Chapter Text
Some nights were more suited to hunting the undead than others. February 14, 1890, was dark, damp, and just cold enough to make one’s skin prickle. Dr. Lawrence Abraham Van Helsing checked his watch by match light. Two A.M. and still an hour until moon-rise. He doused the match and settled in for the long wait.
After four months of hunting necromancers on the Continent, he'd expected a vampire hunt in East London to be a welcome respite. At least, that's how his day started. Now, at two and with no sign of Mr. Aloysius Bartleby, it was a different matter. He pulled his coat close and lit another match.
His Gladstone had everything he needed to quickly dispatch one of the undead--be they vampire or otherwise. He dug around amongst the wooden stakes, garlic bulbs, and holy water until he found his hip flask.
A quick swig of whiskey set his mood back on track.
"Now if Bartleby shifts his dusty knickers and gets to it, I can get back to my bed." He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and sighed. "I'm getting too old for this."
He was contemplating, not for the first time, an early retirement when the sound of footfalls rang through the cemetery. The doctor leaned forward, listening closely as they grew louder.
A man shot past him, breathing heavily. Even in the darkness of the cemetery, Van Helsing could tell that the man was dressed in the finest evening wear. The man paused, leaning on a tombstone to catch his breath, before disappearing into the night.
Van Helsing stood, clasping a wooden stake. Whatever was chasing him couldn't be pleasant. He turned, scanning the landscape for danger.
His inspection was cut abruptly short by someone running straight into him. They fell in a heap at his feet.
"Why didn't y'all get out of the way?"
He grabbed the young lady and untangled her from the long-handled shovel she was carrying. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't see you coming--"
She cut him off with a sharp blow to the ribs. "I almost had him!" She struck him again, this time with the handle of her shovel. "I was this close!"
Van Helsing wrestled the shovel from her hands. "What are you doing chasing a man through a cemetery at this time of night?"
She ripped the weapon from his grip and drove the handle into his ribs a second time. "I'm gettin' my revenge and you're not gonna stop me."
She disappeared into the fog before he could gasp out a reply.
He fell to his knees, clutching at his bruised ribs. He pounded his fist against the damp earth, fighting back tears. There was no doubt in his mind that his ribs were cracked in several places.
An injury of this caliber would need immediate medical attention. Luckily he knew a doctor who was always awake at odd hours and used to odd injuries. At the very least, he wouldn’t ask any embarrassing questions.
* * *
“What have you been doing with yourself, Abraham?” Dr. Watson shook his head at his friend. “You look at though you’ve been wrestling a pig in its sty.”
“Nothing of the kind, old friend.” He laughed, easing himself into one of the doctor’s comfortable chairs. “An unlikely encounter in Tower Hamlets that left me worse for wear. I would have waited until morning, but it’s imperative that I get back to the cemetery before dawn and— and I think I’ve cracked my ribs.”
He clucked his tongue. “One of these days you’re going to hurt yourself and then what will become of your ‘crusade against darkness?’”
“I suppose it will come to an untimely end along with me. Tell me, how is the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes fairing these days? Did I hear something about a carbuncle of unlikely color?”
Dr. Watson gave the professor a sharp rap on the back of the head. “This is no time to be inquiring about criminal matters. Do you have any idea what today is?”
“Yes—February 14—oh! Watson! Forgive me! I had no notion of the date. I promise, it’s just another day to me— please, I’ll find another doctor—”
“There is no harm done! Mrs. Watson has been asleep since midnight and it isn’t properly St. Valentine’s day until morning. She won’t mind. You know how fond of you she is.”
He grimaced, trying to smile through the pain. “She’s far better than both of us put together.”
“I already knew that,” the doctor drawled. “Now let’s get this shirt off and see what the damage is.”
* * *
Van Helsing was back in Tower Hamlets Cemetery just in time to see the waning crescent moon rise above the tombs. He sat with his back against a headstone and clutched his injured side and took a quick sip of the "medicinal" brandy Dr. Watson provided, cursing the girl and her quest for revenge.
It was still three hours until sunrise, which gave him just enough time to find Bartleby's tomb and dispatch him. If he didn't keep to his schedule there was a good chance that he would meet the local constable on his morning rounds. Law enforcement was the bane of the vampire hunter's existence.
He sat and listened to the city sleep. There was no time for research between his arrival in England and when he first stepped foot in the cemetery. Bartleby's tomb was somewhere within yards of where he was sitting. He was sure of it. But the thin moonlight wasn't bright enough to illuminate the names on the tombs and he didn't want to attract any kind of undue attention.
There was the sound of rock crumbling nearby and he leaned back into the shadow. He took quick, shallow breaths. Something was moving between the headstones.
"Hiding from something?"
He jumped, knocking his head against the stone. "You shouldn't scare a person like that," he hissed at the girl with the shovel.
She lounged beside him, leaning on a nearby headstone. "I'm tryin' t' decide if you're a resurrectionist or a corpse-fucker."
He choked on a mouthful of whiskey. "Neither! I could have any number of legitimate reasons to be here."
"At three in the morning? Not a chance. So, which are you?"
"Neither," he insisted, "I'm a vampire hunter."
She snorted. “Isn’t that kind of a silly profession for a man of your age?”
He slid the flask into his pocket and rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a vampire to find.”
"Suit yourself, but Bartleby hasn't been here in weeks."
He squinted at her, trying to make out her facial expression. "Oh?"
"I like to keep track of the comings and goings in my cemetery. If you're interested, there's a pretty young lady who was buried in plot 113 not twelve hours ago who might satisfy your unnatural desires."
"Is she a vampire, ghoul, or spirit of some kind?"
"I see. You're a monster fucker, not a corpse fucker. Well, to each their own, sugar. She's none'a those."
He grimaced, not bothering to correct her assumptions before taking his leave.
"Where're y'all goin'? Aren't y'all curious about where Bartleby went?"
"I'm more curious as to how you seem to be speaking with a mouthful of mud. Goodbye."
Her footsteps thudded toward him. "I'm from Lou'siana."
"I'm not surprised."
"Funny, most people say I sound a little French. That’d be maman comin’ through a touch, I expect. She was a Parisian debutante. The most beautiful girl in her year. Yessir, my maman sure is pretty. I take after her, I supp—”
Van Helsing put his arm out and stopped her. "Why are you following me?"
"I want t' be there when you realize I was right and you were wrong. I also reckon that you'd like to know the 'xact location of Bartleby's tomb."
"I already know where Mr. Bartleby's tomb is."
"Where?"
He cleared his throat. "Somewhere in this general vicinity."
"That so?" She sucked her teeth. "I bet y'all'd like t' be really sure before you break in."
"I am sure."
"Then I'll leave you to it."
He tapped his foot for a few seconds, trying to make out the shapes of the nearby tombs. The Bartleby tomb had some kind of Gothic statue on the roof. If he could spot it he would be able to prove the tiresome girl wrong.
There wasn't a statue in sight.
"Miss," he sighed, realizing that he didn't know how to address her, "Miss, if your heart is set on showing me where Mr. Bartleby is buried, then I won't disappoint you."
She let out a bark of laughter. "He's right behind you."
Van Helsing whirled around only to find himself nose-to-door with a tomb. The exterior was the tackiest of white marbles and glowed slightly even in the wan moonlight. A marble gargoyle sat on the roof, its mouth twisted into a hideous laugh.
He felt the girl at his elbow. "Aloysius Joachim Bartleby, born May the 3rd, 1710, died July 20th, 1760, may he rest in peace," she read. "I guess that didn't work out for him too well."
Van Helsing drew a stake from his Gladstone and pushed the door inward. "Thank you for your help, that will do."
"I wouldn't bother."
He hesitated on the doorstep. "I assume you know something I don't."
"Well, see, Bartleby was a moneylender in both life and un-death. That's how come the tomb is so well kept even after almost a hundred 'n fifty years. Now, Bartleby was over in Spitalfields this past week collectin' from some a' his debtors and it didn't go s' well for him."
"How?"
"Some a' the locals got wind of him bein' one a' the undead and they decided to take the laws of nature into their own hands. Now, I don't s'pose they can be convicted in a court of our laws any more than you could-- wait, sorry, y'all can be convicted of grave desecration. The fine people of Spitalfields are only on the hook for littering and even that's doubtful on account of the fact that they swept him up when they were done.”
He repressed the urge to scream at the moon. It was three-thirty now, two and a half hours until sunrise, and his job had already been done by the honest working folk of the East End. He was cold, miserable, and a little drunk. “What am I meant to do now?”
“Not my problem, good sir. But, if’n you’re lookin’ for a way t' pass the time I have something a little stronger than that brandy in your pocket waitin' for me at home.”
“Do you promise to not fracture any more of my ribs?”
"Of course."
“Then lead the way.”
She grabbed him by the elbow. The path through the graves was long and winding— made longer by her stopping every few yards to let wil-o'-whisps float by.
One flew close to her face and he caught a glimpse of her in the fleeting light. It was an impression of a sharp nose and full lips that quickly faded from his tipsy thoughts.
"Don't worry about them. They're only dangerous if you don't know where you're goin' and I know where I'm a-goin'."
"What kind of doom does Tower Hamlets hold for the poor souls who don't know where they're going?"
"Usually Bartleby or one of the ghouls. Although Patches and company don't usually go in for living flesh. Now that Bartleby's gone I reckon they'll go back to tripping unsuspecting mourners with the tombstones. They think it's funny."
She stopped him in front of a crumbling tomb. The only signs of upkeep were a wooden door reinforced with iron rods and a holly bush growing in a pot next to the doorstep.
"Here it is," she said, "my home away from home."
He eyed the crooked lintel. "You live here?"
"It's got four walls 'n a roof that keeps out the rain much better 'n that shack they expected me t' live in. I'm not awful picky."
She pulled open the door and slipped inside.
Van Helsing stood on the doorstep and hesitated for the second time that night. It all felt like some kind of trap. He had no idea who this girl was--or even what she looked like. She could knock him out and rob him blind and he would never be able to describe her to the authorities. She could even be some kind of monster herself, ready to kill him without a second thought for what he did to her kin.
The door swung open and a lantern appeared, closely followed by the girl. "Aren't y'all goin' t' come inside?"
He swallowed his worries and stepped over the threshold.
The girl hung her oil lamp from a hook in the middle of the ceiling and turned her attention to a little table in the corner next to a coal stove. She poured two glasses of a suspiciously clear liquid and turned to face him.
"How d' y' take yours?"
He gulped at the sight of her. "I'll take it straight."
"Good, I like a man who can take his liquor." She handed him the glass and pushed him into the tomb's only chair. "So were y'all really after Bartleby? I still find it hard to believe that you're a vampire hunter."
He downed the liquor in a single gulp and relished the burning sensation in his throat. He needed all the time he could get to scrape his thoughts together.
The girl was not a girl. In the darkness of the cemetery, he'd only been able to see a vague, child-sized outline; but she was taller and older than he'd assumed. Her hair was a violent shade of orange that brought several unflattering nicknames to mind. It clashed with the bright red military jacket she was wearing and made her almost painful to look at.
But none of this was what drew his attention. It was her face, smeared with dirt and liberally freckled, that caught his eye. He set his empty glass down on the floor and stood before her, peering into her bright green eyes.
"Don't y'all think you're gettin' a little too close for comfort?"
He shook his head. "What--?" He shook his head again, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and taking her chin lightly in his hands.
"Do I have somethin' on my face? I was digging a grave earlier and almost fell in."
"Shh!" He wiped the dirt from her cheeks and blinked. "They're still there." He ran his fingers across the long, red scars that stretched from the edges of her mouth to her jaw. "What did you get on your face? It won't come off."
"Oh, Lord. How much have you had to drink tonight?"
“I can hold my liquor—unless you drugged me.”
“I didn’t and you can’t.” She gently guided him back to the chair. “They’re scars, sir, and I don’t cotton to people goin’ around touching my face without permission; but I’ll give you a pass since you’re legless.”
“I am not.” He caught a whiff of his own breath. “Maybe I am. What did you give me?”
“Moonshine. I brew it myself. I must say, I never saw anyone take an entire glass in one go a'fore. I thought you knew what you were doin'.”
He shook his head a third time. “What happened to you?”
“You’re a little out of touch, aren’t you? Two years ago there was a madman running 'round the East End huntin' whores an’ one night he caught me instead. He cut up my face and,” she lifted her chin, displaying a scar that stretched from ear to ear, “slit my throat.”
He squinted through the alcoholic fog clouding his vision. His deductive reasoning skills were deteriorating by the second and his ribs hurt. Why did his ribs hurt so much? Oh, right. She’d cracked them in half a dozen places. Or was it a dozen? It felt like a dozen.
“How— How did you survive?” He managed to ask.
“A good Samaritan stopped and saved me. Are y’all feelin’ okay?” She frowned, leaning in to get a closer look at his face. “You look a little worse for wear. Are you sure you only had a little whiskey earlier?”
“It’s the pain,” he laughed, “But how did you survive getting your throat cut?”
“I’m not easy to kill and he used the wrong kind of knife.”
“I don’t understand.”
She shook her head. “You’re the densest man I ever met and a piss poor vampire hunter if'n y' can't figure out what I'm a'tryin' t' say. I’m a werewolf. The knife wasn’t silver. How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“Aren’t you burying the lead a little? How long have you been afflicted?”
“I’m not sick. How many drinks have you had?”
“Two brandies with supper, a little nip before I came to the cemetery, another little nip when I got here, the flask of brandy Watson gave me, and the drink you gave me. How long have you been a lycanthrope?”
“Since I was born. My papa is one. That’s an awful lot of alcohol for one old man to drink. Do y’all need a place to sleep it off?” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the cot sitting up against the wall. “It isn’t much, but the quilt is clean and there’re no bugs in it.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. The room was beginning to sway. “I’m not old and I can hold my liquor.”
“Fine, you’re middle-aged, but you're also drunk. C’mon, get over here.” She lifted him out of the chair and carried him bridal style over to the cot.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting you to bed, grandpa.” She dumped him on the quilt. “Now lie down until you can see straight.”
She retreated and tucked herself into the chair.
Van Helsing watched her pull a long-stemmed pipe from her pocket and stuff it with tobacco. She surveyed him closely as she lit it.
“Is the room spinnin’?”
“Not anymore.”
“Good. In a few minutes I’ll get you a glass of water. Now, while you’re recovering, I’d like t' ask what a respectable middle-aged man like yourself is doing in a cemetery hunting vampires.”
He contemplated her question. “Before I answer, may I know your name?”
“You sound like my mother. It’s Rosie.”
He nodded. “How old are you, Rosie?”
“I’ll ignore the personal nature of that question and answer it anyway: twenty.”
He nodded again. “I thought so.”
She set down the pipe. “Still a little misty?”
“Yes.”
“Stay put, I’ll be right back with your water.” She disappeared through the tomb’s doors and reappeared a few moments later with a glass full of water. “Don’t worry yourself, it’s good clean rainwater.”
He took a deep drink. “Thank you.”
“While we’re on the subject of names and ages, I’d like to know yours.”
“Dr. Abraham Van Helsing,” he reached into his pocket and handed her his card, “I’m forty.”
Rosie frowned at the card. “Was one degree not enough for you? Which one of these is the professorship?”
“Metaphysics.”
“What’s that when it’s at home?”
“The study of abstract concepts like being, knowing, and identity.”
“So you’re not a real doctor?”
He bristled. “I’m very much a real doctor, thank you.”
“Fine. If you’re a real doctor, then how do I get rid of my cough?”
“Stop smoking for a start.”
She rolled her eyes. “You still haven’t answered my question. What is a man like you—with three degrees, albeit useless ones—doin' hunting vampires in Tower Hamlets?”
“I told you. It’s what I do.” He took another gulp of the water. “Thank you for the water, but I should be going.”
“Not until I get a better explanation than that.”
“Fine. Twenty years ago, around the time you were born, Leiden University fired me for insisting that vampires were real and that I could prove it. On any other occasion I would have gotten a teaching position and a raise, but since I paired my hypothesis with evidence that I found robbing graves in Begraafplaats Groenesteeg earlier that year, I was fired. I was lucky that I wasn't arrested for grave desecration, too.” He sat up and scowled at her. “It wasn’t a good year for me.”
She smiled. “It was a good year for me.”
“Now I have a question for you: what is a silly little thing like you doing living in a tomb?”
“I’m the gravedigger. The little shack by the gate gets robbed more times a month than th' whore on the corner gets fucked. It’s safer here 'n the owners don’t care much where I sleep as long as the graves get dug. Are you sure you want to get up? You still look a little wobbly.”
“I’m fine.” He tried to stand and fell backward onto the cot. “Back to normal.” He tried a second time with the same result.
“One more time and y'all'll be approaching insanity. Why don’t you spend the night? I promise not to take advantage of you.”
He eyed her warily. “Where will you sleep?”
“In the chair, on the floor. I’m not picky.”
“I don’t know—”
“Listen, I’m in no mood to mop your blood off the cobblestones out front. Stay put a'fore I make you.”
“Was that a threat?”
“It was.”
He slipped off his shoes and tucked himself under the quilt. She was right—it was clean and bug-free. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” Rosie grinned. “Y’know, doc, I have a feeling that this is the start of something really fun.”
“Fun. Wonderful.” He turned to face the wall. “Just what I needed.”