmation of some horrible nightmare.

He knew what that meant. Harker wasn’t going to give up anything else, not until he got over whatever this was. If he kept asking, the man would most likely just retreat further into himself, or maybe even explode in anger. This couldn't be where it ended, though. There were still important things that needed sharing, answers they could uncover if he only pushed the right way.

“Harker.”

His face has gone blank, but his eyes a million miles away. His knees look wobbly. Actually, I think he might tip over if he keeps standing for much longer.

Arthur moved forward, trusting John to help guide the man to the bed, “You look uneasy, friend. Here, come sit down.”

John’s tone turned more careful than it had been thus far when talking about Harker. That somehow made it worse, but he’s still followed the direction. He’s not shaking yet, but his posture’s become rigid again, like holding his every fiber taut is the only thing keeping him together.

Sitting down gently beside the man, he was careful to face forward and away. In some cases, it was better to take the pressure off. Better to make them feel like you weren't paying too much attention to the answer.

“Right, let's sit here for a bit, then.”

There was silence for a minute or two.

Arthur, this man is clearly out of it. I don't know if there’s much else we can get from him, at least not right now. We've already learned enough to know we shouldn't be here. This whole place is wrong.

Rather than take John's advice, Arthur patted his hand, and kept pushing.

“I met some creatures which were no doubt similar to the Count last night.” 

He waited in case Harker wanted to respond, but only heard the light shifting of cloth against sheets.

“They were unlike anything I’ve ever seen, shapes condensing from the air itself. While they may have looked human, they were ghostly in nature. No matter where I went, I wasn’t able to lose them. They chased me through hallways and stairwells until I came to this wing. I’m not sure why they didn’t follow me here. This section of the castle seems almost separate from the rest. It’s well-maintained, for one. The rest of it looks old and abandoned, but this area is full of pristine furniture and dustless floors.”

Harker is- he’s focused on what you’re saying. He leans forward a bit, though his eyes keep darting around the room. Good job, Arthur!

Now they just had to wait. The idea had been set up, but it was up to Harker to continue the thought.

There was a sharp inhale, then, “He — Count Dracula, that is — has been acting extremely close to me in these past two days. Both this night and the last I have retired later than I would consider appropriate, and yet he has acted more insulted by what he insists is my leaving early.”

He spoke slowly, with a lack of energy so different from how he’d been raving earlier. This felt more personal, like the man was sharing a soul-crushing truth rather than trying to convince them of it.

“This night, he had said I was to not go any farther through his home. He implied, as well, though not necessarily in any overt manner, that I was to stay here for a while more. Indeed, I fear that even if he has not said as much, I will not be let free to be on my way when the time I must depart should come. If he were to attempt to stop me directly, I have no doubt that he would succeed.”

Something slimy pressed just under the surface of that last sentence, something Arthur hoped neve to be privy to. Harker stopped, and Arthur could hear him fidgeting again, but he knew there would be more.

“There is an… energy about this place, which makes it all the more distressing. When looking at the points which I have laid out of my short experience, there is not truly much I could say which would prove, in their entirety, the validity of my fears. You yourself have said that you had been chased by some horrid specters, while the most threatening thing I have seen were wolves native to this very land. I-,” he choked, “I can not expect you to take seriously what I myself have feared are simple delusions of the mind, even after living through them.”

Now was the time for reassurance. He finally turned, trying his best to align his gaze with the man’s head.

“Harker,” Arthur began with as much empathy and sincerity as he could muster, “I believe you. This place isn’t right, and neither is the Count. We need to escape.”

He’s looking at us stunned, eyes clearing from their haze and shining with new hope. This man is desperate to be believed, to be helped.

“Really?” Harker asked so softly.

“Yes. We’ll leave in the morning, after you help me search the castle.”

Arthur felt the bed creak as the man stood in outrage, and heard him begin to pace the floor.

“What- ‘search the castle’!? We should leave right away! If you truly believe me, then you must recognize how dangerous it is to remain here even a moment longer!”

It was the closest to shouting Harker had gotten so far.

Arthur, he’s right. There isn’t any reason for us to stay. We know what he is, and while we could probably get some information from the library, we could just as easily find a town and ask around. Hell, Harker would probably be able to tell us at least half of what we need to know!

The reply was that of unwavering conviction, “No, there’s something here we need to find. The Count is, I’m sure, terrifying, but I think there’s something more to his powers.”

He could hear Harker slow his frantic pacing, righteousness turning to intrigue. He could feel John silently listening.

“For our short time here, the castle has been the center of it all. It has this- this pulling effect to it, as if you’re sinking into the earth itself, slowly becoming trapped by the mere idea of that infinite pressure. I suspect that the source of Dracula’s power lies here. We can’t leave it for him to continue using to lure others. There’s no telling what he does to the people he traps here, but there were blood-stained dresses left in one of the guest rooms.”

Harker voiced a dismayed, “Oh, dear Lord.”

John spoke hesitantly. Harker has paled significantly, hand moving to cover his mouth in an unconscious habit.

They’d been thrown off kilter. Even John, with all the disgusting, terrifying things he’d seen, had begun to let himself hold life in his heart as something precious.

And so what, if Arthur was focusing more on the unknowable peril of others to tug at heartstrings. So what if he wasn’t actually sure there was something wrong with the place itself. So what if beneath all his care and concern was focused on the thought that maybe, somewhere through these winding halls and eerie rooms, they’d find a book or two on some supernatural power that might bring him home. 

Maybe, if he didn’t stop to think about what he had left to call home, he could find a way back before unraveling at the seams.

“You said the Count insisted on staying up very late, correct?” Arthur asked.

“Ah, uhm, yes.”

“Then we’ll wait until morning to begin the search. If the ghost-like creatures that chased me were related to him in some way, they'll probably be gone during the day as well.”

Of course, there's always the chance that they're timing is coincidence.

“Right, we'll need to be careful regardless. There's no telling for sure when they'll be around, or when they'll return.”

He’s staring at us, all doubt washed from his face, or at least covered by a determined glare. This man will follow your lead, even to his own doom.

Then, much quieter, though nothing he said could ever be private, John said what he really thought. I hope you know what you’re doing

He stood quickly, hearing Harker take a half-step back in response. Gesturing to the bed behind him, he sank down onto the floor a few feet away. 

This close to the fire, the heat felt like soft touches across his face.

“Come, let’s rest.”

He could hear Harker move as directed before pausing.

He’s bewildered, Arthur. The rigid set of his shoulders has lowered, and he looks vaguely between us and the bed, contemplating.

“Should we not be taking this time to prepare ourselves? To vanquish this foul beast, we must be ready for all manner of terror which he will no doubt rain down upon us, should we be discovered,” he continued, frustration building the longer he wasn’t answered, “If nothing more, we could be attempting to trace your path through the corridors to determine where we should go next!”

Arthur sighed, feeling the warmth of the once icy floor beneath him.

“You’re right in that we should be at our best in case we’re discovered. The best way to do that, in my experience, is to keep the mind sharp. And that, Harker, requires sleep.”

“But what if the Count should come for us in the night? How may we defend ourselves from within the bounds of sleep, where we are most vulnerable!? We will be nothing if not easy prey for the creature.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a light sleeper.”

John huffed. You’re not convincing him, Arthur.

Another sigh was all he could muster for a moment. Right then, he thought of letting it all go, and just jumping back into the fray. He could take them; a werewolf and a few ghost women couldn’t be the worst thing they’d ever faced.

Then he kept pushing.

“I used to have a very stressful job. I was a private investigator. It isn’t a career that lends itself to a good night’s sleep, as you might imagine. Sometimes it was bad dreams; something in a new case too disturbing to rest with, another that just hit too close to home,” and God that was hard to admit, “Other times, it was the obsession that kept me up. There was this idea in my head that if I held onto those loose threads long enough, stared at the facts and repeated them over and over to myself, they would somehow weave themselves together for me.”

He pulled his feet to feel the comfort of the fireplace.

“No matter what our lives may look like, however, we’re still human. A restless mind is a useless one.”

Arthur heard rustling, and the creek of weight on the mattress.

Harker finally sits down. He’s faced away from us, but I don’t think he’s getting up from the bed.

“Right.” Harker said it quietly. Arthur could hear him pulling back the sheets and settling in.

He laid down as well, still aching back weighing heavy on the hard floor. Really, no position would make it comfortable, so there was no use moving to try something else

The room is bright where we are, so close to the fire. The air moves in waves with its warmth, bathing our surroundings in soft yellows and hazy shadows. There are a few cobwebs in the high corners of the room, old strands of silk shining with reflected light.

From where we lay, I can see out the window. Clouds cover most of the sky, making the night that has overtaken even darker. However, the moon still peaks through, bright even so far past the clouds. It’s almost orange, glowing softly to tinge the forest far below.

As he began to drift off, a dry voice called out.

“In case you require them later, I would like to make you aware that I have left your shoes behind a bookshelf in the library.”

Chapter Text

Waiting for morning had never been easy, but John sat at the edge of his metaphorical seat all night. He’d spent hours trapped waiting and worrying, debating between his own growing concerns and the chances of Arthur getting enough rest for what might be the next few days.

He powered through it, keeping his limbs tensed until the inside of their eyelids began to redden, sunlight soaking through the skin. Then he jabbed his nails into the lean meat of Arthur’s thigh, vaguely taking care not to scrape with the wooden pinky. Maybe he did it a bit harder than he should’ve, but he needed Arthur up now.

At the first signs of life, provided in the form of a disgruntled murmur, John talked.

He didn’t sleep, Arthur. Didn’t close his eyes for a second.

He wasn’t fully aware yet, most likely wasn’t processing a word of what was being said, but it didn’t matter; John had been left stewing with a nail-biting anxiousness all night, and no teeth to take it out with. He was about ready to explode without some sort of outlet. If he had to word-vomit at an exhaustion-muddled, uncomprehending wall, then it was nothing new. Really, the issue had always been being taken seriously when Arthur was awake.

All he got from his companion was a small hum, which he generously took to mean ‘who?’.

John’s general panic quickly turned to agitation. Christ, it was like Arthur wasn’t even paying attention! Harker. The man was awake all night! He lied in bed for an hour at most, still as a corpse, before I heard him get up. Then he started pacing around the room.

He kept muttering to himself! Trying to recount what exactly the creep said was difficult, so he decided to paraphrase. He needed Arthur to understand. Half-formed sentences about monsters in the woods coming to get him, dealing with ‘lesser evils’, and fucking demon eyes were looped through dozens of times without pause for breath. There was some sort of pattern to it all; a frantic intensity that overtook him at one time, cut off by a lull of eerie calm the next. At one point, he pulled out something paper from his pocket and began scribbling in a frenzy. I’m pretty sure he ripped it a few times.

Arthur only gave a muffled groan, “Why are you telling me this?”

He wasn’t listening!

Because it’s creepy, Arthur! He’s been whispering in the the corner for at least the past hour, and it’s fucking creepy!

John pushed against the floor. He wanted to sit them up, get them at an angle to where he could see the whole room when their eyes finally opened. Paranoia was an ugly word, and an even uglier feeling. Arthur had decided to remain unhelpful, however, arm limp at his side. Because of this, John’s uneven efforts only served to roll them off their back to face the long-empty fireplace.

Guilt hit him at the little punched noise Arthur made, but he let it settle to the bottom with the rest of the growing pile.

At least he didn’t have to worry about giving them away with Arthur awake. It wouldn't be suspicious for someone half-asleep to toss and turn. 

He only had partial control over their eyelids, much like most other things, making it a constant struggle to keep them open without help. If Arthur was set on keeping them closed, there was little he could do to fight it with any effectiveness. But even without sight, he could still do things. Often, when he found himself in that familiar state of boredom, without Arthur to talk to, he would experiment. He’d marvel at all the different ways he could move his joints, limited yet impressive. He’d bend and contort to test what hurt and what didn’t. He’d run his shin over every surface with varying degrees of pressure to explore the sheer variety of texture sensation he could experience.

The problem came when he was placed under the scrutiny of an outside perspective. Having solely an arm and a foot to work with made anything he wanted to do on his own look horribly unnatural. That was only multiplied when the rest of the body those limbs were connected to was asleep. Being left to your own devices didn't mean much when the only option was to lie statue-still for an undetermined amount of time, wary of discovery.

Of course, if Harker actually fucking slept then all this shit wouldn’t matter.

If Haker wasn’t circling them like some hideous vulture, he would be free to do something other than sit next to a dead fire for six fucking hours!

The worst part of it was that he couldn't see the little creep during any of it. He could only hear him moving around, stumbling his way back and forth without any clear direction. All this without an inkling as to what was running through his head. It was nerve wracking.

There was a good chunk of time where he just stood over us, looming! His footsteps came up to our side and stopped. I almost thought I’d imagined it, but then I heard him walking away after a few minutes. He spent minutes just- just staring at your unconscious body!

Arthur only sighed at all of it, grunting in pain as he moved to sit them up. Their eyes opened, and John was momentarily blinded without their eyelids acting as a barrier. After a short period of adjustment, it wasn’t too bright, all things considered. The sun had yet to move far into the sky, judging by how soft the light was. Everything was still cold as well, but he didn’t think that would be getting fixed anytime soon.

While he didn’t have full control over where their eyes looked, he could direct them almost completely if Arthur didn’t muddle things with his own input. For the moment, he was stuck staring straight ahead. This happened sometimes, when his headmate was focussing. Other times, their eyes roved around uncontrollably, as if following unseen trains of thought, red strings across a pinboard.

There finally came a simple response under his breath, “But he didn’t do anything, did he? You’d have woken me if he did anything.”

No, he didn’t, but-

“Look,” Arthur interrupted, “The man has been through something terrible; is still going through it, all things considered. Harker’s liable to a freakout or two if he wants them.”

He’s unstable!

Arthur pulled his leg in, scrunched them up a bit more in a way that concealed their conversation, “I think most people would argue that I am too, John. Keep an eye on him though. Some of his behavior is worrisome, but unless he actually tries anything, it’s better to have someone we can work with. Even if we can’t fully trust him, he could have useful insight.” It was a clear and decisive order.

Arthur!

“We’re done talking about this.”

And that was it. That was the end of it, because Arthur said it was. The hard edge his voice took made John well aware that no matter how much more he prodded and reasoned, his opinion wouldn’t be heard. There was nothing he could do, and no action he could take independently because independence was something he’d given up. He would give anything up for the one he loved.

Some part of him knew there was good reason for the stern tone and largely dismissive attitude. John had made mistakes; one could even say his time with Arthur had been nothing but trying not to die from the sheer number of mistakes he’d made. 

His most recent mistake might have been his worst, though.

There was something which set it apart from many of the others, and that was that it was a choice; one made with no hesitation, no consideration given to anything but his own deepest insecurities. It was one fueled by jealousy, and it had almost cost a man his life. There was more to it, maybe, if other stressors were taken into account, but all it was to Arthur was a complete betrayal of his trust that nearly killed Oscar, done out of nothing but pure malice. 

Another part of him knew that, regardless of the reasoning, he’d earned this treatment. He’d done horrible things in the Dark World, throwing away his hard-won humanity in exchange for his former glory. How long had it taken him to throw away everything Arthur had shown him? It could’ve been anywhere from a few hours to a few centuries, but it was still a decision he had made.

Then he’d hidden. It was hard to tell how much of his motivation for it was guilt, and how much was fear. As much as he wanted to blame it on Kayne, on his stupid fucking deal, he knew better. No, he hid out of the selfish desire not to watch as the only person to ever see him as more than a monster realised just how wrong he’d been. He hid out of pure cowardice.

These issues had only been exacerbated by the memory problems he’d been having. Some of it was fake, lies used as an excuse to avoid explaining himself, to steer Arthur a certain way. The rest of it was real, and it was terrifying. It was a constant tug on his mind that pulled away more and more of himself with each passing moment.

But that was all over now. Upon waking, for lack of a better word, in this strange new world, that pressure had vanished. He could feel the strings splitting him in two fall slack. 

That had begun a thought which John continued to toy with at the back of their shared skull. How far were they, really, from everything else? If they’d really traveled between worlds, then where was this one in the grand scheme of things? John didn’t recognize it, and the strange ghostly women they’d seen didn’t match anything in their Bestiary; he’d flipped through it over and over during Arthur’s first little nap. 

Could Kayne get to them here? Did he even know where they were?

Suddenly, his ruminating was interrupted. John felt them pivot on the floor, turning to face away from the fire-place and out toward the bed.

He tuned back in to hear Arthur speaking to- oh, he was talking Harker. Right. Of course.

“I’d say I slept well. And you?”

“Yes, I,” Harker looked off to the side, and John was surprised how genuine he sounded, “Well, I slept as soundly as one might expect, given the harrowing situation we have found ourselves stranded in.”

The liar squirmed, straightening his collar. This drew John’s eyes to a worn leather thread around his neck, though he couldn’t quite make out what hung from it. He kept futzing with his hair as well, presumably trying to disguise the disheveled look of fitful sleeplessness mussed in. His eyes, never quite meeting his, were bloodshot, the circles under them as dark as ever.

He’s lying, Arthur. Some self-loathing part of himself chimed that it was something he was well acquainted with. The lack of sleep is getting to him now, more so than last night. His tells are revealing themselves: adjusting his lapels, thumbing at one of his pant pockets. His collected persona is unraveling with his energy so drained.

The answer to his lovely call-out was a sighed, “Right.”

John was left quietly seething at the spurn, and the conversation moved on.

“We’re ready to leave, then?”

Harker stands from the corner he’d squished himself into. He made sure the bitterness came through when he said it.

“Yes, we probably should be leaving now. Allow me a moment to pack?” It was a hasty response, as if he’d been caught with his mind wandering. He didn’t wait for an answer before stumbling forward.

The creep looked around the room, likely in reflex rather than actually looking for anything, given that most of his baggage had been left untouched before they came in. Actually, he might be checking that they didn’t misplace something. Arthur had been careful to put things back in their rightful place. John had been careful to misplace them seconds later.

Also they left Frankenstien sitting conspicuously on the bedside table, so he guessed it was fair.

He walks to the other side of the room, his steps unsteady. Is he really planning to bring all that luggage with him? The judgement in the question might have been a bit much for such a minor lapse in critical thinking, but he had to deal with his emotions somehow. We’ll barely make it past the dining room before he passes out. Or he dies; one of those trunks looks heavy enough to crush him.

Over his long months of human living, he’d learned that muscles tend to weaken exponentially if a certain list of needs weren’t met. Water was first on that list, then food, and then sleep.

John could see a tremor in Harker’s hands that left him fumbling with simple latches.

“Ah, you don’t- you don’t intend to bring-” Arthur gestured with his arm, pointing a bit off of where the luggage was piled “-all of that, do you?”

Harker looked down at his things, as if only now realizing how ill-equipped he was to carry them on his own. John was at least glad Arthur hadn’t up and volunteered to help the fool.

Even if he could carry it all, there’s no way he’ll be making good time with it.

“We have a lot of ground to cover before sunrise.” Arthur tacked it on at the end.

“No,” he chuckled with embarrassment, though his face looked morosely contemplative, “You are quite right. I would undoubtedly make myself useless if I were to attempt to lug all of it around with me. I shall take a moment to pack the necessities, then, if you will grant it.” 

The world shifted nauseatingly as Arthur nodded. “Of course.”

This was getting ridiculous. John decided to complain, lest they be forced to idle in British pleasantries any longer. Arthur, do we really have to wait for him to go through all his shit?

“I’ll check the hallway while you’re doing that. See if I can find a route to start on.”

Not looking up from the pile of clothes he was rooting through, Harker absentmindedly replied, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

This was great! If they left now, they might run into something that separates them from the unwanted tag-along without John even having to interfere. If not, then there was always the possibility of them getting oh so unfortunately lost.

The door is left of us, Arthur.

Arthur tensed, and John took it as his que to help him stand.

 “Right.”

He spoke his next words flatly. No, I said left.

Arthur paused, leaving John to keep them steady only half way to standing.

“I- yes I know, I meant-”

“Sorry?” Harker cut off what would have no doubt totally turned into an eloquent and thought out explanation of the complexities and varying usages of language.

The interloper glanced away from his meticulous sorting and rifling to stare at them, a question in his eyes which still fell just short of John’s.

“Nevermind,” Arthur hissed to John, then continued at normal volume as they finally pushed up to their feet, “Nothing, just- just talking to myself.”

Harker’s face went funny before he looked away, and John kindly held in his mocking laughter. Instead, he guided them gently around the corner of the bed to stand in front of the door.

It’s directly in front of you, just- a little to the left.

Maybe he should start opening doors for them, actually. Inconvenience could only stretch so far before it became hazard.

Grabbing the handle, Arthur gave it a small tug. It didn’t open. Arthur squeezed it harder, and John could feel him yank. The force must’ve hurt, if John could feel it all the way in their shared shoulder. It didn’t make a difference; the thing wouldn’t budge. 

Arthur, I think it’s stuck.

All he got back for his perfectly helpful insight was a hissed, “Yes, I can fucking tell.”

“I am sorry, but what did you say?” Harker sounded surprisingly agitated. Still polite, but also mildly fed-up.

They didn’t turn, no matter how much John wanted to see what that little fucker was doing. Not being able to see him, even in their peripherals, was making him more anxious the longer they still couldn’t open. the fucking. door.

“Just, ah,” Arthur tried again, voice turning frustrated as the thing again refused to obey, “The door might be locked.”

Yes, that made more sense than it simply being stuck. Despite the apparent age of the place, everything in Harker’s little corner was very well-maintained. Even the color of the wood was a bit lighter, speaking to more regular cleaning and exposure to light.

“Locked?” And oh wasn’t that tiny bit of terror in his voice just music to John’s metaphysical ears. 

This might be a problem though. I don’t see a way to unlock it. At least, not from the inside.

Arthur called back mildly over his shoulder, “Yes, it seems to be locked from the outside. Do you know any other way out?”

“If there is one, I am afraid the Count did not dain it fit to grant me that knowledge. Are you entirely certain that there is no way to open it?”

There’s nothing. If it was one of the other doors we’ve seen, I might have said that it could be weakened, weathered with age or rotted hollow. This one, though… it’s pristine. We could try breaking it down, but it’s at least half a foot thick, probably more.

They turned back to the rest of the room, bringing Harker back into John’s field of vision..

“Ah, no. I don’t think there’s anything to be done from here. Not unless you can kick down a door?” There was a laugh in Arthur’s voice.

The meat head was stood looking at them now, a small pile of essentials resting by his feet. It was a bit more than he’d choose to pack, personally.

Harker looked behind them as he answered in an empty sort of way, “I do not suppose that I could.”

He stares past us, expressionless except for a distant horror in his eyes. I don’t think he’s really paying attention to us anymore.

Maybe it was time to remind Arthur how little they actually needed this veritable stranger.

Arthur, we could-

Of course, he was interrupted before he could get the point out .

“There’s a window on the opposite side of the room, isn’t there?” He questioned under his breath.

Yes, straight ahead.

Without further clarification, Arthur took a step forward, and John stumbled to follow. As they walked the distance across the room, John described his limited view of the outside.

The sky is washed grey with cloud cover. Hidden behind it somewhere is the sun, still hanging low if I were to guess. The air is murky, thick with fog as the water builds without rain or snow. Heavy yellow drapes frame the glass, tied tightly off to the side. I could hear Harker drawing them back sometime before you woke up.

They got close enough to touch the sill, and John rested his hand on it. Arthur took the signal to lay his hand next to his. Then, without John’s input, he fumbled along the bottom of the glass and unlatched it surprisingly fast. He then pushed it open, leaned past the curtains, past the frame, and stuck their upper body fully out the window.

Immediately, cool air rushed in past them from the broken seal. Winter clung to the castle despite the flowering trees not a few miles away, the wind whipping into his eyes and blurring his sight for a second or two. It was cold, reminding John of his exposed hand and foot, and the abstractly terrifying idea of frostbite.

“Is there anything below us?” Arthur’s voice was nearly swallowed up by the breeze.

John’s view tilted down as he was asked, and he looked for them.

We’re above a small courtyard, maybe three stories up. Most of the ground is grey brick, while the rest is composed of disconnected gardens. Some of them are grown out, overtaking their beds and burrowing into the rock beneath them, while others are shriveled and dead. It’s completely boxed in. The only points of entrance and exit look to be a few doors on the ground level. I don’t imagine any of them leading out, though. Two of them look boarded up, and the others will probably be locked. Still, we’d have better luck with them than the one here, if we’re going to be trying our luck at breaking through one.

“Can you see a way down?”

John tapped his fingers on the wood of the frame, trying and failing to map out a route.

Not quite. There are a few ledges, along with some more obvious footholds, but the closest one to the ground is a ten foot drop, maybe more.

He panned his gaze across the courtyard again to double check. Arthur hummed.

John thought for a moment more. There are a number of windows roughly level with us. We wouldn’t need to go far to climb in through one that would lead us into the rest of the castle.

Arthur’s tone quickly turned skeptical, “And the chances of us being spotted, especially with Harker in tow?”

Less than the chances of someone hearing us trying to break down a hundred pound locked door.

The reply was something between a scoff and a genuine laugh, “Fair enough.”

His vision swam again for a split second as Arthur pulled them back in through the window. They leaned back against the frame, apparently ready to address the room.

During that brief time, Harker had apparently decided on exactly what he was bringing.

“We’ll be leaving now, if you’re ready.” It was a statement that said he better be, if he was planning on coming with them.

He looks at us, a small bag in hand that he didn’t have before. The thing is packed to the brim, but likely manageable for a long walk. I’m not sure if he’ll be able to climb with it, though; I can’t see a strap or anything to hang it on.

The uptight disaster dusted his pants clean of imaginary dirt as he asked, “You’ve found a way out, then?”

Arthur stepped forward confidently, then gestured behind them, “I have!”

John might’ve imagined it, but he swore Arthur’s voice sounded just a bit too cheery to be kind.

Chapter Text

The rock was cold and rough on the sole of his foot, even through the sock. It was an unpleasant sensation which made him wish he hadn’t nagged Arthur into ditching their shoes.

On the plus side, convincing Harker of their plan was a lot easier than John expected it to be. He was apparently eager to dangle thirty feet off the ground, clinging to the side of a thousand year old stone wall.

Getting him out there wasn’t a problem, but getting him to actually move, they’d discovered, was going to be a real pain.

For a moment John dreamt of a brighter future, one in which he could shove the stubborn prick off the drop and finally know peace. Then he scraped his pinky against the hard surface and let the brief shock bring him back to reality.

To get Harker out there, all they’d needed to do was point out a path to a hopefully unlocked window. This deceptively simple task was of course complicated by Arthur’s lack of vision and John’s lack of mouth. Neither of them had full use of hand gestures, either, which muddled anything they tried to physically indicate, but they got it to work eventually. Then they’d climbed out to demonstrate where to hold and how to step, which, again, not the easiest thing to coordinate for an audience in their situation. John liked to think they managed pretty well, all things considered.

Harker’s easy acceptance of the plan now left him holding on for dear life a few inches to their left. It had been feet, before he’d made the mistake of letting Arthur know how far Harker was lagging behind. Arthur had pushed them to make their way back once it was clear the chicken shit wasn’t following. He refused to move, entirely unswayed by words of encouragement, which were admittedly growing into something more like desperate pleas. He kept insisting he could do it, though. A big part of the problem was him trying to do it with one arm, but he refused to leave that stupid little bag behind. It wouldn’t matter that much if John couldn’t see the thing was probably twenty pounds of meaningless junk.

“I can do this!” Harker shouted, nose inches from the brick.

He shakes in the breeze, one hand white-knuckled on the rock, the other clutching his bag just as hard. He keeps an obsessive focus on the wall in front of him.

“I don’t doubt your ability, friend, but we can’t make any progress if you don’t move.”

Harker seemed to take offence. John had noted a similar reaction before, and he wondered if it was being called ‘friend’ that did it. Harker reverted to stiff shoulders and straight spine, but his feet shuffled forward.

That seems to motivate him, though he doesn’t look happy about it.

Finally, he began to pry his hand from the wall. The problem with that wasn’t obvious until it was already too late to stop it. Without full use of his other arm, he was left precariously balanced on the thin ledge below the window.

John watched as his legs shook, and without any support, buckled underneath him.

There wasn’t time to call out, to warn Arthur what was happening.

There was only enough time to react.

For reasons he couldn’t fathom, John’s arm snapped out. He felt Arthur compensate immediately, could hear the beginnings of an exclamation, maybe a question, before the anchor that was Jonathan Harker sank and nearly ripped them from the wall.

“Fuck!” Agony and surprise twisted into a single shout as Arthur held them up. 

I caught him! Arthur, Harker he- he slipped, and- hang on! He was too startled by his own actions to fully articulate them.

The sandbag of a man said nothing, eyes wide. John could hear his quick breathing, could feel his pulse racing from where he’d clasped onto his arm. There was a moment where he just looked at the pitiful sight. His bag of belongings had fallen already, hitting the ground with a promising thud. John could see his face clearly; it was covered in sweat, all but frozen in dull, accepting fear.

His next words came strained with effort; if he had teeth he’d be gritting them. His feet are still on the ledge but the rest of him is leaned back, hovering over the empty air.

Arthur gave a groan, struggling to adjust to the weight, or maybe failing to pull the limp mass back up to safety. He looked back to their hold on the wall, and saw Arthur’s fingers digging desperately into a crevice in the stonework, arm twisted at an uncomfortable angle.

John could fix this. He could fix it for Arthur, for the both of them.

He could let go.

He could drop him right now, and let the horrible burden slip away.

His thoughts flew by, blood that was never his pumping his stolen pieces of self full of adrenaline.

It would be an accident. The man was too heavy, and his hand still hurt from all their climbing the other day. Maybe Harker was panicked; he was flailing too much, throwing his weight around and John had to let go. His palms were too sweaty, too smooth, too injured, too something and he couldn’t possibly be expected to catch this full grown man by himself, could he?

And Arthur would accept it, wouldn’t he? He would understand, Arthur always understood. Arthur would see that there was no other way, he would- he would… no. 

He wouldn’t believe him, would he?

That ship had sailed; that door was shut and locked long behind them. John had been the one to shut it. He’d taken that trust and thrown it back in his face, taken that kindness and slammed the door with all the force he could muster.

No, he wasn't going to- he couldn't, he can't. He couldn't let this man fall. Fuck, he couldn't do that to Arthur again; he wouldn't. This was their fresh start. He needed to protect them, protect him. He couldn't do that if he hurt him like that again. Kayne wasn’t here, might never find them again; there was no pretense left to hide behind. He wouldn’t fall back into the lying and misdirection. All it had ever been was an excuse anyway, something he’d used to convince himself that all these terrible secrets were to keep them both safe.

John's mind was clear. It was his own; the only thing that was ever really his. His thoughts no longer faded before he could recognize them, his memories were held sturdily in place. It was amazing what one could do without a constant pounding headache, what self-control was at once made available. 

Treachery wouldn’t stain their new life yet. It wouldn't touch them ever again if he could help it. He had control now. If he really couldn’t find another way, then he’d make sure they left Harker after this was all over. Abandon him in a town somewhere, or maybe a random train station. Arthur wouldn’t have any more use for this intrusion on their life together, and they could be on their merry way. 

In the end, it was always the two of them. That wouldn’t change.

Now that he was thinking, a fall from this height probably wouldn’t kill him anyway. Then he’d be left trying to drag the useless meat sack behind them, which would hardly be practical.

Heart settled, John steeled himself for action.

Arthur, I’m going to try- I’m going to pull him up now! Brace yourself!

All he heard back was a weird noise behind his teeth that sounded a lot like “I am!” if it was screamed by a goose.

John looked at the inconvenience he was holding, strengthened his grip, and heaved as hard as he could. Feeling the cue, Arthur pulled his chest to the wall barely a twitch out of sync. The three of them went up in one jerky motion.

Harker’s hands both slammed into the brick, and John let go of him as if burnt.

They stood practically kissing the stone for a minute, breathing heavy.

Then laughter broke out. It wasn’t the hushed giggling that haunted them through hallways, nor Kayne’s ear-splitting cackles. This laughter was the familiar release of a coiled spring, the genuine awe and joy that came from bare survival. For once, it was a purely human sound that didn’t come from Arthur.

He stared at the maniac in something he wished could be interpreted as disgust, but he feared it didn’t quite come across with only eyes at his disposal. He just kept laughing. John, for one, felt the sheer relief in it was nowhere near deserved.

 “That was exhilarating!” Jesus, Harker could be loud when he wanted to, couldn’t he.

He laughs with a giddy little grin on his face, staring down at his hands in wonder. He’s shameless. Being able to voice the disgust was a small consolation.

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” The fact that Arthur sounded annoyed was a much better one.

Harker didn’t seem to pick up on it, too swept away with leftover energy, fear flowing smoothly into thrill.

“Yes, quite unexpectedly, I would say I did! Though I would never choose to repeat the experience, obviously.” Another laugh, though this one thankfully tapered off much more quickly.

He paused after, as if recalling something.

Harker looks about himself thoughtfully.

“Ah,” his gaze settled to look down over his shoulder, “It is a shame I lost my bag so quickly. Perhaps we will find some future opportunity to return for it? I suppose there are greater matters at hand, in any case. Are we to be heading off now?”

“Sorry?” Arthur was apparently put off by Harker’s new-found enthusiasm.

Oh, I think he- he’s looking at us expectantly. We should get going to the window.

Arthur’s sigh was drenched in half-concealed suffering, “Right.”

There was very little comotion after that. Aside from a couple unstable holds, there were no obstacles. They fell back into the easy rhythm like they always had, though it was hindered somewhat by the newest member of their party. Harker was as close to openly impatient at their speed as he could be while still being polite. John found it extremely insulting. Honestly, he’d like to see the eager bastard do half as well put in their shoes. Or lack thereof.

They shuffled their way over to the window John had spotted, which was thankfully open. All he could see from the outside were muddled shapes, but he could at least make out that it wasn’t the inside of another locked room.

It took a bit of fenangling to get in without falling back and plummeting three stories, but they made do. Upon entering, they found themselves in a dimly-lit hall, long abandoned by anything human. Dust swirled as they hopped down, planting their feet firmly on the floor.

We’re standing in an empty hallway. I don’t recognize it, but that’s not saying much with how fast we were running through earlier. By the dust, though, I’d say we haven’t been down this way before. It looks settled everywhere but where we’re stood; there’s no sign of movement, no footprints disturbing the thick carpet of grey layered over every surface. There are four doors opposite us, cobwebs hanging in the corners of each of them. The hall itself is sparsely sunlit, drab yellow curtains tinting the whole thing a sickly shade. It stretches out to both sides.

He waited dutifully for Arthur to pan their head from left to right before finishing his description.

On the left, the hall bends sharply around a dark corner. On the right, it ends abruptly in a descending spiral stairwell. 

John heard Harker stumbled in behind them.

Almost immediately, the Victorian distress seemed to overtake him once more, and he whispered, “Good lord, this place is derelict!”

“Yes, I don't think it’s in the best condition. The rest of the castle is all like this to some extent, at least from what I’ve seen.” He took an experimental step, and the dust plumed up before settling once more. It was interesting to watch. Little things like that still mystified John sometimes, now that he'd started looking for them.

He glanced at Harker, but he seemed more revolted than actually frightened. His face had grown strikingly serious, no longer fueled by the thrill of heights and narrow escapes. It seemed to suit him, oddly enough.

They crept delicately forward, feet light on the cold floor.

First to be explored was a room with a broken handle; the metal came up from its proper spot when given too much force. The inside was sparsely furnished, closely resembling the one they’d first entered through the night they broke in. There were some items to be expected there: forgotten personal effects like a comb, old makeup, clothes that were too small, shoes that sadly had the same size deficiency, and other little knick-knacks. John went ahead and pocketed a sewing kit.

Harker, at some point, took a journal from his pocket. It was a worn little thing, but still new-looking. Sinply well-loved, perhaps. That must’ve been the paper he’d been writing on earlier. As they rummaged, John could see him note down something at every new item. Maybe he was recording what they found? He seemed to be cataloging some sort of information for himself, though John had few guesses as to why he felt the need.

They didn’t check the following rooms nearly as thoroughly. There was far less deliberation as they moved from next to next. They got it down to a system of pulling open drawers and John giving a yes or no to say if they’d found anything useful. Harker stood off to the side as an ever-watchful observer. Like a fucking creep. At least he wasn’t getting in their way.

They returned to the hall. John had the fleeting thought that their system wasn’t very efficient, considering they could have Harker go out and search as well. Maybe it could even get him separated for good. He didn’t want to think of the possibility of the man actually finding something, though. Whether he decided to use it against them, or simply mishandled it and broke it, he didn’t feel comfortable letting the freak out of his sight.

As Harker closed the door behind them, ever so cautious, John looked back to the two ends of the hall. The sky had grown brighter, if only by degrees, but it had yet to light either path.

We’ve checked all the rooms here. Should we go down the stairs, or keep searching farther here? We might not find much if we stay here, but the stairs will no doubt be louder to travel. This is still the same floor Harker’s room is on, so we might find another library somewhere up here.

John felt strangely reproachful to mention the stairs. He didn’t have any reasoning for it, at least nothing that he could place. There was nothing. It was nothing. He didn't mention his feelings about it, because there was nothing to tell.

It was less relieving than it maybe should've been that Arthur didn’t appear to share his reservations.

“I say we explore the lower floors next. What do you think?” He brushed his hand over John’s, which had once again migrated to clutch the strap of their bag. 

“Splendid! That will get us closer to the exit as well.” Harker answered first, which John added to the mental tally against him.

He grumbled out his assent. It’s as good an option as any.

So they went on. They traveled down the stairwell, clicking on their lighter until they reached the floor below. Then their hunt started again, going door to door like bereft salesmen. Nothing was locked this time, which felt a bit too convenient, but he accepted it for simplicity’s sake. It was always easy to accept convenience.

They did this for what John was sure was hours upon hours. There was no winding this time, not endless bending halls. It was a straight and sure line of movement, the steady march onward. It felt like a slow momentum was building behind everything, like the tug of gravity as you walked down a ramp. It was easier to let time slip by like that.

There was nothing to scare them off course but disused beds and dirty floors. Nothing like the blood-soaked dress they’d discovered before, or the wraith-like stalkers that followed.

As the light from the windows began to fade, both from building distance and passing time, they grabbed a couple lamps. They took two from the bedrooms they scavenged, lighting them both and handing one to Harker. The metal cages swung back and forth, illuminating a small bubble around them. The dark swallowed up everything past their little bubble.

Every step, John could feel the odd hesitance grow. It felt like sinking. It felt like drowning. It felt like a magnet tugging everything he was further and further down until he inevitably hit the bottom of an icy abyss, the pressure of everything crushing him into something awful and small.

Nothing was happening though; there were no monsters or weird auras past the general state this place seemed to occupy. Realistically, he had nothing to complain about. Not that it had stopped him before, but this was different. He didn’t know why, but it was.

He kept quiet up until he saw the shadows.

Arthur, something’s not right.

He didn’t expect an answer exactly, not with Harker so close, so he didn’t bother waiting for a reply.

The shadows, they- they’re wrong, Arthur. They don’t move like they should. Rather than follow light from our lamps, they seem to sway almost rhythmically. Some grow and shrink, dancing their way up the walls before sliding back down. They ebb and flow like waves. Others distort, twisting and growing into horrible figures before snapping back to normal.

He knew there was fear in his voice now. He could feel it crawling its way up what would be his throat.

There’s too many of them. I don’t know when it started but they seem to have multiplied, crowding around us. Some objects have three or four distinct shadows, all stretching out in different directions. 

A thought struck him like a whip, and he looked down. There was no resistance in the turn of his eyes, but he was too panicked to remember why that was strange. Harker was trailing close behind them, so with the light from his lamp there should be…

Arthur, your- your shadow is gone.

He was afraid. He was fucking terrified, actually. They needed to do something. The walls were closing in and they needed to do something before they got ambushed by some new crawling mass of teeth and flesh! Even if Arthur didn’t listen to him, they could think of a plan. Maybe agree to throw Harker at it and run, if John was feeling really optimistic. 

Arthur still hadn’t replied. John’s fear was only building.

Arthur, it's… Arthur?

Nothing.

Arthur! Are you listening!? We’re in danger, something isn’t right!

Not a flinch. He wouldn’t even acknowledge he was being spoken to. Why wasn’t he responding? Arthur wouldn’t ignore him like this, wouldn’t shut him out like that again. John was doing better, he’d been doing better, they could move on! He would hum, or hold his hand, or tilt his head, or- or something!

Fucking talk to me!

There was nothing, not even a wince at the noise. This wasn’t- this couldn’t just be him. Fuck, Arthur wasn’t talking at all. He could still hear Harker’s shoes plodding along behind them, could hear him scribbling on and off. When had they stopped talking?

When had John stopped talking? When had he- when had he stopped telling Arthur where to turn?

They were walking mechanically forward, a determined stride that he couldn’t see the end to. He wasn’t directing it. Arthur was blindly marching to the beat of a drum that John couldn’t hear, refused to hear. He tried to stop his foot from filing along, but the thing wouldn’t cooperate.

It hit the floor and- and he couldn’t feel it. John couldn’t feel his foot. Fucking fuck!

He tried to flex his fingers, to unclamp his hand and let the lamp fall to the floor, loud noise be damned. It didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch. It wasn’t his anymore.

He was nothing but eyes.

Useless. Fucking. Eyes.

Did Arthur know what was happening? Had he even noticed the difference? He must’ve, this- this wasn’t normal. Arthur must’ve felt some change, some- some fundamental shift! John was losing what little he had of himself and Arthur was doing nothing!

What if the same thing was happening to him? Was he trapped like John was, so wholly disconnected from his own body, his own self? If John still had eyes, then what was Arthur left with?

Fuck, Arthur, somethings’ happening, I- if you can hear me, I’ll get us out of this. I’ll- I’ll get us both out of this, okay? I’ll figure something out. We’re walking down a hallway still. We’re still in the castle- Harker is a few feet behind. He’s okay, I think. Just hang on. 

Okay think: how did he stop this? He could get Harker to get them out! Somehow! It didn’t seem like whatever had affected them had touched him, but then again, he couldn’t see him. But his writing sounded right. There were breaks to it, then moments of frantic scribbling as if scratching out a mistake. It was human.

How would he get his attention, though? He couldn’t turn their head, couldn’t slow them down, couldn’t even fucking blink. His eyes were the only thing he could even move, now fully under his control without Arthur trying to direct them himself, and wasn’t that terrifying. That was it. That was all he had. 

He was worse than nothing, confined to being a passive observer. All he could do was plead for answers from someone probably just as trapped as him. All he could do was watch.

His spiral was interrupted by an abrupt stop. Arthur had frozen, almost mid-step.

John hesitated. He wasn’t hopeful, but he had to check. Arthur?

Silence. Their body was rigid; they were still some baleful force’s little wooden puppet.

We- we’re standing in front of a door. It looks-

“Why are we stopping?” John continued past the annoying voice over their shoulder.

It’s different from the other ones we’ve opened, and the many we’ve passed. Something about it feels heavier, bigger than it is. The wood looks darker, older. There’s- fuck! He tried to move back on instinct. There’s a shadow stretching from under the door, like it’s reaching out to grab us!

“Mr. Lester?”

Harker was stood beside them now, journal and pencil nowhere to be seen, hands wringing nervously. He just stood there, like nothing was happening. Like they weren’t about to waltz into the jaws of a final cruel fate.

John looked desperately to him, begging him to notice something was wrong. The avoidant coward only looked at their shoulder, at their chin, to the side of their head. He still refused to meet his eyes.

Arthur, if you can hear me, you need to fight this! I don’t know what’s behind that door, but I don’t like it! Please! Please, wake up!

Their body reached forward.

Fuck, Arthur, you’ve grabbed onto the handle!

The motion continued, inhumanly smooth, and the door opened.

John stared ahead. There was a gasp behind them, followed by retching.

Jesus Christ.

Chapter Text

He was walking to someplace he couldn’t quite recall. He knew as much as there was a destination, but the directions were hazy. They were almost visible, past the edge of everything, but there was a layer of fog that wouldn’t clear. Perhaps it was his mind that was hazy. Maybe he should’ve double-checked where he should be going before he left. Where did he leave from again?

It was all he could do to remember not to turn back. If he were any more aware, he may have thought that the reminder was only to help disguise the fact that he couldn’t.

There was no telling for how long he’d been at it. This tireless progress felt as constant as anything, but at the same time nothing really felt like anything. There was a reason he was still going; there must've been. Nothing solid came to mind, no matter how hard he tried to grab hold of a reason. He probably wasn’t trying that hard, though. It never mattered what he did; he never tried hard enough.

Meaning was drifting farther and farther away. 

At some corner of his mind, something important tried to claw its way back into being, but fell short.

That was alright.

Most of his life had been floating from place to place. More like being passed off, really. It wasn’t often that he ever knew why. The process was most disorienting when he was a young child, barely a schoolboy. It left him with a childhood of fuzzy splotches of memory, tiny disconnected islands of living sewn together with inexperienced hands. He’d grown to take to it well in adulthood, leaning into those gaps to soften some of the sharper blows. Of course, as his memory solidified with age, he’d had to find ways to make due on his own. To cope. Alcohol worked well enough some days. On others, it forced him to cycle through everything he’d ever tried to forget. In his experience, that was how the world worked. Its whims were cruel and unusual, but you either moved on or you died.

He didn’t want to die. Not most of the time, anyhow. He knew - had been told in both the implicit and explicit by many - that giving up was dying, in some sense. A slower death than others, but at the very least it didn’t make for something that could be called a life. What was life though, if not the space before death? 

Giving up, then, was nothing that different from trying. It all ended the same, anyhow.

Digging in his heels would make no difference. Everything was a slow march forward. Or down. Mostly it felt like he was moving down, at least right now, though he couldn't recall if he’d ever felt anything else. He was simply descending his gentle slope into oblivion, pulled softly forward by unseen tethers. There was barely any effort on his part, really. It was nice.

Was it nice? Was this something he enjoyed? Everything was going by much too quickly, slipping past his head without waiting for him to comprehend.

Where was he, exactly?

He’d thought they’d been in a hallway of sorts earlier, but a hall was a type of room, and rooms required walls. Along a similar vein, a ‘they’ required someone other than himself. But this was his slope, his empty darkness.

He was now, and maybe had always been, steadily walking into a cold black abyss. Really, he didn’t know why it should be this cold. Maybe winter had rolled in early, or perhaps stayed too late. The idea of time almost hit him with the acknowledgment of season, but to have an anchor required knowledge of the depths he’d found himself in.

The pain he’d, unbeknownst to him, reflexively expected with the cold was nowhere to be found. The chill didn’t bite at his skin, didn’t tease the freshly knitted flesh or place pressure on those old joints and chunks of new bone. His mind was heavy and numb with water-logged cotton, but everything else was pleasantly loose in a way which only happened somewhere between three and five drinks in. His strings had been cut, passed over to someone else’s control, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He didn’t know if there was anything he wanted to do about it.

Behind it all was a murmur. It sat as a hefty backdrop of noise which he couldn’t identify, but which he knew were words. They might have been spoken plainly, perhaps even shouted at some points, but clarity and volume couldn’t manage to bridge the gap between him and understanding. He knew the voice was comforting, at least. A far-off comfort, like knowing someone’s in the crowd rooting for you without any other context as to who or why.

At that thought, he stopped. The idea wasn’t the initiator, only happening to bookmark the event. It wasn’t a decision made by him, not a reaction or a change within himself. Something about that was both expected and distinctly disturbing.

There wasn’t thought behind the stop, nor the slow lifting of his arm, nor his hand closing around something curved and metal. He had no say, for or against, as he reached out and opened a door.

Perhaps this was where he was going all along. If he was walking down a hall before, a door would make sense next. Had he been in a hallway?

The muffled voice, once washing over him in waves of varying expression, became a steady drone. It was methodical and familiar, and all the easier to ignore as his hearing acclimated to the new constant. 

Past it, he heard dripping. A steady drip, drip, drip.

Again, without input or desire, his body stepped forward.

For the first time, a shock went through him. His nerves finally lit up, the slow roll of electricity sliding its way up his spine.

He could smell it. He could taste it in the air, seeping into him as it filled his lungs like it always did, always would. He felt it soak through his socks, then rush to thickly pour itself back into the empty space as his legs took yet another step. He felt it squelch under the final landing of his feet.

It was the blood that was water that was blood again.

Something continued to drip.

The drone of a far off voice meant nothing, as he remembered why comfort wasn’t for things like him.

The floor was wet.

The room was flooded. Of course it was; he was too late.

He knew where he was. It crashed into him all at once in a terrible shiver, racking him with guilt that made him want to rend his skin from the muscle to escape what he was. This was where he’d been going, where he’d always be going, and where he always would remain. He was trapped in the singular moment of his greatest failure.

He could never leave her, no matter how time went by or how his path altered. And yet he had, hadn’t he. He’d left her; this was his doing, his sins washed out over the floor. He abandoned her. He killed her. Drowning himself too, in isolation and regret, would never be enough. Sorrow did not make repentance. He could never be clean.

This was her blood he was stepping in. It was hers. Blood was thicker than water but they would now and forever be one in the same to him.

His feet were covered in her blood. His hands were covered in her blood. His every breath was one stolen, taken from his daughter, filled with her life and soul and blood.

He couldn’t see, but he knew.

The tether pulled him, but he didn’t follow. His feet remained planted in his tragedy, the one reminder of his failure that he would always cradle close to his chest.

Unmoving, the tug grew and grew, until his very sense of self felt as though it was being ripped along a seam.

Blood was running through his veins.

Blood was pounding in his ears.

Blood was seeping from his skin.

Blood was pouring from his eyes.

Blood was-

The cord snapped.

All at once, the pressure released. His ears popped with it, lungs burning with need for air.

The world came back to stark clarity, collected aches flooding back as one as the water-laden blanket of insensate restraint left him. It punched the hard-won breath from his chest in an all too physical way that nearly brought him to his knees, arms folding inward as some sort of useless defense.

Something loud and metal hit the ground beside him with a splash, then a thunk.

Suddenly, as his mind breached the surface, and understanding came attached to the words that were being said; they were being shouted, cried out only into the confines of his skull. 

-thur! Arthur! Please please I- I can’t-!

“John!” It was a gasp more than a name, broken and throaty and so fucking relieved.

Arthur! The way he said his name in turn was gut wrenching, the culmination of an unknowable time spent only begging to be heard. You’re back! You-!

“John,” his voice was torn to ribbons, “John, where are we? What the fuck is happening!?”

Wherever they were now was thick with a tangy, damp weight, so different from the passages they’d spent hours winding through. He could feel the lack of warmth starkly in his bones, now gnawing at his other innards with their brittleness. Were they still in the castle? Last he remembered, they’d still been walking with Harker, pillaging any room worthwhile to try and find something. An object, he thought in vague concepts, that could bring them home.

I- I don’t know! We were just walking, but then I couldn’t move anymore, and you weren’t responding! You weren't listening to me! He was talking faster than Arthur could really digest, built-up distress more understandable than anything else. I couldn’t move, I- I was trapped behind your eyes again and you couldn’t hear me and I couldn’t do anything as you- you-

He needed to slow him down, to get him to stop panicking so he could begin making any sense of what was being said. Arthur grabbed the left hand, and it sent another stab of old pain made new through him, but he pushed on. Beneath the cloud of hurt, though, it was limp. John’s hand was limp at his side.

“John-”

You went up to a door that didn’t make sense. He’d fallen back into narration. The safety of it, it seemed, finally gave him room to organise his thoughts. It was too heavy, too large to conceivably fit into the space it occupied. You opened it, and we moved forward with such surety into a room covered floor to ceiling in iron-red. Sconces, already lit, flood the area with enough light to see in detail. The roof, the walls; everything drips with wet blood, like a fresh coat of paint layered on too thick. It’s deepest beneath us, the viscous liquid rippling out with each small twitch of muscle.

Christ, he could feel it. It was up to his ankles, already beginning to dry in a tacky second-skin right above the waterline.

There's a podium erected in the center of the room. A book laid open on it, which Harker grabbed- fuck!

His nerves were already strung at the description, ready for action as he cried, “What, John!?”

The corpses are moving!

“Corpses!?”

Skeletons that were partially submerged in the iron bog they- they’re moving, writhing in pain, as if able to feel their lost flesh!

Arthur could hear them. Violent splashing had made itself known over the steady drip, sending small waves back to him. It was loud enough to almost cover the ring of bone against bone, the spine-chilling scrape of it all against rock.

“John, where’s Harker? We need to leave!”

He stands in the middle of it all, before a cracked mirror. His back is turned to it, eyes clouded over and facing downward. He reads from the heavy tome in his hold, mouthing alien words in a chant he himself couldn’t possibly understand.

“Fuck!”

He started running, terrible blood pool be damned.

John took up steering quickly. Right, go right!

There was more debris that couldn’t be seen under the surface. Arthur ignored the crunch of bone, the brutal sting of treading fast over loose teeth and the small bones of hands and feet.

Blood sloshed as he went, drenching his trousers and no doubt staining him in that familiar, easily-identifiable crimson.

“Harker!” He needed to stop him before he got too deep, before he did something irreversible. There was no telling what a book like that would do, the true extent of what it was already doing.

He stands there, still reading without pause, either unhearing or uncaring.

“Jonathan!”

You need to slow down, Arthur! There was a roughly chastising urgency. We’re going to run into him!

He didn’t slow. In fact, Arthur only pushed harder. His legs burned with the effort, but no more than anything else. Pain bloomed with every strike of the heel, so much so that he barely recognized that it was the feeling of both feet under him, the grip of each and every toe now in his control.

Before he could process what that meant, exactly, he crashed into something. Harker was sturdier than he might’ve thought, every point of impact like brick against his fragile body.

All he felt was pain for a good few seconds. Then he was laid out on top of someone and disgustingly soggy. Soggy with blood. It was nothing new, but he felt the phantom urge to vomit.

We're on the ground now, Harker below us, entirely soaked through with blood. He’s still gripping the book, but it looks to have closed on the way down. Now it’s pressed between us, fit against his ribs.

There was a pause in which Arthur did nothing, only struggling to inhale again, trying his best to remember that hurt was impermanent, and that he needed to suck it up faster because dying wasn’t.

The skeletons are still moving, a swelling violence behind every swing and flail!

His head swam as he practically launched himself into standing. A weak groan and faint sloshing came from beneath him.

“Lester?” The man’s voice was faint, almost mystified in how faint it was.

Harker clutches the book to his chest, still laid out flat.

Arthur did his best to reach down and grab the man. There wasn’t time to be precise, to do things with the gentleness they probably called for. With that in mind, he grabbed desperately at whatever he could, yanking the man up by his collar.

Harker didn’t so much as flinch in his hold; he was completely still, if a bit floppy, as Arthur shifted his hand to rest on his shoulder.

John let out a gasp as he fully righted them again.

They- Arthur they’re- they’re looking at us.

He turned his head, as if searching for this ‘they’ himself, and asked “The corpses?”

The narration was one wrung dry in its distress, retreating back into the practiced ease of description in the face of fear. Eyeless sockets peer at us from the shallow swamp of red, themselves stained in old burgundies, yet otherwise un-weathered. They face us unmistakably, hollows once containing flesh converging their gaze onto us, a singular interest. All movement is halted, with some of them frozen in impossible contortions and others set in the solid stance of a man, living and breathing. A terrible tableau.

Harker stares back.

Arthur shook the man in question, trying to pull him out of whatever trance had caught him. Surely it was a trance, which prevented him from crying out in terror like he no doubt wanted to. Instead of coming back to consciousness, he drooped, not bothering to catch himself as the light force almost knocked him down, leaving Arthur to bear his weight again.

That was taken by Arthur as a sign to pull the younger man closer, waiting tensely for when he would have to haul him clear of danger. 

They moved!

He whispered, urgent but a bit preoccupied, “Harker.”

Sounds of dripping came from every angle, small ripples crashing with promise into the lowest part of his legs. He could feel it on both legs, the repetition too irregular to be numbing.

“John why can I- why can I feel your leg?”

John’s voice was insistent, the frustration mixing with worry. We can deal with it later. Those things are inching their way toward us, and we don't have enough bullets to deal with that!

Rather than answer, he secured his grip on their friend and tried again to get his attention with a hissed out, “Jonathan!”

There was no response. None of those little instincts a person couldn’t typically repress, like a silent tensing of shoulders, a quick twitch of the neck before the body remembered not to turn its head. He was catatonic. It crossed Arthur’s mind to check for a pulse, to make sure he hadn't become one of the dead in the time he'd been out. 

We need to start moving, Arthur! The skeletons are only going to get closer!

His whisper was determined, “Where do we go, then?”

They're mostly coming in from the sides, which leaves us a route leading almost directly back to the door we entered through. I don't know if they’ll keep moving at the speed they have been, but there should be enough room to make it past. They started staring after we knocked Harker from the podium, but I have no clue what they want now.

He muttered something that Arthur didn't quite catch, even spoken so directly into his brain. Then he sighed, as if coming to a decision.

The sound gets some reaction from them. They creep closer with every whisper, whether they’re using it to locate us or if it just prompts them to approach.

There was a pause which Arthur would have normally filled.

John puffed out something that at least sounded like a tense breath. It might be best for us to take things slow to the doorway. If they’re attracted to noise, then the sheer volume of running through this shit could be the thing that pushes them to start moving faster. With Harker still in the state he is, I'm not confident in our ability to outrun them with us dragging him along.

It was easy for Arthur to come to a similar conclusion, the practically limp body leaning on him already feeling like a burden. 

He nodded only the tiniest bit. They would take this slow and steady.

Okay, turn a bit to your left.

Arthur listened, then took a single step forward. He held back a flinch at the wet sound it produced, echoed in Harker’s clumsier following as he was towed along.

Good. They didn’t react too much to that, only tilting their heads or reaching out with gaunt arms. We’re lined up with the exit now. Just keep going this way. I’ll tell you if anything changes, or if they get too close.

He carefully expelled the tangy metal air from his lungs, and continued forward.

It was more difficult than he’d thought it’d be, though when was it ever not. The gory soup felt so much heavier now. Every step was a fight for distance, every landing of the sole a struggle for footing on slippery stone. As he nearly stumbled over something distinctly bony lying buried in the blood pool, he had to remind himself not to curse John again for their lack of shoes. It wouldn't have helped much; it just would've added another thing to lug around. No matter what he told himself, he was left trying his best not to think about what soaked through their socks, what squelched between their toes with every small shift of weight.

What worried him the most, beneath the vigilance and adrenaline forcing his mind to hone in on everything and anything, was Harker. The man was still eerily silent, and had yet to take up walking on his own.

John seemed to pick up on this too, in the wake of their unhurried progress.

Harker clutches the book in both arms, wrapped around it as if guarding some precious treasure. They can see it, too. They don't seem to like it. It’s more obvious now, as he trails ever farther from us, only tethered by your hand clamped to his arm; they're watching him, following him. They stare through him without eyes, observing inscrutably. The hold he has is undeterred by the dead crowding around us, even as they seem to draw their focus more and more on him alone. His concentration seems similarly pinned, but on some far off point.

Arthur could feel the rigid muscle of his arm through the coat sleeve, coiled like a spring. The steps behind him were closer to the stiff and sloppy tread of something which had yet to master walking, or had long since forgotten how, than to those of a man. Waves, only an inch higher than the others, crashed predictably into his heel as he moved, marking the small space between them.

Other ripples grew bigger in time with the creaking of bone.

We’re only a few feet from the door now. Some of the corpses are closer, maybe only an arm’s length from us. They’ve yet to block our way; we'll be fine if we keep going like this. These things are different from the women. They're not toying with us. Whatever their limits are, they're pushing them right now.

All he could do was take a calm, silent breath. They were steady. They could do this.

They were almost there.

Arthur, wait lift your-!

With that late warning, his foot hit something. Hard. He only stumbled for a second before, suddenly, he was falling. His heart launched up into his throat, pounding faster in that small moment between air and ground. 

He tripped forward, pulling Harker down with them, and landed on a firm, dry floor.

Arthur, you did it! Shut the door! Get up and shut the fucking door Arthur!

Something felt as if it pierced his skull after crossing that threshold, digging its way into every thought with painful clarity, but he stood as fast as he could. God, it hurt to get up. Harker was left to the floor beside him as he spun back to face the open doorway.

A horrible cracking started as he began to move, to feel desperately for the wood of a door. It almost sounded like an echo, just one grotesque noise folding back on itself over and over. He knew though, that it came from each and every corner of that room.

He froze as John spoke up, words overcome with soft appall. They’re- dying. Arthur, they’re dying.

His reply was just as faint, though only in caution, “The skeletons?”

Even as he asked, he could hear them. Jaws clacked like gritted teeth. The visceral cacophony of snapping, grinding bone was all there was. There was no thrashing now, no fight for life that sent splashes through that red lake.

Yes. Some hold out their arms, as if begging us to do something. He could almost feel the pleas through John's description alone. Others clutch at long gone wounds, invisible now but killing them again after what must have been centuries of death. They’re in pain, or at least they mimic the pain they once felt, as the blood begins to boil around them.

“Shit!”

He jumped back on instinct, even without feeling the heat past the doorway.

They act as one scene, as if reliving their collective death, stuck there as what surely was once their blood bubbles.

The hissing of steam began to fill his ears, broiling gore popping deafeningly, like sizzling bacon. At least he couldn’t smell it. Yet.

“We need to go, John. We can’t just sit here and watch, we need to- we need to keep moving,” he broke off, turning back to the left, barking out at once firm yet hushed, “Harker! Come on, we’re leaving!”

There came a groan from the floor.

Harker sits on his knees beside us. He looks to be coming out of the daze now, still gripping the tome to his chest. 

Arthur didn’t wait for further description before once again yanking the man to his wobbly feet. Groggily, he mumbled something or other that Arthur didn’t bother paying attention to. It seemed Harker was just going to be like this, fading in and out of awareness. Instead, he turned and-

Oh. 

It didn't cross his mind how odd his brief start-stop was from an outside perspective in that moment. He was too focused on other things, and he was pretty sure Harker was too out of it to notice, as he asked, “John, do you... I can’t feel the other leg anymore. Are you-?”

Yes, I- I have my foot back. A pause followed as they both took stock of their shared body and its invisible borderlines. It seems I have my hand as well.

There was a breath where Arthur could almost hear the thoughts racing through that thin membrane between them, the current of them radiating out from whatever chuck of his brain had been stolen and reshaped to fit his partner.

I’m sorry.

“Don’t be.”

For the life of him, he wasn’t sure whether he meant it or not.

He started forward with more ease in the movement than those of the past few minutes. One really could get used to anything. There was a point at which his loss of life and limb became companionship, because to keep on required more than shared bitterness. Life necessitated that they move on from the recursive pattern of paranoia which was so simple to fall into, and so they did. The actual issue wasn't something to be solved, only the importance given to it.

It should scare him, how accustomed he’d become to being only half a man in his own flesh.

Maybe it did.

We should get the lamp before we keep going.

“Right,” he thought for a moment, “Didn't ours fall when I came-to?”

Yes, but Harker left his by the door.

He forced out a small laugh, “How thoughtful.”

He let John take up the duty of carrying their light once again, then walked them out of that hall, pulling Harker behind them.

After the first couple turns, what small progress he’d made away from that travesty was interrupted.

Wait, Arthur, I don’t know if we should- there’s something wrong with him. With Harker. That book has some sort of power in it that I don't trust. I can see it swirl around him even now, though not as active as it was in the room. I couldn’t recognize it before, not with the place so steeped in that energy, but the tome feels like the aura of the house tenfold. It’s like- it’s like a sinkhole. 

The book. That feeling, like they were slowly being dragged into something, body and mind. Maybe they were. It had been a book that was used to pull Shub-Niggurath into his world; the same book that acted as a doorway for John to escape from the Dark World. A book and the remains of an old shed had been all it took to return Scratch to his other half across the barrier of worlds.

His grip tightened as he turned, trying to look him in the eye as best he could.

“Harker.”

The young man startled, a jolt that ran through him and all the way up Arthur’s arm. He was aware enough, then. Perhaps it was the distance from the ritual site doing him some good.

His response came rather distractedly, “I- yes, pardon?”

His gaze pans over the corridor we now stand in. He has a look as if trying to recenter after waking from a nightmare. It’s fraught, but still tired; muted. The book hasn't moved once in his hold, his whole body almost curled around the thing. The action looks unconscious, like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

“You need to let go of that thing.”

That got his attention. He felt the man try to pull away, but the tug was feeble. Harker hadn’t quite regained his footing yet, it seemed. 

“What?” It was almost uncomprehending, but the way he tensed told Arthur he understood just fine.

“The book. Please, hand over the book.”

Arthur, I don’t think he’ll be willing to-

“No!”

John made a noise akin to a growl, though it was impossible to say whether it was complaint at the interruption or his actual reaction to the refusal.

“No?”

“This book is- there is knowledge in it. Power. Enough, perhaps, to do something against the wretched fiend of this castle! I could-”

He has to shut this down now.

His grip firmed as he pulled him in closer. “I don’t care what you can or can’t do with that thing, Harker. It’s dangerous. I came out of a trance to find you reading out a chant from the damn thing! You bent corpses to your whim with it! For fuck’s sake, it was in a room covered in blood! What do you hope to gain with that!?”

His knuckles are white on the thing.

“Nothing! I only wish to defend myself, to defend all those who still fear that miserable beast! If I can make sense of it, then none shall any longer be forced to cower at the mere mention of Count Dracula.”

This was a man himself struck by fear. One who, instead of giving into it, had decided to harness it in hopes of putting an end to the monster whose presence plagued him. It was not entirely unselfish, to want to kill the thing that haunted you, even if that growing idea of revenge was expressed only as care for others. Even if it was doing something for the greater good. 

If that was easier to recognize in others than it was within himself? Well, Arthur could wait a bit longer before admitting it.

“Harker, that thing will consume you before you gain anything from it. Items like that aren’t meant to be understood; they aren’t meant for people. I’ve encountered the histories of men overtaken by that thirst, seen what happens to someone firsthand. It’s not something I want to happen to you.”

There wasn’t an immediate response.

He looks… pensive.

Arthur sighed, and patted the man’s shoulder as he asked once more, “It’s alright, friend. We’ll find another way; a better one, even. Hand it over now. Please.”

The reply he got was acidic.

“And what would make you think that you should be any better suited for such a burden, if it truly is so corrupting?” The words were surprisingly cutting, coming from the normally meak man.

Arthur responded in kind, “I have been through things you can’t begin to imagine. There are creatures I’ve faced, places I’ve been, that you wouldn’t last a minute in. No one would.”

Arthur I don't know if we should be telling him-

“So you admit your alignment with the evil and unnatural,” Harker wrenched himself free from the hold on his shoulder, which had grown unconsciously tighter, “Yours were the cursed eyes which followed me through the woods, which leered with their tracking malice! You, too, are a devil masquerading a man!”

“No, I’m-!” he cut himself off in frustration, “Just give me the fucking book, Harker!”

He couldn’t explain, didn’t want to explain himself to this raving lunatic. There was no reasoning the idea out of his head now. Instead of trying, he reached for where he thought the tome should be.

Feet stumbled back on the hard floor, ringing out like the toll of a bell.

Before he could try again, something else answered Harker’s retreat.

The air itself warped around them, chilling further than he thought possible with the lantern held so close.

Fuck, fuck Arthur behind him there’s- the dust covering the floor swirls into the air, mingling with particles of light without a source! Those creatures from earlier, they're beginning to take form! We need to move!

“Shit, Harker!”

The warning apparently went through, as he heard the shuffling sound of him turning. There was a gasp.

All the anger seemed to drain out of him as he breathed out, “Good Lord.”

He looks back, turning from us to look upon the unnatural figures which grow more clear every moment.

Arthur grabbed the man once more, ignoring the book for however long it took to escape this new threat.

Cackling echoed behind them, familiar, as they sprinted down the hall. He kept a firm hold on Harker’s wrist, even when he started running on his own. Still, the floating women maintained a static distance behind them, always only close enough to hear their distinctly horrible laughter.

There was nothing flowing through his head but the chase. All he could think about was running. It wasn’t all adrenaline. He could feel it, in some way, as his mind began to bend. He was prey. They were predators and he was prey to be toyed with, herded to slaughter. He needed to hide, to escape, to cower! But there was nowhere to go. John only led them through more and more winding corridors. 

He couldn't tell how long it was until he could hear past his frantic breathing, the panting as his energy slowly failed him. Harker was calling out to him.

“Lester! Mr. Lester, please! We can not keep on like this!”

We can’t stop, Arthur! We have to keep going, to- to escape, to-!

Before he could process either side of the argument, make any decision of his own, he felt Harker yank back his arm in one jerky motion.

Arthur couldn’t hold on. It was just him and John again.

He wanted to stop, to go back for the man, but his legs kept moving. He was nauseous with the dissonance, or maybe it was still that animal fear coursing through him. Either way, he didn’t stop.

John kept directing them as if nothing had changed, but the giggling grew more distant with every stride. They weren't after them. They were after him.

Arthur! Ahead of us there’s- the doors are open! The big ones, at the front of the castle!

He could feel the wind rushing in through the opening. It was somehow even colder, but his brain wouldn't let him fully feel it until they reached safety.

As they got closer, though, it became obvious that it wasn't safe.

There was a howl which pierced the night, followed by its brethren in an ever-harshening chorus. The wolves were here. As the noise grew louder, it was impossible to tell whether it was only Arthur and John approaching, or if the rabid dogs were coming to meet them half-way.

His ragged breathing almost hid the alarm behind his question, “John?”

Keep going! 

He did.

He kept running and running, through the doors, then out of the courtyard and down the road.

He didn't stop running until maybe halfway down to the forest.

All at once it hit him what had just happened.

What came out at first was a hoarse, whispered, “Goddammit.”

Arthur-

“What happened back there, John? What the hell was that?”

I don't know.

“I- I couldn't think, I couldn't do anything! There- there wasn't any choice in it, I just ran without a second thought!”

He was throwing his arm around now, trying to articulate the feeling that had twisted his perception, “They were in my head, John!”

Just calm down, alright? We're safe. Those things didn't follow us.

That didn't make him feel any better.

“Harker is still in there; the book, it- God, that thing could be our ticket back home!”

He started pacing.

John only placed his hand over his chest, pressing down gently. There will be another way, Arthur.

“I know, just-!” he choked on what could’ve been a sob, “Fuck!”

We can’t go back there. We’re not going back.

Arthur pushed his next breath out through his teeth. They couldn't leave things like this. He knew his life well enough to realise it would only come back to bite him if they didn't look for a solution now, if they didn't find some way to fight back. 

“No, no not yet. There’s still a lot we don’t know about this world, about those things. We’ll- we’ll do research, find out what they are and how to beat them before we come back.”

And you think they’ll still be there?

They had a plan now. He could do this. There was howling again, closer.

He started walking down the path.

“That place is centuries old, John. I highly doubt they’ll be moving after one little intruder.”

Harker, then. He said it with such dry annoyance, even after all they'd gone through. You think he’ll just be waiting there for us to come back?

“Of course not,” he breathed out a mirthless laugh, “I think he’ll be dead by the end of the night.”