Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since the beginning of the ongoing epidemic, the streets of London had become unnervingly quiet. With the forced quarantine blocking half of London off—or, more specifically, blocking the poor from the rich—a group called the Priwen prowled the streets, deterring any stragglers of the night from lingering too long. The nutters shouting about '𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘴!', the actual drinkers of the day finally emerging from the taverns and expelling the remnants of their earlier endeavors all over the cobblestones—this all but dulled any interest the general public had in wandering the streets at night.

Unsavory characters still haunted the back alleys, sticking to their preferred areas, doing God knows what, while the supposed law enforcers were nowhere to be found—disappearing at sundown. Not that they were of much help overall, especially around the docks.

The lack of presence from the bobbies—and just the general disorder the East End had fallen into due to this absence—led another type of enforcement to take the reins.

The Wet Boot Boys, a relatively small gang to begin with, quickly grew larger in both size and renown as more people became desperate. Soon, anything that happened around the docks happened under their watchful eye and iron fist—the iron fist mostly belonging to Edwina Cox, the wife of the official leader. Even now, most of the boys reported solely to Edwina, with Clay usually being one of the last to know what was happening due to his aggressive temperament and violent outbursts. These outbursts would regularly result in him disappearing—either to dispose of the poor sod on the other end of his fury or to try and calm himself down. Most of the gang stayed out of his way when possible.

One of the boys, in particular, was more than happy to make himself scarce, always the first to volunteer to loot the pockets of corpses thrown in ditches or mass graves around London for Edwina and Booth. Thankfully, this kept him out of Clay's way—most of the time, anyway.

Even now, as he sat there, taking in the repugnant smell of the recently deceased man whose pockets he was looting, he had to question whether it was truly worth it.

Compared to this, maybe Clay wasn’t that bad.

Sighing, the man retrieved a few shillings from the deceased’s pockets, disregarding the crumpled family photo he found in the cadaver’s breast pocket, before slinging the body back into the pit.

"Fuckin’ hell." Resisting the urge to grumble to himself, he quickly made his way around the mass grave and toward the iron-gated exit, briefly taking note of a woman lingering nearby. Clearly, she was looking for something—or, more likely, someone—too overwrought to see reason. If she could, she wouldn’t be outside this late at night, especially unchaperoned and in this part of town.

'𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥—𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘴.' The thought crossed his mind as the woman entered the 'graveyard,' disappearing from his line of sight. She was dressed rather primly and, in any other situation, would likely hold herself up well, he assumed. Clearly, a woman of high standing. Clearly from the West End too.

Brief thoughts of following and robbing her flickered in his mind. He was sure to find something of significant value on her. But in the end, he decided against it. Not only was it too risky, but he had already made the next few weeks’ wages with the possessions of the deceased currently sitting in his pocket. There was no need to draw unnecessary attention to himself.

And with that, he walked off.

Chapter Text

"No!- Please!- I mean you no harm!"

What?

Head snapping up from the shilling that sat balanced between his forefingers that had preoccupied his attention for the last few still moments, the man peered towards the general direction of the distressed holler that echoed through the empty streets. Well what was thought to be empty streets at least.

Clearly they weren't.

The sound of gunshots followed, bullets ricocheting off of what sounded like metal and a few smashing some nearby windows, before there was silence.

The man couldn't help but wince, he knew exactly who fired the gun and what batshit excuse they would use to justify the murder of some innocent bloke they just put a bullet in, or several.

He briefly wonders what the other person did to be accused of being a so called vampire. Not that it took much for the paranoid members of the Priwen to point the finger at someone. Were their teeth a little too sharp? Did they walk strangely? Or was it simply because they were outside at such an hour? Questions that would remain unanswered.

There had been some hesitation in his steps, as he began walking towards the noise, he didn't really know why he was walking. Couldn't recall the moment he pocketed the shilling or the moment he decided he actually wanted to do something here that didn't involve just walking in the other direction, back to the docks.
Maybe it was simply because he knew what the Priwen would do with the corpse, couldn't let the fire take money that would do better in his pocket, could he?

Old bricks wept with dew, as the city's alleys decay and vermin brushed against him as his footsteps quickened, shouts laced with vitriol, '𝘈 𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦!', rang in the man's ears as he finally escaped the labyrinth of corridors, crouching behind a crumbled wall in one of the far corners of the street, he watched as the scene unfolded.

Across from him, a man in blood soaked garments staggered into view, his body language erratic but confused. His head seemed to be on a constant swivel as he looked around, presumably for somewhere to hide as the shouts got closer. He was near stumbling over his own feet, like a lamb finding it's footing.

Pitiful but intriguing.

His eyes naturally drew to a door in the distance, hard to miss—with it being bright red and all and the messily painted warnings over it caught attention too. Warnings of the infected, unsure of whether or not it was Influenza victims inside or the Priwen's, it was still this bloke's best bet.

The man smirked, the faintest trace of amusement playing across his lips. The poor sod staggering about in the open was either completely green or absolutely desperate. Maybe both. Either way, the Priwen weren’t far behind, and if they caught him, they’d fill him full of lead—or worse, torch him like kindling.

He weighed his options once more. He could slink away and let fate play its hand. It wasn’t his fight, after all. But the way the bloodied man swayed, his disoriented gaze darting from shadow to shadow, tugged at some long forgotten part of him. The way the blood gleamed under the moonlight spoke of desperation—a desperation to live.

"Bloody fool," he muttered under his breath as he stepped from the shadows. The soft clink of his boots on cobblestone was drowned out by the shouts growing louder in the distance. He drew closer, staying low, his presence blending into the filth and grime of the street.

“Oi!” he hissed sharply, his voice barely above a whisper but cutting through the stillness. “Over here, unless you fancy bein’ a bonfire!”

Jonathan Reid turned his head sharply toward the voice, his crimson-stained visage illuminated by the faint flicker of a streetlamp. His eyes, wide and filled with a mix of guilt and raw hunger, locked onto the figure crouching in the shadows.

Jonathan hesitated, unsure whether this stranger was friend or foe. But the thunderous stomp of boots and the guttural commands of the Priwen left him little choice. He staggered toward the other, clutching at his chest as if holding himself together.

"Easy now," the man muttered, grabbing Jonathan by the arm and pulling him into the shadows. "You look like hell warmed over, but I’ll wager you don’t fancy the lads comin' this way."

"Please- I have no idea what's going on! I-" Jonathan managed, his voice hoarse and trembling.

The man smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Alright, calm down, I'll help you. Let’s just say I don’t care much for the Priwen’s way of handlin’ things. And if you’re gonna drop dead, might as well owe me a favor first."

He jerked his head toward the red-painted door. "Through there. It’s been boarded up, but I know a way in. Move your feet, or you’ll be dragging 'em."

Jonathan, still dazed and slightly uncertain, nodded and followed the stranger. Behind them, the Priwen’s shouts grew louder, the crackle of torches lighting the street in an eerie orange glow.

He led him to the door, his practiced hands finding the loose panel in seconds. "After you" he said with a wry grin, gesturing for Jonathan to slip inside.

As Jonathan ducked into the darkened building, the graverobber turned back to glance at the approaching Priwen. “Twats.” he muttered to himself before vanishing into the building behind Jonathan.

Chapter Text

The stench of decay hung in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of old wood and damp stone. Jonathan's eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness as the red-painted door slammed shut behind him, leaving only the faintest sliver of light from the streetlamp outside. His heart raced, pulse pounding in his ears like the beat of a drum.

He took a staggered step forward, his hand still pressed to his chest, trying to steady himself. Blood—his blood?—had soaked through his clothes, and his vision swam in and out of focus.

"Well," the man muttered from somewhere behind him, his voice low but filled with unmistakable amusement.
"You're about as much use as a dead dog, aren't you?"

Jonathan blinked, trying to focus on the figure now in front of him, hands braced against the door as though preparing to make sure no one followed. His rescuer was... scruffy-looking to put it nicely, dressed in layers of mismatched clothes, his face hidden behind the crooked tilt of his wide-brimmed hat. His boots clicked on the old wood, moving with practiced ease as if he was accustomed to these shadowed places.

"What... what is this place?" Jonathan rasped, his voice betraying his disorientation.

"Not the Ritz, that’s for sure," the man replied, his tone light but laced with a hint of cynicism.
"It’s a safe house, though, these boarded up ones always are. I’ve hidden plenty of bodies in them in the past. The 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 sure won't be needing 'em" He gave a dry laugh, his eyes glinting with a touch of humor despite the grim circumstances as he gestured to something in the entrance of the next room to Jonathan, a body.
"But I’d suggest you stay conscious long enough for us to make sure you don't become one of 'em, from the shock and all."

Jonathan stumbled, his knees almost buckling beneath him as his mind struggled to make sense of the chaos as he stared at the dimly illuminated body sprawled on the floor. The words 𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩 and 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘸𝘦𝘯 still rang in his ears from earlier, but he couldn't grasp the full weight of it. One moment, he had been in control—an acclaimed doctor, a man of science—and the next, he was drenched in blood and hunted like an animal. With still no clue on what was going on.

A hand shot out, steadying him before he could crash to the floor in a prompt moment of imbalance.
"Keep it together, mate," the man said with surprising gentleness, his voice a strange contrast to the harshness of the world outside.
"You want to end up on a slab, or do you want to figure out how you got into this mess?" 𝘔𝘦𝘴𝘴. Jonathan almost wanted to let out a laugh, such a trivial word for such a matter.

The man's hand fell off Jonathan's shoulder, as he entered the next room, most likely to gawk at the body. Jonathan gathered this man had something of an interest in the dead, for one reason or another.
'𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘳?' The thought crept in as Jonathan tried to remember the last conversation but his mind was reeling too much for any sense to be made.

Jonathan approached the sideboard that was in front, a picture of a man and woman stood upon it—husband and wife, he'd assume. An upstanding couple, presumably a picture of them within their youth if the staining around the edges was any clue to the photograph's age. The woman was quite pretty, a woman that reminded him so much of Mary.

"𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳...𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦?"

His poor, dear Mary.

Jonathan’s chest tightened as his gaze lingered on the photograph. A pang of grief washed over him, sharp and unrelenting.
"Mary, I'm sorry. Whoever did this to us...I will find them.' A whispered promise.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. He chose to focus on the, frankly, strange man muttering to himself in the other room, and hesitantly went to join him.

He was knelt by the corpse and was holding something small and metallic. Jonathan glanced down and froze.

It was a pocket watch, old and worn, yet unmistakable. He recognized the intricate design etched into the casing, the faintly visible initials on the back as the man flipped it around in his hand. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 watch.

The sight of it felt like a dagger through his heart. He had carried that watch for years, a gift from his late father, he had miraculously managed to not lose it during the chaos of the war. Yet here it was, lying next to the lifeless body of a woman he had never met in a house that reeked of death and decay.

"Hey," The man said as he peered up at Jonathan's still form, he couldn't imagine what his face must've looked like, worse than before he'd assume, as the man's eyebrows furrowed and his eyes scanned Jonathan's face— searching.
"What's up with your face?"

"That watch...it's mine. How on earth did it get here?" Jonathan winced at the distance in his voice as his eyes never left the watch. "That's impossible."

"Yours, eh? Funny place to find it. But if it’s yours, take it. The dead don’t have much use for time, anyway" The man said after a moment of silence, finally he stopped staring at Jonathan's face as he rose off his knee, back to his feet, before placing the watch into Jonathan's bloody hand with a shrug.
"I have no use for it either."

Jonathan nodded stiffly, slipping the watch into his trouser pocket. He felt a strange mix of relief and unease as if reclaiming the watch tethered him to some part of his old self, even while the rest of him spiraled into unfamiliarity and finding the watch left him with even more unanswered questions.

The faint trail of blood on the floor caught his eye again, drawing his attention away from the graverobber’s probing stare. It led toward the staircase in the corner, dark and foreboding. He glanced back at the man, who seemed preoccupied once more with examining the woman’s corpse.

"I need... I need a moment," Jonathan said, his voice strained.

The man waved him off dismissively.
"Suit yourself. Just don’t go faintin’ on me, yeah? Last thing I need is another body to deal with."

Jonathan didn’t respond. He turned toward the stairs, his feet moving almost of their own accord. The air grew colder with each step, and the sound of his shoes on the creaking wood echoed unnervingly in the silence. The blood trail glistened faintly in the dim light, leading him upward.

The upstairs was a decent sized hallway, but empty for the most part- excluding the bookcase and random pieces of wood that barricaded one of the doors, a door he would not be trying to open, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper, marked with stains of where photographs once hung. Jonathan approached one of the far doors to the left, which wasn't blocked off by anything, his unease growing.

As he stepped into the room, he was first met with a tarnished standing mirror, that was mostly leaning on the wall in front. For a moment, he avoided looking at it, his gaze fixated on the blood trail that continued across the floor. But something compelled him to glance up.

The breath hitched in his throat.

There was no reflection.

He raised a trembling hand, waving it over the mirror’s surface as if it was the layers of dust that was concealing him, but the glass remained empty. His mind reeled once more, refusing to accept what he was seeing—or rather, what he wasn’t seeing. His heart hammered in his chest, and he stumbled back, gripping the wall for support.

"𝘕𝘰! 𝘕𝘰...𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩." An echo in his mind, in his own voice. When had he said that?

'𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘮 𝘐?' The question clawed at his mind, relentless and horrifying.

He froze in place as he turned and took in the scene that awaited him there.
A man sat slumped in a chair near the window, his body lifeless and pale. Blood stained his shirt collar from the self-inflicted wound in his temple, his hand still loosely holding the gun as it lay limp at his side.
The room smelled of death, stronger here than anywhere else in the house.

Jonathan’s eyes drifted to a small table beside the chair. A leather-bound journal lay there, its cover worn and edges frayed. A needle lay next to it. Pocketing the needle, he hesitated before picking the journal up, his fingers trembling as he flipped through the pages. The man’s handwriting was frantic, his words a chaotic scrawl that hinted at desperation and fear.

The entries mentioned the woman downstairs—his wife. Her strange behavior. Her illness. The changes. Her death. His choice— and the suffocating guilt that followed.
Jonathan’s stomach churned as he read, a sense of dread creeping over him. He set the journal down, unable to stomach any more.

'𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭', He thought desperately. It can’t be.

His gaze fell to the revolver still in the man’s hand. The thought crept into his mind before he could stop it. He reached for the gun, its cold weight familiar yet foreign in his hand.

"𝘞𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘒𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨." The war had made the weight of a weapon all too familiar.

"No. It never got easier."

His breaths came in shallow gasps as he staggered back toward the bed, his mind a whirlwind of guilt, confusion, and despair. Resurfacing memories best left forgotten.

"This makes no sense. None of it." None, at all.

"It's a nightmare, that's it," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"It has to be." Science couldn't explain this. And when Science fails—what left is there?

"So be it."

He pressed the barrel against his chest, a point he knew would kill him fairly quick, closing his eyes.

"Rational thinking only."

His finger tightened on the trigger, and with a sharp, deafening crack, the gun fired.

The impact sent him sprawling onto the bed, but there was no pain. No darkness. No release. He opened his eyes, his hands clutching at his chest where the bullet should have torn through him. Instead, the wound began to heal almost instantly, the blood retreating as if it had a mind of its own, the only remnants being the blood that had already soaked into the fabric of his shirt.

Jonathan’s breathing quickened, his mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. He sat up slowly, staring at his unscathed chest, the realization hitting him like a tidal wave.

He didn't die.

"This is absolute madness. I've lost touch with reality."

'𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔! 𝑨𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒏! 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏?'

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?

A creak on the stairs jolted him back to reality, a reality he was really struggling to grasp.
The man’s voice echoed faintly as he ascended the stairs.
"What the bloody hell was that? You shootin' somethin' up here?"

Jonathan scrambled to his feet, his heart racing. The nightmare wasn’t over—it was only beginning.

Chapter Text

Jonathan barely had time to compose himself—or hide anything—before the door swung open, revealing his 'companion' standing in the threshold, one hand braced against the frame. His eyes swept the room, first landing on the slumped corpse in the chair, then on the gun still clutched in Jonathan's, surprisingly, steady grip.

The man let out a low whistle. "Didn't think you had it in you," he muttered. "Not that I blame you, this place reeks of bad luck. Did you put another hole in 'im just for good measure?"

Jonathan swallowed, forcing himself to hide his shock. "No," he said, his voice barely steady. He slid the revolver into his pocket, an uneasingly familiar motion. "I...I thought I saw something."

The man just cocked his head, his brow furrowed. "Right," he said slowly. "I'd be more concerned if you weren't seeing things. This house's got death steeped into the floorboards."

Jonathan wasn't sure if the man believed him or not, but there wasn't time to dwell on it. The sounds of shouting outside had grown louder, more urgent. The Priwen were close. Too close.

Then, as if fate itself was mocking them, the telltale sound of a door being kicked in downstairs echoed through the house.

"Shit," the man hissed. His hand instinctively went to his belt, where Jonathan now noticed the hilt of a rusted blade peeking from beneath his coat. "We need to go. Now."

Jonathan's thoughts were still tangled in the impossibility of what had just happened, but survival instincts kicked in. He forced himself to move, his body stiff and unwilling, but moving nonetheless.

"The back," the man was already turning toward the hallway. "Most of these places have got a way out—windows, doors to the alley. You good on your feet, or am I gonna have to drag you?"

Jonathan straightened, pushing aside the lingering haze of his failed attempt at escape. "I can move."

The two of them hurried out of the room, their footsteps careful but quick. Below them, the sounds of the Priwen moving through the house were unmistakable—the heavy boots, the scraping of weapons being drawn, the hushed but urgent voices.

"They're here," a voice grunted from the bottom of the stairs. "Spread out. The leech won't get far."

Jonathan's chest tightened. He glanced at the man, who was already moving toward a door at the end of the hall. "Come on," he urged in a whisper.

They slipped into what seemed to be an old study, filled with stacks of rotting books and broken furniture. The graverobber wasted no time, moving toward a grimy window that overlooked the alleyway behind the house.

"Shit," he muttered, peering through the glass. "Bars."

Jonathan clenched his jaw. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. It was never that easy.

The sound of creaking steps behind them signaled they were running out of time. Jonathan glanced around the room, his gaze landing on a battered old writing desk pushed against the far wall. The wood was warped, and one of the legs was broken, but—yes. The faintest glimmer of moonlight seeped through the cracks of what looked like a narrow crawlspace beneath it.

"There," Jonathan whispered, pointing.

The man followed his gaze. His eyes widened slightly, then he grinned. "Smart lad." He wasted no time, crouching low and pushing the desk aside with surprising strength. Beneath it, a small, half-rotted wooden door was set into the floor—probably an old servant's entrance, long forgotten.

Jonathan bent down, gripping the edge. It groaned in protest as he pulled, but it gave way with one final heave. The stench of damp stone and rot hit him immediately, the space below leading to what seemed to be a narrow passage beneath the house.

"No idea where this goes," the man admitted, eyeing the dark hole warily. "Could be a rat's nest for all I know."

"Better a rat's nest than a pyre," Jonathan murmured.

He grinned again. "Fair point."

Footsteps thundered down the hall.

Jonathan didn't hesitate. He slipped down into the passage first, the cold stone pressing against his hands as he lowered himself into the darkness. The man followed quickly, pulling the door shut behind them just as the study door swung open.

They held their breath.

"Nothing here," one of the Priwen men grunted. "But he's close."

A long silence. Then another voice, sharper, commanding. "Check the alley. If the bastard's hiding in the shadows, we'll drag him into the light."

Jonathan exhaled slowly as the boots retreated.

The man let out a quiet chuckle. "Well, that was close."

Jonathan shot him a sharp look. The man only shrugged. "This way," he said, gesturing down the narrow, crumbling passage. "Let's see where the rats scurry, shall we?"

Jonathan nodded, and together they vanished into the dark.

The passage stank of damp earth and the sour tang of stagnant water, the kind that clung to your clothes and never quite washed out—it didn't help that the passage was suffocatingly narrow either.

And then—

The world shifted.

It was like a fog had lifted from his vision, revealing something unnatural beneath. The dark passage was suddenly 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘳, though it wasn’t sight as he had known it before.

The walls faded into a dull grey, the air thick with floating motes of red—𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥. Trails of it, like threads winding through the shadows, pulsing softly in the gloom.

It's like all the colour was sucked from his eyes all of a sudden.

Jonathan staggered, gripping the damp wall for balance. His heart pounded. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?

“You alright?” The man had paused ahead, watching him with a raised brow.

Jonathan swallowed hard, forcing himself to straighten. “I—yes.”

He tore his gaze from the glowing streaks of crimson that lined the floor, the walls, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

He could see it. The blood in his veins. Moving. Flowing.

Could see and 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 the man's heart beating in his chest.

His hunger twisted inside him, sharp and gnawing.

He clenched his jaw and pressed on.

Jonathan moved carefully, his footsteps uneven as exhaustion and his concealed hunger gnawed at him. But the man pressed on ahead, forcing Jonathan to keep up—moving like a man who knew the streets beneath the streets.

Jonathan kept his voice low. "You seem to know your way around."

The man glanced back, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Wouldn't be much of a graverobber if I didn't, would I? When you do what I do, you learn quick—where the bodies get dumped, which streets got cellars no one checks, and most importantly, which piss-pot hidey-holes keep you out of trouble."

'𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘳?' Jonathan struggled to keep up with all of this, it made sense, sure? And of course Jonathan had heard of the profession—if you could call it that—but to meet a man so blatant with it, so willing to admit to such impropriety, was baffling.

The man stopped briefly, crouching to feel along the dirt wall, his fingers pressing against the damp stone. "Aye, here we go," he muttered, and with a bit of effort, he wrenched a loose slab to the side, revealing a narrow opening.

Jonathan hesitated, peering past the man into the gloom beyond. "And this leads...where, exactly?"

The graverobber chuckled, brushing the dust off his hands. "Out, if we're lucky. Close to the docks. That's where we need to be."

The East End Docks. Jonathan vaguely recalled them from his time before the war—though he had little reason to visit back then. A place thick with dockhands, sailors, and men who made their living on the wrong side of the law, men very different to him and the usual company he was expected to keep.
If his guide knew the area well, it meant he was either born to it or had spent long enough skulking in the filth to call it home. Either way, the man had saved his skin thus far, and Jonathan wasn't about to argue with survival.

Suddenly, the passage widened into a crumbling brick archway, and the graverobber led him up a short flight of slick stone steps. He paused at the top, glancing back at Jonathan with a finger pressed to his lips.

Jonathan barely had time to register the warning before the man pushed open a rusted old gate, its hinges groaning in protest. They stepped out into the night air, the scent of salt and coal smoke instantly replacing the damp stink of the tunnel. They had emerged into a tight alley wedged between two warehouses, the wooden walls swollen and warped with years of exposure to the polluted air.

The graverobber exhaled, stretching his arms before shaking out his shoulders. "Right then. We keep our heads down and get to the Turtle." He cast Jonathan a sideways look, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hat. "You 𝘥𝘰 know the Turtle, yeah?"

Jonathan frowned. "No."

The man snorted. "Figures. You got the look of someone who used to drink at places with white tablecloths and piano music." He adjusted his coat. "Turquoise Turtle's a pub, one of the better ones 'round here. Blokes like me keep their heads down there. No one asks too many questions, which-" he gestured vaguely at Jonathan's bloodied state "-seems like a bit of a necessity for you, doc."

Jonathan tensed. "How did you-"

"Oh, don't look so startled." The graverobber started walking, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Your clothes ain't right for a dockhand, your hands ain't calloused enough for proper graft, and when you talk, you sound like you've spent more time lecturing in a hall than brawling in the street. Plus, you looked at that watch like it meant something, not like you were just thinking about what it'd fetch in a pawn shop. Posh types like you don't end up in places like this unless somethin's gone very, very wrong."

Jonathan said nothing. The man wasn't wrong, sadly. Something 𝘩𝘢𝘥 gone very, very wrong—if only he knew what himself.

They kept to the shadows, ducking behind crates and stacks of rotting fishing nets as they worked their way through the winding streets. The Priwen were still out, their patrols sweeping through the docks in twos and threes, torches held high, their voices carrying over the night air.

Jonathan felt the unexplainable hunger gnawing at his insides again, the dull ache growing sharper with every step. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to focus. Now wasn’t the time to lose control, not again, 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

He forced himself to ignore the streaks of blood decorating the cobblestone beneath his feet—for now.

The man led him through a tight warren of alleyways, weaving through the maze of wooden structures that lined the riverfront. A couple of drunks staggered past at one point, oblivious to their presence, and in the distance, the chiming bells of St. Mary’s echoed faintly through the fog.

Finally, the man stopped, nodding towards a squat brick building tucked between two looming warehouses.
The Turquoise Turtle loomed ahead, its weathered brick façade half-hidden by the creeping fog rolling in from the Thames. A battered sign swung above the door, the faded lettering barely visible beneath years of grime. Golden light seeped from the warped wooden windows, cutting through the murk of the East End night, accompanied by the muffled hum of some light conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from within.

The man exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he came to a halt just outside the entrance. “Right, here’s your stop, doc.” He adjusted his coat, tugging it tighter around himself as he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The Priwen patrols were nowhere in sight now, their torchlight long swallowed by the winding streets behind them. “Looks like we gave those bastards the slip. Best get yourself inside before you keel over.”

Jonathan hesitated, glancing at the pub’s door. The thought of stepping inside—of surrounding himself with people in such a vulnerable state—made his stomach twist uncomfortably. His clothes were still damp with blood, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, and worse still, that 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 coiled deep within him, sharp and insistent.

The man clicked his tongue, watching Jonathan’s hesitation with mild amusement. “Ain’t gonna find many better places to catch your breath ‘round here, mate. The Turtle’s got it's share of rough sorts, but they ain’t the type to stick their noses where they don’t belong. Long as you got coin for a drink and keep your head down, no one’ll ask why you look like you crawled out of a grave.”

Jonathan tore his gaze from the door, studying the man who had—against all logic—helped him escape. He had half-expected the man—the graverobber—to try and rob him blind at some point, or at least demand something in return. But the man had led him here without so much as a request for coin or favor.

“You’re not coming in?” Jonathan asked, his voice rough.

The man huffed a quiet laugh. “Not tonight. Got my own business to get back to. Edwina’ll have my guts for garters if I keep pissin’ about all night.” He tipped his hat slightly, his grin crooked and easy despite the night’s dangers. “Besides, you’re a big lad. Reckon you’ll manage.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. There was little else to say. He could barely grasp what had happened since he’d clawed his way back to consciousness in that wretched pit, let alone think of how to thank a man like this.

The man tilted his head toward the pub. “Go on, then. Get inside before someone decides you’re worth askin’ questions about.”

Jonathan hesitated only a moment longer before stepping forward, pushing open the heavy wooden door. A rush of warmth hit him instantly—stale beer, tobacco smoke, the lingering scent of damp wool and unwashed bodies. The dimly lit area was mostly empty, expected—given the time, and area. The only people he could see was a semi-well dressed man behind the counter, a barmaid hastily sweeping the floor, and a man leaning against the bar—clearly very inebriated, perhaps a dockworker?

As the door swung shut behind him, he turned instinctively to glance back. But the man was already gone, vanishing into London's fog.

Chapter Text

The docks were never quiet, even at this hour. Water lapped against the embankments, chains rattled on ships moored further downriver, and a few drunken voices carried from alleyways where men pissed against walls and swayed unsteadily in the dark.

Jonathan would be safe enough in the Turtle. Tom Watts wasn’t the sort to ask questions unless you gave him reason to. The poor sod looked like he’d had the worst night of his life—probably had—but that was none of his concern now.

He needed to get back.

Edwina didn’t take kindly to him disappearing for hours on end, even if it meant dodging the Priwen or keeping their little operations from getting tangled up in the wrong sort of trouble. She liked to know where he was, what he was doing, and more importantly, if he was bringing back anything worth the effort.

His boots scuffed against the cobbles as he rounded a corner, ducking into one of the many maze-like back alleys of the East End. The stink of rotting fish and coal soot was stronger here, mixing with the acrid bite of damp brick and piss-soaked wood. Not the worst he’d smelled, not by a long shot.

He passed a slumped figure wrapped in rags, face half-hidden under a threadbare cap. The man barely stirred as he walked by, too lost to drink or hunger to care. The streets had always been like this to varying degrees but now it was the most common sight, and not just in the East End—the war had seen to that. Too many men never came back, and those that did often wished they hadn’t. Easier to drown yourself in gin than try to claw your way back into a world that had moved on without you.

The hideout wasn’t far. Just past a set of old warehouses, tucked behind a half-collapsed tenement that no one had lived in for years. A convenient place to keep out of sight, though it meant sharing space with rats and the occasional desperate bastard looking for shelter.

When he reached the door, he gave two sharp knocks, then a third, slower than the others.

Silence.

Then the scrape of wood against wood, followed by a muttered curse and the faint shuffle of footsteps. The door cracked open, and a pair of sharp eyes peered out from the gloom.

“Finally decided to show your face, did you?”

Edwina.

The door swung wider, revealing her scowling face framed by the dim glow of a single oil lamp. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other gripping the edge of the door, looking him over like she was deciding whether or not to brain him with something heavy.

He grinned. “Miss me?”

“Thought you'd got yourself done in.” She stepped aside, letting him pass before shoving the door closed behind him. “You been pissin' about all night, or did you actually do something useful?”

“Bit of both,” he admitted, pulling off his hat and shaking out the damp. “Ran into some trouble with the Priwen. Bastards were swarming like rats near the old warehouses. Had to take a few detours.”

She folded her arms. “And?”

He shrugged, moving toward the small table in the center of the room, where an assortment of odds and ends were scattered—things they’d nicked, things they hadn’t found buyers for yet. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed the few shillings from earlier onto the table with a clatter.

“Got these off a body,” he said, nodding towards it. “Not a bad haul, if you ask me.”

Edwina glanced at the coins, then back at him with a raised brow. “Yeah, well, good thing I ain't. That all? No jewellery? Not even a bleedin’ ring?”

“Not every stiff comes gift-wrapped, darlin’.”

She gave a short, dry laugh, rolling the shillings between her fingers. “S’pose it’ll do—for now. If they weren’t still wet with blood, I might’ve thought you’d actually earned ‘em.”

He smirked but said nothing.

Edwina flicked her cigarette ash into a tin, setting the coins down with a careless clink. “If I find out you’re bringin’ heat back here, I’ll have your guts for garters.”

“Since when do I cause trouble?”

That got him a look, sharp as glass.

Fair enough.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the man he’d left at the Turtle. Posh accent, doctor’s hands, looked like he’d been through hell and wasn’t sure if he’d come out the other side yet. Wouldn’t last long in the docks, not looking like that. Not unless he got real smart, real quick.

Didn’t matter. Not his business.

“You done gawpin’ at the walls?” Edwina muttered, watching him through the haze of smoke.

“Long night.”

She scoffed, flicking the last of her cigarette into the tin. “They’re all long.” She pushed off from the table, nodding toward the far side of the room. “Get your head down. You ain’t no use t’me dead on yer feet.”

He tipped his hat at her, smirking. “As you say, boss.”

She muttered something under her breath, shaking her head as she left into the street, most likely to go and see Booth—not something he was going to mention, he enjoyed his life too much to do something so suicidal.

He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face. He’d think about the rest tomorrow. For now, he’d sleep and pretend, just for a little while, that none of it mattered. Pretend that his mind didn't keep going back to that doctor—and wondering if he'd be reading about the bloke being found gutted in the streets outside the Turtle in the morning paper.

But again, not his business.

Chapter Text

'𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.'

Jonathan’s footsteps were cautious as he took in the scene of the—quaint?—pub. The dimly lit space was sparsely occupied, its patrons barely sparing him a glance before returning to their own business, just as the man had said they would.

Slightly reassuring, he supposed. But then, another thought quickly shattered that sense of ease.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘸?

He barely knew where he was, had nothing on him except a pocket watch and a syringe—not exactly items he could brandish in public—and now, he was essentially alone.

And those blood splatters outside weren’t doing much to calm his already frayed nerves.

"Whoa you look like shit."

Jonathan’s attention snapped toward the man leaning against the counter—the same drunk he had noted earlier, possibly a dockworker.

"Yes...I apologise for my outfit. It's been a long night."

He had bigger things to worry about than his appearance, but that didn't stop the flush of shame he felt at being perceived in such a state.

The drunkard scoffed, though there was a note of agreement in it.

"Ain't they all?"

"Where is everyone? It's like everyone is hiding."

"You must be new here...Haven't you heard about the murders? Everyone fears the Sewer Dog."

Murders? Sewer Dog? Jonathan couldn't decide whether there was any sense in what the man was saying or if he was just entertaining a drunk man's imagination. But then again—what had made sense tonight?

"The Sewer Dog? What is that?"

He’d bite—better to entertain the idea than ignore something that might actually be relevant.

"It's the local boogeyman. The convenient answer for every crime that happened for decades. You murdered someone? Blame the Sewer Dog, hah!"

He continued, his words getting more and more blended together as he spoke and swayed on his feet.

"Pah! People will always believe in monsters...it's easier than accepting their own darkness. We can all be monsters."

Jonathan wondered how much of that was true.

"Have you seen anyone come through here tonight, sir?"

Maybe there was a reason for all the blood outside—one that wasn’t just a drunken tale of a boogeyman.

"Can't say, sorry. Spent the night makin' love to that gorgeous bottle, see?"

"This is important, sir. Are you sure no one has come in here in the last few hours?"
If anyone had been here all day, Jonathan would wager it was this man.

"I don't know and I don't care! This is a free country, people still have the right to come and go, don't they?"

The gent was clearly getting annoyed. Best to leave him be, at least for now.
Jonathan doubted he'd get anything more coherent out of him tonight anyway.

He stepped away, glancing around the dimly lit pub. His eyes landed on a young woman on the other side of the pub, sweeping the floor—the barmaid, he surmised. She moved quickly, with a practiced motion, though her gaze flickered toward him now and then, wary but not hostile.

He approached, keeping his movements measured. She stopped sweeping as soon as she caught sight of him coming over.

"Hello, sir. Are you all right? Is there any way I can help you?"

"I don't know, maybe you could just... talk to me?"

"Maybe you'd prefer to speak to Tom, then. He's more agreeable talking to strangers." She's uncomfortable, clearly.

"I just want to talk. I didn't mean to scare you."

The barmaid straightened, easing her tight grip on the broom a bit before meeting his gaze.

"I'm not afraid, sir. It's just... I've other customers to take care of."

Jonathan glanced around the near-empty pub. The only other notable patron was the drunk he'd just spoken to.

"I only see one customer."

"Oh yes, of course. I mean...I must take care of this customer."

"You don't seem to have much business. Where is everybody?"

She hesitated, then sighed.

"Most people are sleeping right now. And those that are awake tend to avoid going out."

Her voice carried a quiet tension, a kind of forced normalcy layered over deeper worry.

Jonathan nodded slightly, taking in her words. It made sense—the streets weren’t exactly welcoming tonight.

"This is Tom's bar, the Turquoise Turtle. I'm the barmaid here, Sabrina, if you wanna know."

Jonathan inclined his head in acknowledgment. "And you keep the place running, I take it?"

She gave a small, tight-lipped smile. "Tom does most of the running. I just keep the drinks flowing and the place tidy. Well, as much as I can anyway."

Her attempt at casual conversation was thinly veiled, but Jonathan didn’t press. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice.

"Has it always been this quiet?"

Sabrina shook her head.

"No, it's only since the epidemic started. Tom thought that people may need a safe place to stay."

Jonathan’s expression darkened.

"What have you heard about the epidemic?"

"The Spanish Flu, yeah..." She exhaled. "Killed so many last summer. I thought we'd seen the last of it. Dozens dying every week."

"Are the authorities doing anything about it?"

"Nothing... There are so many quarantine zones in London now, it's got really hard to travel across town."

Jonathan could believe that. Even getting here had been...eventful.

But it wasn’t just the flu that troubled these people. He could sense the weight in her voice, the unease just beneath the surface.

"Too many dead, sir," she murmured after a pause. "First the epidemic, and now all these terrible murders."

Jonathan stiffened slightly. So it wasn't just some drunk's delusions, there was some truth to it.

"Murders?"

Sabrina nodded grimly, voice lowering as if speaking the words aloud might summon something worse.

"Bodies found in the streets every morning. Drained of blood, it's just horrible."

His fingers curled slightly on the counter. Drained of blood.

"Some say the Sewer Dog is back."

Jonathan met her gaze, searching for any trace of doubt. There was none—only fear.

"The Sewer Dog? What is that?"

"No one knows," she admitted. "People have always disappeared around these parts. The ancients say it's the Sewer Dog coming out to feed. But now he's killing in the streets."

Jonathan let the words settle, his mind racing. A local legend? Or something else entirely?

He needed to learn more. And he had a feeling someone knew something.

"I'll leave you to your work then. Thank you."

Suppose there was only one more person to talk to. He approached the man behind the counter—this must be Tom.

"My God, sir! You look like Jonah's whale just spat you out of hell! Can I get you a drink?"

Drinking was certainly the last thing on his mind right now.

"No...No, I'm not thirsty."

"Well, grab a chair and get some rest. This is going to be another long night." Tom said with a resigned sigh.

"Why is it going to be another long night?"

"You must be new around here. Don't you know about the murders?"

Finally, his 'acquaintance' from earlier seemed sure that Tom knew a lot of what went on around here and about the sorts of people that came in here—he has to know something, surely.

"Tell me about these murders."

"Every morning for the last few weeks, bodies have been found, and those poor sods didn't die of the flu."

He seems so sure it's homicide, even with the daily growing Influenza death rate.

"Do the authorities have any leads on a suspect?"

"Nah. Even before the outbreak, coppers never came around here, we're on our own. People die in these parts all the time and no one cares."

Jonathan could tell it was probably time to stop pushing the topic, especially if they all could already tell he wasn't from the area—as everyone he's met tonight has 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 pointed out. He didn’t need any more people wanting to see him lying in the streets tonight.

"So, you're open all night?"

"Yep, figured people might need a place to rest in these dark times."

"Aren't you scared?"

"Scared? Of what? All the bad shit happens out on the foggy streets, and I never go outside." Tom let out a slight laugh. A way of lightening the mood, perhaps.

Jonathan couldn't tell if Tom's dismissiveness of danger was due to foolishness or bravery.

"Have you seen anyone else come through here tonight?"

"It's been quiet tonight. The only other person I've seen went straight up to his room. Thought it was quite rude, actually."

"You mean he's still here?" He would've come straight to Tom if he'd knew that.

"Well, yes. He paid for the entire week." Tom paused for a moment, probably wondering if it was wise to tell Jonathan.
"He rented the room a few days ago and he didn't say when he'd leave."

"Who is this man? What does he look like?"

"Like a gentleman, I guess? Well dressed and quite polite."
"A professor or something fancy like that, always writing and reading notes."

"I need to meet this man. I have questions."

"Just climb the stairs and knock on the first door. I heard him open his window so I guess he's still awake...And sir?
No funny business, you hear me? This is a respectable establishment."

Jonathan wasn't quite sure how to take that. But he gave a nod regardless.

"Thank you. Goodbye."

Jonathan could hear a man talking before he was even half way up the stairs. This mystery individual wasn't discreet clearly.

The words became clearer to him as he crept closer to the door.

"This is no place for you. Priwen has several patrols roaming the area."

"They do not pursue me." A woman's voice?

A lot more faint than the man's.

"But, they are looking for vampires and they are most efficient!"

"They'll not relent until the killer has been identified."

"I have a common objective, but I require more time-"

"Shh! I think someone is eavesdropping."

"Are you certain?"

If the man is surprised, he hides it fairly well.

"You might as well come in, whoever you are."

After a brief moment of hesitation, Jonathan willed himself to open the door. He needed to speak to this man, even if he was in the presence of a lady. A lady, Tom hadn't mentioned going upstairs with this man.

But, as Jonathan opened the door, it was almost as if he was bolted to the floor, as he was accosted with a bright light, in the shape of a crucifix.

"Slowly, vampire! Who are you?"

"I-I mean you no harm." It was a struggle to get the words out.

"Sayeth the vampire. Present yourself."

The man kept Jonathan at a distance, slowly making his way to one side of the room, as Jonathan continued being blinded.

"I need a word, with anyone."

As the man took a seat at the desk, and put the blasted crucifix down, it felt like Jonathan had been released from near drowning. He took deep breaths, as if he needed too, and gasped and let out what sounded like a wheeze. It was almost human.

"Well, that's something I can do for you"

Jonathan almost resented how chipper the man sounded saying that, after that whole debacle.

The man gestured to the chair in front, which Jonathan took.

"And who might you be?"

"I'm not sure I know anymore?" And Jonathan hated that answer, but he couldn't think of another one. For it was true regardless, what was he now?

"Might I at least learn the reason of your presence?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Sir, you have entered my room in the middle of the night, pale as a corpse and shaking like a tree. So please, indulge me."

"Someone—something—is molesting people. In fact, killing them. Biting them."

"The calling card of a vampire, like you..."

The tone in which that was said seemed to grate on Jonathan’s already frayed nerves.

"I've been hunted down in the streets and attacked. I'm a victim here to."

The man seemed taken aback.

"I, I believe you."

Jonathan wasn't sure 𝘩𝘦 believed that.

"Then if you are not a vampire, who or what are you?"

"Dr Edgar Swansea of the Brotherhood of Saint Paul. I'm preforming an independent investigation here in an attempt to understand precisely what is going on."

"What have you uncovered concerning the murders?"

"It started a few nights ago. Rumours of violent murders."
"The docks have always been, shall we say somewhat unsavoury, but this is different."

"How different?"

"A vampire is at work here. Famished. Reckless. It must be brought to ground and quickly."

At least they could agree on that.
But, the voice he heard before coming in here was still bothering him. Who was this man hiding?

"I heard another voice, that of a woman. Who were you talking to?"

"Ridiculous! I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Something tells me not to trust you."

"Then the feeling is mutual."

At least he's honest.

"And what exactly is this Brotherhood?"

"Sir, if the name is not familiar to you, then we shall discuss it another time."

"Then help me find the culprit!"

"I may, if you'll first tell me why you opened this door?"

"There was a trail throughout the docks, the scent of blood from a recent victim. It led here."

Jonathan thought it best to not mention his scandalous 'escort'.

"You thought I was you aggressor. That explains a great deal. We're both chasing the same shadow."

"A shadow. Indeed. Yet, I heard his voice in my head. There was a moment I believed I was mad."

That moment had yet to pass.

Edgar studied his face for a moment, his folded hands tensing for a moment, his nails lightly scratching the desk. And when he spoke next, his voice was solemn.

"You should let me handle this affair. You have no idea what you're up against."

"No! I will find the monster. He's mine."

"How will you do any better than I? But then let me ask you this: what are your intentions if you find the killer?"

What would he do? Slay it? Demand answers? 𝘗𝘪𝘵𝘺 it?

"I, I don't know yet."

"Hmm. Then I can only wish you good hunting and pray we shall meet again."

"Quite." And with that note, Jonathan quickly departed the room. Feeling the eyes of this Edgar Swansea, following him the entire way intill the door closed behind him.

'If Swansea is not my attacker. It means somebody else came here tonight. Someone must know something'

Sabrina, the barmaid, was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Not that it made much of an improvement—more like an idle task to keep her hands busy than any genuine attempt at actual cleaning. She had to have seen whoever was here previously, and chosen to not say.

She quickly stood when he approached.

"Evening, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I have a few questions for you." Her shoulders stiffened even more at that, but with a sigh, she relented.

"Well, if you must."

"I spoke to Dr Swansea. He's not the man I'm looking for. Now, I want the truth."

"The truth? What do you mean?"

"I suspect that someone else was here tonight—and I don't think Tom wants to tell me about it."

"I'm just the barmaid here, okay? If Tom says you're the only visitor we've had, then you're the only visitor we've had."

"I can see your apprehension, Miss. Tell me what's really going on."

"It's Will...William Bishop. He came in earlier tonight and he-" She paused, considering her words.
"Well, I thought he was going to clock someone."

"Why are you so afraid?" Surely she'd be use to drunken disorder as a barmaid?

Her face twisted in disgust.
"I mean his skin—his hands. I scrubbed every glass and chair he touched. God, I hope he's not contagious."

"What happened?"

"He was dead drunk, as usual. But my God, his eyes...his face. He must've caught something awful. He shouted and cried. It was terrible."

"Tell me about this William Bishop. Generally."

"William was a sailor—worked at the canning factory before he lost that job. A nice bloke, really. He's never been violent—'til tonight."

"Why keep it a secret? Why not tell me about it?" Might've saved him an awkward encounter with a certain frustrating gentleman.

"Tom's nothing if not loyal. When William lost his job, he offered him one here. They use to be good mates, but recently, well, Will started to get very aggressive."

"I see. Thank you for your candour. I'll be sure to talk to Tom."

Tom had clearly noticed Jonathan speaking with Sabrina. As he approached, Tom set down the glass he was cleaning and looked up.

"Welcome back. Did you find what you were after?"

"I can't say I have. Are you sure no one else came into your bar before my arrival?"

"Hey, I told you—you were the only other stranger I've had."

"I know your friend William Bishop was here earlier tonight."

Tom's expression hardened, as he'd been caught.
"Fine. Will came by tonight. But he's not my friend anymore."

"Why lie to me, then, if he's not your friend?"

"I didn't lie! I said you were my only unannounced customer and that's the truth."

"Is he dangerous?"

"Nah. Like most drunks, he's all bark and no bite. He can barely stand up most of the time."

"How was he tonight? Was he different?"

"Sicker than usual, perhaps. He whined and mumbled about how mean people were to him, and how he wanted to talk to me outside, then he left after I refused."

"I need to find him. It's a matter of urgency. Do you know where he is?"

"Suppose you could try his boat. It's up by the North pier, he sleeps there when he's too drunk to get home."

"Please describe him to me."

"What do you expect? He's a tall, sick, bastard with a bad rash and torn old clothes? William use to be strong, now he's a mess."

"Thank you, Tom."

"If you see him... tell him I don’t want to see him round here until he sorts himself out, yeah?"

The name lingered as he stepped away from the bar once more.

William Bishop. North Pier.

The North Pier wasn’t far, but something told him this wouldn’t be simple. Nothing had recently. Not with that hunger still gnawing at him. Not with the blood still calling.

He was hunting answers, not just a man, and he was unsure if he'd like the outcome.