Chapter Text
McCullum collapsed against a tombstone, graceless. Rude probably, but the dead had other worries, and he had a bad wound that needed patching. Well, he had several bad wounds that needed patching, but at some point during the walk over, they had managed to all sort of meld into one long running thrum of pain throughout his body.
Needless to say, his battle with that leech, Reid, hadn’t gone quite as planned.
Now, the blood of King Arthur was truly running thin in his veins, and the reality of his condition was starting to worry him. He was worse than he had initially considered. Of course, bleeding out on some poor sod’s tomb wasn’t really in his planner, so Geoffrey scrounged up what little strength he had left to start shredding his jacket into makeshift bandages.
“I’ll show you the mercy you never showed me,” Reid had said, as if he were somehow better than him. Like that fucking leech was some kind of martyr! Like sparing the life of someone who had just sworn to kill him absolved him somehow.
Impromptu bandages made, Geoffrey grimaced as he pulled a large flask out of the hidden pocket in his boot. He wasn’t going to enjoy this. Taking a large gulp of the whiskey to fortify himself, the hunter quickly dashed some onto his wounds, gritting back a scream as the alcohol did its work.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he whispered, throwing the flask away from himself and grabbing the first bit of cloth. His movements were automatic from years of shoddy patch jobs, and even as Geoffrey felt lightheaded from the pain—and really, all the events tonight—he managed to pull off a decent bandaging.
“I’ll show you the mercy you never showed me,” Some kind of bloody mercy anyway! Left alone, bruised and bloodied while the other went off to play the good doctor. Reid might have every bloody naïve fucking soul in the city convinced, but Geoffrey knew better than to let some kind of…fucking leech get into his head!
Being bandaged up was all well and good, but a patched up bloody wound wouldn’t mean much if he stayed outside on a cold, wintery London night with only what could graciously be called the tattered remains of a shirt and some torn up breeches. He needed to get back home to Priwen headquarters, where there were real doctors who could tsk and fret over the state of him and real beds with real sheets and real comrades who he could trust with his life. Why did he even come to this god forsaken graveyard anyway? If he wanted somewhere quiet to lick his wounds, there were a thousand other places he could have gone. He needed to get up, get home.
Perhaps in just a couple minutes. He was so tired; Geoffrey could allow himself to rest for just a couple minutes.
“I’ll show you the mercy—”
“Yeah, fine, I get it! Shut up. Shut up! I’m alive because you let me live. You’re so fucking powerful! Congratulations, you fucking leech! You did it. Good job now get the fuck out of my head!”
“You know, they say talking to yourself might be a sign of insanity,” the bemused voice of a woman came from his left. Geoffrey rocketed around, reaching for his gun, only to fall back against the tombstone as his wounds flared up.
Slowly, he cocked his head to look at the newcomer.
She was wealthy. That was more than obvious. Draped in a fine, black dress with sleeves comprised almost entirely of lace, she carried herself with pride, her shoulders cocked back over a straight spine as her hands folded over her sternum. Her hair was raven black and pulled into an elaborate bun. Her face was striking: long, with cheekbones so high and hollowed out that she appeared almost starved. She had dark shadows under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept in day.
But for all of that, what McCullum noticed first were her eyes themselves, red almost end to end, as if she had busted the veins in her eyes, but Geoffrey knew better.
“Fucking leech,” He growled. The creature shifted, as if to shrug off the name and cocked a sardonic little smile at him.
“Poor hunter,” she said, “to find prey so near and be able to do nothing,” She span in a little circle, like a delighted child. Her dress, much more ragged and bloodied than Geoffrey had at first realized, tangled about her legs as she turned to face him, “What is it like to feel so useless?”
“Try and come near me, and I’ll show you useless,” Geoffrey shot back. It was an empty threat, and she seemed to know it, staring at him inquisitively but not afraid. When the moonlight hit her face just right, Geoffrey thought he might be able to see a bloody wound on her left cheek.
“I don’t think you’re mad,” she said suddenly. The non-sequitur caught McCullum off guard.
“What?”
She braced her left elbow against her right hand and waved her arm through the air thoughtfully, “You were screaming at no one, but I don’t think you’re mad,” She sneered angrily at nothing in particular, “So who were you talking to? Earlier, I mean,”
“Before you interrupted, you mean?” She nodded, “None of your business leech, and the fuck are you asking for anyway?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she huffed. Her head lolled back, and she stared at the sky, “I suppose I am bored and you are here. I just thought I’d have a little fun before you die,”
McCullum bared his teeth, “Think again leech! You ain’t going to play your games with me tonight. Try and kill me or leave, but don’t waste my time,”
She glanced back at him, and Geoffrey was struck with the thought that she looked familiar. He couldn’t place where he knew her from though. Perhaps he had run into her on a patrol night?
“I hardly have to try anything. With wounds like those, you’ll be dead by daylight,”
“Yeah? So will you. Guess we’ll see who can hold out the longest then, yeah?”
“Really?” She giggled, “yes lets!”
With that, she practically skipped over to him, settling just at the edge of arm’s reach, folding her legs in front of her and smoothing out her dress. With her this close, Geoffrey could see that what he took for ragged holes in her dress must have been just tricks of the light and blood loss, for her dress was finely made and practically new, contrasting beautifully against her pale, unblemished skin.
“Oh, for fucks sake, you gotta be kidding me,” Geoffrey banged his head against the poor sod’s tombstone—gently, he didn’t want to add to his pain, “I came here to get away from you leeches,”
“That’s strange. People typically only come to graveyards for two reasons, and one of them is specifically to see the dead,”
“Great and it thinks it’s funny too,” Geoffrey mumbled. The vampire huffed, offended, and looked away, casually observing their surroundings. Her hands were a study in movement, often twisting round each other or occasionally tugging on a loose strand of hair or pulling on an imaginary piece of lint. Sometimes, she would cock her head and go still, as if she were listening to something. After a few seconds, she would go back to watching the world, for all intents and purposes seemingly totally to forget that Geoffrey was even there.
That suited him fine, really. He made another attempt to grab a weapon, or make any real significant movements, but it seemed the last of Arthur’s blood had truly worn off, leaving him leaden. He managed to bring one arm up to scratch at an itch on his nose, but that sapped what little strength he had gathered.
Resigned to the fact that he was stuck here until death or some miracle occurred, Geoffrey settled in for the haul and asked, “What’s the other reason?”
“Hmm?” She replied.
“The other reason people come to graveyards,” He clarified.
“Oh, to be buried. Of course, what did you think it would be?” She snickered before snapping her attention fully on him, “Does this mean you are ready to have a real conversation at last?”
“Are you trying to make me regret this?”
“Not particularly, you simply make it too easy.” She looked away, “You’re so easy to rile up, just like my brother,”
“Brother?” came out of Geoffrey’s mouth before he could think better of it, “Don’t tell me another leech is going to crawl out of the woodwork,”
“No, I don’t think he will come here. Too many bad memories--too many ghosts.”
“Yeah? Then what are you doing here, leech?”
“My name is Mary,”
“Why do I care?”
“This may be the last conversation you ever have. For your sake, you might as well pretend it’s not with a monster,” She sneered, and the reds of her eyes glinted like tears, “And to answer your question: I’m here because I belong here. I suppose this may be a punishment,”
“Punishment for me maybe, leech,” Geoffrey muttered, “if I have to listen to another sob story from another leech,”
“You would mock even this?” She stood up slowly, her eyes wide and hollow and menacing, “do you know nothing sacred?”
Geoffrey scoffed, “hilarious, leech like you talking about sacred,”
“My name,” she said, “is Mary,”
She took a step toward him, and though nothing about their situation changed, something instinctive rose up inside him. It was a primal fear, the knowledge of something terrible creeping just on the edges of his awareness. Adrenaline pumped through him, giving life to his deadened limbs. He stood, using the gravestone as support. He found his hand shaking as he pulled out his gun and turned it on her. She snarled, her fangs long and glinting.
“Shoot me then! End this!”
He fired—
She
Didn’t move.
And when the ringing from the shot faded, nothing had changed. She stood still where she was, glaring at him. Geoffrey still had his gun aimed true right on the leech’s face. He stared in disbelief. She hadn’t moved. He was sure of that. Even leeches with their stupid preternatural speed left traces when they seemingly teleported. Even vampires were wounded when shot, if only for a moment. Despite his shaking hands, his aim was true. Somehow, he’d fired, and she’d taken the hit, and yet she stood without even a scratch.
“What’s wrong hunter? You seem—” He fired again, and again, and again, until his clip was empty, the barrel smoking. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just took every shot link it was air sliding through her. Afterward, she smoothed out her dress, “Are you quite finished?”
“What the fuck are you?”
“As I’ve said, I am Mary,”
“Stop dodging around and answer the question!”
“Why don’t you tell me?” She started walking toward him, his fired another round, only to be met with the click of an empty barrel. Cursing, Geoffrey tossed the gun aside, and pulled out his dagger. She ignored the threat, stepping toward him, her ragged dress swirling around her legs like it was weightless. She reached forward, and his knife ran through her hand like she was nothing. She kept marching forward until her hand reached his—and proceeded to pass through it as well.
Geoffrey felt a shock of cold like nothing he’d ever felt before. It was like jumping into a bucket of ice water in the winter. It was like being underground and wondering if he’d ever see the sun again. It was dread and terror that numbed all other sensations until he could only feel the pain of her moving through his soul.
Everything faded to black, then burst out in a shock of color and sound. Geoffrey couldn’t move, but around him the world swirled with the sound of laughter as two kids hurtled past him running into the next room. The hunter realized he was in a house—a manor possibly, based on the state of the décor around him. One of the children ran back into the room—a boy with short cut dark hair.
“Brother, wait!” The other child yelled. He glanced around with a little giggle before climbing into a wardrobe to hide. The other child—a girl with long free-flowing hair—ran into the room, out of breath, “Brother? Where are you?” She placed her fists on her hips in an impression of anger, “Are you hiding again? You know I always find you!”
She span in a tight circle before running right through Geoffrey to check under the bed, then through him again to check the window curtains. Dejectedly marching back to the center of the room. She scoped the room, looking for a place one might hide, before freezing and turning until she faced Geoffrey. She looked him right in the eyes, childly expressive eyes falling into despair.
“It was never meant to end like this,” said the child before him. Her eyes darted to the wardrobe, body moving to follow mechanically.
Geoffrey felt a sense of panic, “Don’t!”
“I know,” Mary replied, “Closets always contain monsters, but I have too. I’ve always been the only one who could find my brother.” She reached the doors, gripping the handles firmly, “Isn’t the right Jonny? I found you, at last,”
It was a fully-grown woman who pulled open the doors, and a monster in the form of a man jumped out, latching onto her neck, bleeding her dry. Her body fell limp, Jonathan Reid standing above her, blood dripping down his chin.
“Mary!” He cried out, “Dear sister, No!”
Geoffrey woke with a gasp, and instinctively flinched back from the face next to his.
“Careful sir!” cried Simon, one of the newer recruits of the Priwen, “You was hurt bad! I gots’a doctor comin’ ta treat ya”
“What?” Geoffrey mumbled still trying to clear his head? Was that all some kind of weird fever dream? “Did you see a girl here? Black dress, black hair, skin white like a gho—” He couldn’t even bring himself to finish the word.
“No sir. The was no one else here. Was she the one you was firin’ at?”
“What?”
“Well, we heard a gun fire lotsa times, so me an’ the boys thought we out ta check it out, and we found ya here all passed out on the ground. First, we thought ya mighta been dead on account of ya bein’ so cold, but you were breathin’, so we thought we’d get doctor Jones ta come take a look at ya before we tried ta get ya back to base,”
“Yeah, good call,” Geoffrey said, despite not really paying attention to the recruit’s word. He had finally read the name of the tombstone he’d been resting against all night:
Mary Reid
May 1882 – December 1912
Beloved daughter sister wife and mother
Geoffrey kept staring at the tombstone as the doctor arrived and tsked over him. He thought about it as the hen dragged him to his feet and helped him to home base. He fought with the implications as his wounds were redressed and he was covered in fresh blankets.
The sun was just starting to rise as he was marched over to his personal chambers. The shaking didn’t start until after he lay down beneath his own comforter.
“Yeah, I suspect that’ll go on for some time,” Doctor Jones callously said, throwing yet another blanket on him, “and more’s the shame for the slowing it’ll do to your healing. The boys were saying they heard gun shots. What were you doing fighting in this condition? You know you’re hunting immortals, not being one yourself, don’t you?” The doctor measured his temperature and jotted it down, “Still as uncomfortable as this is, you should consider yourself lucky. You got so cold that it kept you from bleeding out before we could get to you.” He packed up his bags, uncaring of his patient’s confusion, “You think about that while you shiver and shake. You’re going to be recovering for a while. Hopefully it’ll teach you some sort of lesson this time.” He walked out the door, and Geoffrey could just make out the doctor talking to the members of Priwen, “If he so much as gets up to piss without my say so, you all answer to me, you hear?”
“Yes, sir!” They all replied in terrified unison, traitors, all of them.
Still, Geoffrey really did need time to think, and this was as good an excuse as any. He’d met a ghost tonight. Well, one ghost. At least, one ghost until he could find some other explanation, and if there was one ghost, there could be many ghosts. If that were the case, how did he not know? Ghost stories were always stories to tell children to frighten them, or accounts of people seeing leeches and misunderstanding the situation. Experiences with ghosts were anecdotal at best. Surely, if ghosts were real, Priwen would have some account of them.
And yet, Geoffrey had no better explanation for what happened tonight.
Mary Reid—and of course she was a Reid. Everything always had to lead back to that damned cursed doctor. Now Geoffrey realized why Mary had looked so familiar. The crook of her nose, the line of her jaw, the curve of her lips. She was nearly identical to Jonathan. Siblings, if his strange fever dream vision could be believed.
Jonathan was also not as guiltless as he seemed, if Geoffrey wasn’t just having strange blood loss-induced vengeful hallucinations. What did this imply though? That Geoffrey was right for wanting to kill the doctor? That Jonathan would kill his sister, even though he wouldn’t kill someone who was actively trying to kill him?
“I’ll show you the mercy you never showed me,” Jonathan had said.
Geoffrey was too tired for this. Rolling over, he tried to find a spot that didn’t hurt quite as bad to rest on and let himself drift off to the warm rays of the sun hitting his face. Yeah, it was too much now. He would deal with all of this come the next night, and while he was at it, he would teach his men exactly who was in charge around here.