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Chapter Text

A shaking hand closed around Jonathan’s neck and had him gasping for air. Searching fingers travelled upwards almost clumsily, scratched along the underside of his jaw where they dug in and bruised skin. A thumb pressed down just beneath his ear and tilted his head back slowly but surely until it began to hurt and then some. His vision was swimming, washed out colours, bleeding grey flaked with darkness. Something, someone leaned in close. A dark, imposing silhouette, breathing harshly through their nose, scenting the sweet tang of iron underneath the salt and bitterness of sweat and grime covering his skin. The cold tip of a nose bumped against the column of his neck, a graze of dry lips. A feral beast searching out the taste of blood in the cut along his jugular.

He screwed his eyes shut, expecting sharp teeth to dig deep into his flesh between this heartbeat and the next. Instead, a thin whine sounded right beside his ear, a brittle thing. Confused and lost and out of place in the aftermath of violence. The grip on his jaw turned limp, soft in a way that felt almost like a caress, an apology. He thought he could hear a whisper of his own name, asking for permission, pleading for it. Whoever had found him, collapsed on the ground with his body half torn apart from the fight against the hunter, had to be starving. And if Jonathan had come to know anything since the day he had died it was hunger, a rotting hole in the very centre of his chest, the first thought whenever he laid eyes on a living being and the last thought when he fell asleep at dawn. “It’s alright,” he slurred, his voice shot to hell from a sliced-up throat.

Another whine, this time more desperate, turned into a growl, and the person shoved their face against the slope of his neck. The hand on his jaw moved blindly over his face until fingers curled into his short hair, blunt claws scraped over his scalp. A tongue darted out against his skin, tracing the edges of the wound, at first carefully licking at barely dried blood, but as soon as a gush of fresh liquid broke through, any reservation was lost to thirst. It wasn’t as much a bite as an aggressive sucking when teeth sliced into the cut and opened the once half-healed wound further. Jonathan felt the blood reluctantly leave his veins, what little he had left, and with it his consciousness faded.

He didn’t know if he would survive the vampire feeding on him, but it wasn’t like he had expected to be alive anyway. The fight he’d lost seemed distant now, a nightmare of words spoken in hate, scorching light and unforgiving steel. How could he have won against someone so efficient in taking down vampires and so determined to kill him, when all Jonathan had wanted had been to find a way to cooperate with the hunter? For most of the fight he had pulled his punches and by the time he’d realized he couldn’t afford to, it had been too late.

He was jolted back to awareness with a shocked cry when pain suddenly burst from his hand. Wide eyed and confused he watched flames erupt from his skin before he could pull it out of the circle of white blinding light. With a groan he cradled the blistering arm to his chest and curled around it. It hurt like acid poured over his skin, but still the pain was only second to the thirst thrumming through his veins, aching in his gums and quickly eclipsing every other need. He could feel his whole body trembling with it, his mouth salivating with the thought of hot liquid pouring over his teeth.

The quiet growl only registered distantly in his ears and a moment passed before he looked up through blurred vision to find a pair of eyes staring back at him from the black shadows on the other side of the cone of light. It took his hazy mind a while to make out the outline of a person, a man huddled up against the near wall. “McCullum?” he asked hesitantly, not because it made sense, but because he recognized the scent of blood on him. There came no answer. The hunter blinked slowly and then let his head sink down onto the arms crossed over his knees, seemingly indifferent, though his eyes continued to glower at him. “Why haven’t you killed me?” McCullum certainly had shown no intention of mercy during their fight, so why now?

Eyes narrowed at him and the hunter lifted his head to show his bared teeth as he hissed, “You’ll get what’s coming to you soon enough.” Despite his cowering posture his voice was filled with venom. There was something terribly off about the hunter, something coiled inside him that was about to tear free and as much as Jonathan was wary of it, he also recognized it. The effort to hold himself together tightly when the world around him was a crushing tide of thirst lapping at his senses. When there was no colour to the world except vermilion.

The way McCullum hid in the shadows, the way his tongue darted out nervously to lick the blood from his lips, the fact that he was uninjured despite half the blood splattered around the room being his. “You’re a vampire.” He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes when a pang of guilt churned his stomach. His sister had been right. The city was plagued by a disease and Jonathan was at the very heart of it, spreading it. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Shut up and die, leech,” McCullum snarled with a crack in his voice that revealed a thick layer of misery underneath. He picked something up from the ground beside him and Jonathan was about to wonder what the hunter was doing when suddenly something hit him square in the chest and he flinched away in a yelp of pain. The crossbow clattered over the floor uselessly, the stave had been bent and the stock broken somewhere in the midst of their fight.

With a shaking hand he soothed over the blooming ache of the new bruise between many. “I’m so sorry.” He hadn’t meant to apologize. Mary had already told him, it was of no use to anyone. From the way McCullum scoffed at his words, he appeared to agree on that. Jonathan turned his head away, decided on keeping his mouth shut. When morning came, the pain and hunger gnawing at his bones eventually wouldn’t be enough anymore to keep the exhaustion at bay.

A noise from the elevator had them both snap their heads in its direction. The hum of electricity and the quiet click of gears turning. From the scent of it it was a group of Priwen hunters - but it didn’t really matter who it was, did it? They were human and a new-born vampire was waiting for them to set foot into the attic. When Jonathan’s gaze slid over to the hunter he found the man visibly distressed, crouched low on all fours and breathing heavily. His eyes were wide, almost glowing in the shadows, his teeth biting into his lower lip with a trickle of blood running down his chin. The hunter looked like he was torn between pouncing on his prey or vanishing into thin air the moment they would raise the wooden shutters. Just before the elevator arrived, his head snapped to the side and with a last panicked look at Jonathan he disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a quickly fading mist of darkness.

He wouldn’t get another chance to make his escape, so Jonathan gritted his teeth and sluggishly peeled himself off the floor. His left arm slung around his stomach he’d almost made it to his feet when a spike of pain through his chest had him crumbling back to his knees. The room started to spin in a disorientating staccato and the air felt oddly cold against his skin. Blood roared in his ears as an intoxicating smell hit his nostrils and drowned out anything else. His jaw hurt, his teeth hurt, he could feel saliva dripping from his lips. He was so hungry. Maybe he could catch one of them off guard. It wasn’t like he would kill them, it would just hurt a little bit, really, just for a second. And they had so much to spare, right? They were healthy and he was in pain and he needed-

A sharp boot to his side sent him almost sprawling to the floor and had him cough up a mouthful of blood. The pain at least pulled his surroundings back from the swirl of black and red schemes. “Look what we have here. McCullum messed you up pretty bad, eh, beast?” a voice behind him sneered and something blunt dug into his back between his shoulder blades.

“Not so respectable now, are we, Doctor?” A second man stepped in front of him, his torch held threateningly close to the vampire’s skin. He could see the black oil dripping from the tip, feel the heat radiate off it and recoiled only to be grabbed by his collar and yanked back into place.

“Stay away from me,” Jonathan hissed with little bite and even less struggle, the flames rippling through the air only inches from his face.

They just laughed at him, emboldened by his apparent weakness. “Oh, you do live up to your reputation, Doctor Reid, ever so considerate.”

“Stop playing with it,” an older woman stepped in curtly. “Any sign of McCullum?”

“Lots of blood. But he can’t be dead, right?” another one mumbled to herself.

The man with the torch stepped back before he looked around the room. While the one at Jonathan’s back still pointedly had his shotgun directed at him, the other three spread out to search the attic for clues. The vampire tensed, weighing his chances, with the man’s heartbeat drumming so loud in his ears he almost didn’t hear him say, “Go ahead, try something, beast. Give me an excuse to blow your head off.”

“I won’t harm you,” Jonathan tried to appease, but the man didn’t believe him even for a second and the vampire had to admit that he was right. All that kept his hunger at bay were ultraviolet light encircling him and the barrel pressed to his temple. Maybe if the guard got distracted he could dodge the shotgun, bring the man down and bury his teeth into the soft flesh of his neck. He’d just need a small sip of blood to soothe over the worst of the thirst burning at the back of his throat. With the crippling weakness shed from his limbs he’d be able to make a run for it easily.

Before he could act upon anything and mess up something bad, the others came circling back. “Got his crossbow here. Apart from that, nothing.” The group stood around, at a loss what had happened to their leader. McCullum was gone, that was all anyone knew. “What about the leech? Are we going to finish it off or what?”

“We’re taking it back to headquarters,” the older woman decided after a moment which earned her a general expression of disbelief from the others. “We lost Doctor Swansea,” she added with a wary glance at the vampire. “We need a replacement.” It took her another few pointed looks and vague hand signs before the others took action. Jonathan snarled as one of the women closed in with a rope in her hands, but a sudden blow to the back of his head had the world swimming out of focus and into darkness.

He drifted for a while. Red soaked dreams along the edges of his consciousness. Flakes of ash fell through the air, scratched at the back of his throat and parched his mouth. With heavy breaths that did nothing to fill his lungs he followed the stench of rusted iron until he could see the fields stretch out before him, the miles and miles of faceless corpses. He fell to his knees, sunk deep into the mud and grime. Oblivious to the easy give of rotten flesh beneath his fingers, the brittle crack of mucous-covered bones as he dug for something to feed on.

The first thing he became aware of was the smell of blood that led him from his dream into wakefulness. It clung to the ground beneath him, smothered every surface like a heavy blanket. A dried puddle of blood that had a foul aftertaste of death to it, but his thirst cared little. Even when he recognized something familiar in its scent, he was still more inclined to lick it off the mouldy floorboards than to recoil in revulsion.

Only slowly the realization set in that it was Edgar who had been killed here, his blood on the floor, his fear still a quiet echo off the walls. When the woman had said, they ‘lost’ the doctor, she’d meant they murdered him. Some part of him had clung to the naive hope that Edgar had managed to flee. Or, if not, that when Priwen took Jonathan captive, they would bring him right to him and together they could escape this nightmare. “We don’t kill humans.” What a joke, what an idiot he had been to trust in the hunter’s empty words even for one second. If he had just focused on winning the fight instead of finding a way to compromise, he could have saved Edgar.

Bile rose at the back of his throat and he reached up with shaking hands to cover his mouth, only to find them chained in cold, heavy iron and bound tightly with barbed wire that cut into his wrists. With a confused groan he took in his surroundings through blurred vision, momentarily distracted from Edgar’s death and the hunger gnawing at his insides. His gaze followed the trail of the chain meandering over a thick carpet until it led upwards where it was slung loosely over a beam. Under the ceiling a lonely gas lamp illuminated old furniture lining the sides of a windowless room. Deep-red wallpaper hung in shreds off the walls, lush curtains of the same dye draped and the occasional theatre poster in between. Recognition fluttered through Jonathan’s mind, the woman in the pictures and the bad state of the place, but his gaze clung to the vermillion paint until it was the only colour he could see. Nestled in a web of veins a pulsating core, guiding him like a beacon in the dark, thump-thump. Three of them, just on the other side of the door. Prey, his instincts whispered, hunt and feed.

He remembered it well, the taste of human blood, Mary’s blood. Sweet and hot like molten sugar on his tongue. An addiction that had infested every cell of his body, soaked through to the marrow of his bones the moment he’d woken up at the bottom of a mass grave as a monster with the face of a man. He would kill the guards. He would tear their bodies to shreds to get to the red liquid in their veins.

With a low whine he pressed his face against the floor, his mouth open and panting, his throat swallowed around nothing. Edgar’s dried blood was right there, just inches away. He didn’t have to hurt or even kill anyone for this. If he could only drown out the voice telling him it was despicable beneath the chorus screaming out in starvation, for a taste sweet and divine. Fingers curled against the floorboards, nails broke against splintering wood and the barbed wire wedged itself deeper into his flesh, but the pain barely registered. His skin felt numb and clammy, too cold even for his kind. He needed this, just a little lick perhaps, just enough to get his sanity back, to stop himself from becoming something feral. It couldn’t be any worse than sinking his teeth into the filthy-wet fur of London’s gutter rats. Why was he even fighting this? Edgar certainly wouldn’t have minded, even so, he wasn’t able to judge him for it. Not anymore.

“Is it always like this? So little control, so far gone?” a low voice inquired, barely a step away from him.

Whoever it was should have registered as a threat, but instead all his senses acknowledged was the loud, insistent beat of a heart. His body reacted far quicker than his sluggish mind could keep up with. In a sudden burst of shadow he’d already lunged at his prey and dragged it to the ground before he could at least slow himself down. Saliva was dripping from his open lips though his mouth felt dry, his gums swollen. He was so close now he could almost taste blood running over his tongue, down his throat and finally quench the thirst burning up his insides like a fever.

“You should see yourself now, Doctor Reid,” the man under him said in an irritatingly amused voice and made no attempt to free himself. “You’re just about to lose it, aren’t you?”

His only answer was a scowl and a broken snarl and even with his fraying mind he couldn’t deny the truth in those words. He leaned back and screwed his eyes shut against the sight of pale skin peeking out beneath a loose, red scarf. Still, he could see the pulsating network of veins, now glowing even brighter in the darkness behind his eyelids. His hands, clawed into the man’s collar, started to shake uncontrollably with the effort to let go. His teeth ached, his jaw ached, his throat felt like it was scraped raw. Everything hurt and everything screamed at him how easy it would be to end his suffering.

A hand cupped his cheek gently and he couldn’t help but turn his face towards it. His mouth fell open involuntarily, the flat sides of his teeth pressed against the soft skin at the wrist and he could feel the faint pulse thrumming underneath. “It’s alright.” It was spoken so unbearably soft it caught him completely off guard. A shudder went through his whole body when it shattered the last of his wavering resolve with ease. He barely noticed how his hands grabbed onto the wrist and his fangs pierced flesh. When a gush of blood filled his mouth, ran cool and soothing down his dried-out throat he almost sobbed in relief. As the liquid flowed he drank greedily, lapped at the torn skin to catch every trickle, and when that wasn’t enough anymore, he dug his teeth in deeper to open the veins up wider.

“Ouch,” Jonathan heard the man complain and then there was a light tug at the arm in his hold like it was asking to be released. His answering growl was muffled behind flesh and teeth, but the warning came across and his prey stopped struggling. “Ah, well, I guess it’s only fair.” There was nothing fair about this. All Jonathan did was take, drain the life from his victim’s veins until they would have nothing left to feed his addiction. And in return he only brought suffering and pain. Reluctantly the red mist in his head gave way to something lost in between self-hatred and misery. The moment he had enough control to stop himself, he relaxed his jaw and pulled his teeth from the wound. When his eyes flickered open to look at his victim’s face for the first time, McCullum met his gaze with a lopsided smile.

Wide-eyed he decidedly shoved the bleeding arm away from his mouth. “What are you doing?” he blurted out after he’d retreated a few steps which was as far as the rattling chains allowed. McCullum cocked an unimpressed eyebrow at him as he casually got to his feet and then inspected his injured wrist with a slight grimace. Though, instead of taking care of the wound, he just patted some dust from his clothes and Jonathan could only watch him in wary disbelief. The sight of the hunter acting suspiciously calm and friendlier than he had ever seen him before did not fit into his expectations at all. This was supposed to be Mary all over again. “You should hate me. You should be here to end me. You’re a vampire hunter and I turned you into this- this…”

“Get over yourself, Reid. I got into this mess all by myself,” McCullum cut him off with a roll of his eyes. “Turned out this ‘true defender of Britain’ was a bloody leech.” His face had darkened at those words, but in the next moment he flashed a smile of too sharp teeth. “Guess I shouldn’t have drunk that bottle of thousand-year-old blood.”

“Four weeks,” Jonathan said absentmindedly. While it was terrible what had happened to McCullum, inwardly he felt relieved that he hadn’t given the hunter yet another reason to despise him. When Mary had paid a terrible price for her brother’s uncontrolled thirst for blood, the horror she had been forced to go through had given her every right to hate him. With trepidation he remembered his promise to her, to find a cure for their sickness, and wondered if there was any hope to it at all. Seeing her so desperate, so broken – with her blood on his hands he would have promised her everything under the sky, and so he had.

“What?” McCullum’s bewildered question pulled Jonathan from his thoughts.

It took him a moment to remember what McCullum was asking about, then the explanation fell automatically from his lips. “Human blood can be preserved for four weeks if you add sodium ci-”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor Reid,” the hunter waved him off and gave him a wry grin. “I’ll keep it in mind next time.”

“You fed on someone before you came here,” Jonathan realized in alarm. The meagre rest of blood he’d taken from Jonathan after their fight couldn’t have been enough for a new-born. His muscles tensed as he looked McCullum over apprehensively. He didn’t think he could win against him this time either. Despite the fresh blood in his veins, he was still weak, his hands were chained and the whole building was crawling with vampire hunters. “Did you kill them?” he asked carefully, wondering what he was expecting.

McCullum jutted out his chin and glared at him. “What’s it to you, leech?” A moment later his expression fell and something was clearly off in the way his gaze strayed and lost focus. “I haven’t killed anyone for it,” he mumbled defensively, though when Jonathan shot him a doubtful look he grimaced and amended his words. “At least not anyone who wasn’t already dead.” His brow furrowed as his eyes flickered back to Jonathan. “They didn’t…” he started hesitantly, but he stopped himself with a slight shake of his head and instead said, “I’ve been killing leeches for the last two decades. That’s not going to change now.”

Jonathan couldn’t decide if he liked that any better and scowled. “Then why haven’t you killed me as well? Why let me drink your blood?” The hunter had made barely an attempt to stop him. Would he have let him drink his fill if Jonathan hadn’t torn himself away? “What do you want from me?” Whatever it was, Priwen apparently needed him lucid.

McCullum watched him cautiously for a moment before he offered with reluctance, “Let’s say, we’re not enemies.” His posture suddenly became defensive, like he expected Jonathan to attack him for that proposition alone.

He had to bite back a sarcastic and bitter retort. It was obvious how the hunter struggled with himself to show him even an inch of trust and Jonathan didn’t want to risk undoing their progress. “We’re not,” he agreed plainly. “We’re both just trying to end this epidemic.”

“How is this so easy for you?” McCullum demanded to know. “I ordered the abduction and interrogation of your friend which resulted in his death.”

Jonathan’s eyes flickered to the puddle of blood on the ground. He could almost picture it. Edgar strung up defenceless, skin bruised and bones broken. Beaten up and tortured to a slow and painful death. “If you had been there, would you have let him die?” he asked quietly.

McCullum seemed to inflate a little as he sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to lie when I said we wouldn’t kill him. But it happened and I won’t apologize for it.”

“I don’t want your apology,” Jonathan snapped at him. Taking a deep breath he tried to temper the sudden flare of anger in his chest, but it was still evident in his voice when he asked, “Is this what you want your Guard of Priwen to be? A bunch of vicious thugs and bullies who would torture someone to death?”

“‘Someone’ who was responsible for the epidemic. Just as you are. Make no mistake, if we didn’t need your help, I wouldn’t hesitate to finish the job and cut off your head,” McCullum sneered and took a challenging step forward. “Stop pretending you’re any better than us, leech. You’ve left your own trail of corpses.”

Jonathan closed his eyes and did his best to keep his expression blank. “You’re right.” He’d seen enough violence for even an eternal lifetime, and he began to wonder if the war had made him a coward. He’d come home to find himself on yet another battlefield, surrounded by death and madness. Every fight he’d been forced into left him more exhausted and disoriented. By the time the leader of Priwen had confronted him, it had long stopped making sense to defend himself.

“You will help us fix this. And when we’ve killed Marshal, you will face the same fate as your maker.” McCullum’s promise felt like a final sentence and Jonathan just shrugged in assent. He was too tired to deal with his bitter accusation and constant distrust any longer. It didn’t matter what he said anyway, or even what he did. In the hunter’s eyes he was a vampire, a creature of deceit. All his motivations were tainted by evil.

Mary had seen the same in him. He’d tried harder after he’d killed her a second time. Visited more patients who would barely heed his advice and got sick again. Took more shifts in the hospital only to watch helplessly as people died of the flue, or even killed them off himself when he noticed them turn. Buried himself night after night in research for a cure that would never be found. In the end he had nothing to show for it. Time was running out and soon London would succumb, not to German soldiers, but to its own citizens turned frenzied immortals.

Chapter Text

Not much more than an hour could have passed by when the door opened again. He lifted his head just enough to recognize McCullum out of the corner of his eyes, reluctant to meet the hunter’s gaze where he knew he would find only scorn. With a quiet sigh Jonathan acknowledged his presence before he let his forehead drop onto his knees and curled back into himself. There should be anger seething inside of him for Edgar’s unjust death, instead there was just nothing. An ugly emptiness that filled out his chest, pressed against the inside of his skull and left him feeling weak and drained. If the hunter had come back to kill him, he didn’t think he could bring himself to defend, never mind fight back. Even if he was just here to throw more hateful words at his captive, Jonathan wasn’t ready to face him. He knew part of him was only too willing to see vampires the same way as McCullum did. With his eyes screwed shut and gritted teeth he dreaded every step the hunter took towards him.

Hesitantly McCullum crouched down at his side. “Reid?” he ventured in a strangely careful voice. Jonathan didn’t bother to give any indication that he’d heard him and for a few slow heartbeats he could almost feel the new-born’s searching gaze on him. “Are you still thirsty?” The question sounded deceptively soft. Fingertips touched his shoulder, not in a comforting gesture but a taunting offer for blood as the faint pulse of another heart got closer.

If Jonathan didn’t know better, he’d think the hunter was worried about him. But he did know better, and so he just grumbled, “Get off my back, McCullum.” There was none of the venom he would have liked in his tone. Instead just a dragging tiredness that marked him an easy target.

“Well, aren’t you a cute bastard,” McCullum scoffed. With a quick movement and little care he grabbed Jonathan’s arm, pulled him off the ground and shoved him into a nearby chair. “You don’t seriously think I’d fall for this moping act, do you?” Only slowly he released his arm and stepped back.

On some level it was easier to deal with the hunter when he was being openly hostile instead of his confusing kindness that he pretended at other times. Jonathan had barely flinched when the hunter manhandled him, just ducked his head and averted his gaze. “What do you want?” It wouldn’t do him any good to defy his jailer. And honestly, he couldn’t find a reason to. If he were out there in the streets, he wouldn’t know where to begin to end the epidemic. At least in the basement beneath the rundown theatre he was left in peace. No members of the Ascalon Club itching for a fight, no feral Skals or Beasts to jump him and apart from their leader not even Priwen bothered him much down here. Not to mention he didn’t have to navigate and trick his way through human society when he’d ceased to be part of it.

“How nice of you to ask, Doctor.” The hunter’s wry grin was audible in his voice. Paper rustled as he dug something from a pocket inside his coat and held it out. “Explain to me what you and Swansea did to her.”

Jonathan’s interest was piqued and his eyes snapped up to the beige-coloured folder where he immediately recognized the crest of the Pembroke Hospital. Underneath in cursive letters it read ‘Harriet Jones’, stamped ‘deceased’. “I thought you said Doris Fletcher was our experiment?” he asked in surprise but was promptly cut off.

“Her real name was Doris Jones. She visited her mother at the Pembroke Hospital. That’s how she got infected,” the hunter barked and threw the folder unceremoniously in his lap. “I tire of your feigned innocence. Just tell me what exactly you did to Harriet Jones, so I can make sure anyone who tries it again drops dead before they can succeed.”

Jonathan stared at him, then down at the folder in his hands, his thoughts suddenly going a mile a minute. How had he not seen this before? Harriet’s symptoms were similar if not identical to Doris Fletcher’s mutation and thirst for vengeance. Their sickness, their hatred, their blood. Jonathan had to admit, he hadn’t really thought McCullum’s accusations to have any ground, but this made sense.

Abruptly he stood and slipped past the hunter who followed him with a scowl. In the middle of the room, underneath the gas lamp he set the folder on the ground and flipped through the pages, the range of his hands still hindered by the chains. A few drops of blood dripping from his wrists splattered the paper, but he didn’t have the mind to care. The report dated back weeks and it took him a while until he found what he was looking for. Swansea had treated her influenza over an extended time with the blood of another person. The donor’s name was mentioned with nothing but the two letters E and A, written neatly in Edgar’s handwriting. Knowing the doctor’s scientific fascination for vampires and his connection to Lady Ashbury, it didn’t seem farfetched that it had been her blood.

Jonathan blinked at the page in confusion and disbelieve. What had Edgar been thinking? Though he couldn’t have foreseen the devastating epidemic he would create, he must have known vampire blood might kill a human and turn them into something monstrous. And to experiment on an unwitting patient with stolen blood? Whatever his intentions had been, even if only to find a cure, this was cruel to both Jones and Lady Ashbury.

A moment later another realization dawned on him and his eyes flickered up to McCullum. “You think she’s dead. You think, once you’ve killed both Marshal and me, all this horror will come to an end.” The hunter watched him warily as Jonathan rose to his feet. “She’s not. Harriet Jones faked her death. She will become something far worse than her daughter-”

“Your abomination won’t save you, Reid,” he hissed darkly and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “I’ll make sure of that.”

“What…?” Jonathan looked at him in confusion and just for a second he thought there was a flicker of uncertainty in McCullum’s eyes as well. Replaying his words in his head he realized the hunter had instinctively twisted their whole meaning. “That wasn’t a threat,” he explained with as little frustration seeping into his voice as he could manage. “I’m telling you this so we can prevent the worst from happening. Make up your mind, McCullum. Either you let me help you, or you let me go.”

“Or, I let you die,” he snarled and bared his teeth. “After you killed Doris Fletcher I let you go. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” For a moment longer the hunter stared him down with a menacing glare, until his anger reluctantly broke away and turned into something thoughtful. His eyes flickered searchingly over Jonathan’s face as he admitted quietly, “I want to trust you.” He shrugged in a helpless gesture and shook his head. “But I don’t know how.”

Jonathan opened his mouth before he realized he didn’t have anything to say in his defence. He couldn’t fault McCullum when he’d never met an Ekon himself who he would have been able to trust, or wanted to. Even during a devastating epidemic all they cared about was to feed and to keep to themselves. They were arrogant if not cruel and thought of humans merely as cattle, as slaves, at best as something pitiable. Jonathan couldn’t help but wonder if he’d already started to become the same kind of indifferent, if the search for a cure was just an excuse to satisfy his curiosity for a blood-born disease. He watched people die every night, saw their discarded corpses piled up in the streets, rotting in the sewers and barely batted an eye. There must have been a point where part of him had just… stopped caring. “I’ve never lied to you,” was all he had to offer in the end.

The hands on Jonathan’s collar loosened their grip and slowly moved upwards instead, along the curve of his neck. Fingers dug into the short, dark hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat inch by inch. The hunter watched him carefully as Jonathan suppressed a violent shiver. “You lied to me, when you said this was alright,” he mumbled, a muted note of sadness in his voice that seemed almost alien between his usual sarcasm and anger. His gaze dropped to where his thumb brushed over the vulnerable skin, right above the pulsating vein.

Jonathan stared at him wide-eyed like a deer caught in the headlights, torn between keeping still and shoving the hunter away, and still stuck on McCullum’s words. To have them spoken out loud was disorienting, not because he had caught the lie, but because it forced Jonathan to admit to the both of them, “I did.” No matter how scared and lost the new-born had appeared in that moment and how badly Jonathan had wanted to give him what little comfort he had had to offer, it had been nothing but one of too many lies he liked to tell himself just so he could fall asleep with the sunrise. McCullum narrowed his eyes at him and Jonathan tried and failed to hold his gaze. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. However human the habit seemed, they both knew it were lies like these that would turn them into monsters eventually.

When McCullum slowly pulled his hands away from his neck, his fingertips lingered too long for it to be accidental over the veins running down his throat, and Jonathan took a shaking breath he didn’t need, to stifle the tingling his touch had left on his skin. “Do you know where she is?” McCullum asked evenly but couldn’t completely hide the wariness in his tone. In the next moment he apparently gave up on pretending altogether and added with a cracked laugh and audible resignation, “Would you even tell me if you did?”

Too late Jonathan remembered that he couldn’t actually just tell him where Harriet Jones was. Even though McCullum was a vampire now, he wouldn’t have any sympathy to spare for the Sewer Skals, never mind mercy. He would cut them all down without a moment’s hesitation and Jonathan couldn’t let that happen. But what alternative was there? If he kept to his promise and refused to betray the Skals, it would mean to abandon London and all her citizens to the epidemic.

Something in McCullum’s expression closed off when Jonathan met his question only with silence. Every inch they had made towards working together was undone in the blink of an eye. With a snort and shake of his head he said, “Thought as much.” Then his lips curled back to reveal his sharp teeth in a vicious smile that seemed as feigned as it was intimidating, and Jonathan took an involuntary step away. “I’ll get my answers from you. One way or another.”

He’d fully expected the hunter to resort to torture, so he was all the more surprised when he didn’t act upon his threat and just turned on his heel. His gaze followed the hunter as he walked to the door and Jonathan thought there was something in the slope of his shoulders that spoke more of defeat than the violence he’d promised. Though maybe he only saw what he wanted to see. “You’re forgetting one thing, McCullum,” he said quietly, knowing the hunter could hear him as he turned his head just enough to indicate he was listening. “I can’t trust you either.”

After McCullum had slammed the door shut behind him, Jonathan heaved a sigh. If there had ever been a chance for him to get out of this in one piece and stop the epidemic, he had just ruined it. The thought had him almost laugh out loud. There was no chance in hell Priwen would ever just let him go. The only bargain he could hope to negotiate was a painless death.

Time crept by slowly while Jonathan sat in a chair and stared at the ceiling, or rather through it, watching the living pass over his head, one floor above. Absentmindedly, he tugged at his chains as he wondered if he had enough blood to spare to conjure a few tendrils from the shadows that could break them. After that he would still need to tear down the door, then run up the stairs for the nearest window before the Guard of Priwen could swarm him. Lady Ashbury’s mansion wasn’t far, but he couldn’t risk leading them there. Perhaps he could lose them in the narrow back alleys twisting around Whitechapel road instead, but eventually he would need to head south in order to find Harriet.

He didn’t have the slightest idea what would await him in the sewers, how far her mutation had spread by now. Maybe there was still time, maybe he could slow the process down somehow, just long enough for him to find a way to counteract the poison in her veins. Despite the rage and blood lust she had told him about, Harriet hadn’t wanted any of this, she hadn’t even killed anyone. It was only the cursed blood that would corrupt her nature into something monstrous.

His mind made up, Jonathan stretched his fingers, reached for the shadows and pulled black threads from the corners of the room where the light didn’t reach. Slithering over the floor, they wound around and through the chain links while they grew in thickness like rivulets swelling into rivers until the iron broke at the seams and started to bend outward. In a few seconds he had managed to shed the chains from his wrists, but grimaced as he saw how deep the remaining wire had cut into his wrists and the white sleeves of his shirt were soaked in his own blood up to his elbows. There was no way to get rid of it without further injuring himself.

When the door was suddenly thrown open, Jonathan flinched and retreated to the other side of the room in a burst of shadow, toppling over the chair in his haste. Only for a split second he saw surprise in McCullum’s expression before it was replaced with a dark frown and Jonathan couldn’t help but bare his teeth in response. Every step the hunter advanced on him, he backed away until the wall blocked any further retreat. At the same time, he twisted his wrist and pulled against the barbed wire in a growingly desperate attempt to free his hands for the inevitable fight. When it finally snapped off, he felt the sharp metal tear through his flesh as it unwound, and his vision threatened to flicker out. A thin growl vibrated in his throat as he let shadow spikes erupt beneath McCullum’s feet which he barely managed to sidestep. “Stay away from me!” he snarled, but pain and fear broke his voice and made his weakness evident.

Strangely, he stopped in his tracks, still a few steps away, and raised his open palms in a placating gesture that could only be a deception. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said slowly, almost imploring, like he was dealing with a feral animal.

However, his calm demeanour only served to irritate Jonathan further. “Liar,” he growled at him and with a flick of his wrist another wave of deadly spikes surged up from the ground. This time it shredded through the tail of his coat and impaled a nearby commode in a burst of splintering wood when the hunter jumped backwards. He had hoped McCullum would use the opening to attack instead of retreat, but either way he was distracted enough for Jonathan to stumble past him and bolt for the door.

“Jonathan, stop. Please.” McCullum’s voice resonated through the small room with an odd offset, gentle and compelling.

Jonathan barely felt an itch of mesmerism at the back of his mind, but still he paused at the door, cursing the part of him that ached to trust the hunter and hoping he wouldn’t immediately come to regret it. Risking a moment where he let his attention stray from McCullum in order to listen for the heartbeats of any human attackers, he found the basement unexpectedly empty. Only then he turned around to face the hunter and was met with a confused look in McCullum’s eyes, like he hadn’t thought Jonathan would stop and listen at all.

“I came here to make you an offer,” he almost stumbled over his own words as he continued. “You lead me to where Harriet Jones is and afterwards, you’re free to go. We will turn a blind eye as long as you don’t kill anyone.” It was obvious in the way he struggled to make such a compromise, that he still believed Jonathan had at least played a part in creating the vampire epidemic.

Jonathan watched him for a moment, half convinced McCullum would laugh at him and declare it all a joke as soon as he agreed. He grimaced inwardly at his own paranoia and decided to ignore the uneasy feeling at the back of his mind. “You can’t bring any of your Guard.” he warned him, resolved to let the vampire hunter come along, though he still had no idea how to prevent him from slaughtering the Sewer Skals. “If she’s too far gone to be saved, I’ll help you fight her.”

The leader of Priwen waved him off. “I know better than to send them to certain death, but I definitely don’t need your help, leech.” The scowl on his face made it clear that he would not risk having another vampire present who he expected would turn on him at the worst moment.

Jonathan knew there was no point in arguing when the hunter was being his stubborn self, and he had to admit that he would like nothing more than to leave the killing to someone else. But whatever Harriet might become was bound to be a creature more powerful and vicious than anything either of them had faced before. And it wasn’t like the new-born could actually stop him from joining the fight. So, rather than disagreeing he just shrugged lightly and asked, “Do I get my coat back? My medical supplies?”

Instead of answering, McCullum walked towards him and though his steps were deliberately slow, Jonathan couldn’t stop himself from backing away. When the hunter saw him retreat, his expression fell and turned into resignation. “Your belongings are actually just outside, on the floor.” He hesitated like he wanted to say something else, but then just made a vague gesture at the corridor on the other side of the door.

Jonathan looked down in bewilderment at the messy bundle that consisted not only of his coat and medical supplies but also his weapons. He hadn’t thought McCullum would go as far as to give them back, so he hadn’t bothered asking for them, maybe he hadn’t wanted them back in the first place. With clumsy fingers he picked his coat from the ground and fished a roll of bandages from one of its pockets. The amount of blood in his veins was too low for his wrists to heal so all he could do was patch up his wounds until he found something to feed on. His vision had already taken on a blurred tint of grey and soon he wouldn’t be able to ignore his thirst any longer.

“Reid? Let me help.” The hunter had come far too close for Jonathan’s liking, but instead of withdrawing again he only blinked at him in confusion and said nothing, because he didn’t know how to react to the softness in his voice. Not for the first time it seemed like McCullum cared about him and still Jonathan didn’t have the slightest idea how to handle it. There was simply no reason for the hunter to show any kindness, certainly not to a vampire. He had made that unmistakably clear.

McCullum was about to leave him alone, when Jonathan dropped his gaze and held out his injured hands. If the hunter meant to subdue him again, he had already let him get too close to escape anyway. Carefully, the other inspected his wrists and turned them slightly, so he could pick the remaining wire out of his bleeding skin. With the barbs hooked into the flesh it was a lost cause to avoid inflicting more pain, but his touch was gentle in an effort to try. Afterwards he took the bandage from Jonathan’s numb fingers and wrapped it with a practiced motion around each wrist. “We’ll catch some creature for you to feed on,” he promised and picked Jonathan’s coat off the ground after he had given his work a critical look and was convinced the dressing would hold out for a while.

Jonathan nodded and slipped into his coat with stiff movements. “There is no shortage of rats in the sewers,” he croaked and tucked away his hacksaw and the stake Charlotte had given him. Checking his medical supplies, he noticed that between figuring out the source of the epidemic in the West End, disappointing the Ascalon Club and losing to McCullum, he was now running low on everything. With a sigh he looked at the hunter, ready to suggest they set out, but paused when he saw him licking his blood from his fingers. For an odd moment he watched his tongue curl around his fingertip and licked over his own dry lips when he felt his hunger flare up violently at the back of his throat. The air was suddenly heavy with the sweet scent of blood and he could hear, even see, the other Ekon’s heart beating slowly inside his chest. The blood he craved was right there, bright red pulsing through the veins running along his neck. So close, he just had to reach out and let it take away his pain.

Like he’d been burned, McCullum dropped his hand and stepped away with an almost sheepish expression on his face. He cleared his throat and said with a somewhat coarse voice, “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Jonathan followed McCullum up the stairs and gave him a curious look when the other man paused at the top instead of opening the door. It was ridiculously late for the hunter to change his mind, so he felt fairly certain that it had to be something else.

“Reid…” he started with a nervous tint to his voice that Jonathan had never heard from him before. “It would be better if no one sees you.”

Jonathan raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “I thought you discussed this with your Guard of Priwen.”

McCullum’s face took on an odd expression, like he was trying not to grimace. “Not in all detail,” he vaguely continued to sidestep.

“They don’t know you’re going alone,” Jonathan figured and was rewarded with a scowl.

“Well, obviously,” he admitted with a roll of his eyes, just before he opened the door without warning and slipped through. Jonathan cursed under his breath and hastened to followed. “Don’t worry about our agreement,” McCullum added as he caught up to him while they crossed the empty stage and made their way to the entrance hall. “As long as you hold up your end of the bargain, I’ll make sure Priwen leaves you alone.” Though there was an honest determination in his tone, there was also an underlying note of contempt.

“I’d be already happy if you left me alone,” Jonathan grumbled and braced himself for a night in difficult company. Still, perhaps good enough a distraction from the fight that they were running towards.

It didn’t take long for the rain to soak through their coats, but they were both used to the late autumn weather and the cold didn’t bother them as much anymore as when the blood in their veins had still been running warm. Their steps echoed wetly on the cobblestone as they took to the abundance of shadow while Jonathan led the way. Only a handful of Priwen guards were out on patrol and easily evaded. Unobstructed, the two of them passed through the crude wooden barricade that had been put up to isolate the West End from the other boroughs.

On the other side it was strangely quiet, at first glance almost peaceful. A faint mist shrouded the wide streets, smothered every sound to a dull murmur and greyed out the shapes of trees and buildings towards the distance. Here, the citizens lay asleep in their beds and though scared by war and plague, were ignorant of the monsters lurking in the alleys by night. At least most of them, Jonathan amended his observations and pulled McCullum into a side street as he saw Clarence standing at the corner of the Eastern Horse. He wasn’t keen on introducing his friend to the leader of Priwen turned new-born vampire.

“You’re leading me into a dark back alley, Reid? Really?” McCullum noted while he let himself be tugged along.

Distracted by making sure Clarence hadn’t spotted them, Jonathan just said, “It’s a shortcut.” Which wasn’t true by distance, but if they could avoid an awkward conversation, it would definitely save them time. He thought he heard the other man snort a quiet laugh, though when he side-eyed him, there was only his perpetual scowl to be found, a challenging look underneath at most. “After the next corner we’ll have to pass by the Ascalon Club, but I don’t think they’ll try anything out in the open,” he mentioned, less for the sake of communication than just to have an excuse why he’d been looking at McCullum. The hunter’s expression darkened at the mention of the name and when they rounded the corner his glare became outright hateful in a way Jonathan had only seen directed at himself. Belatedly he remembered the bloodbath inside the mansion, the curled-up corpses still clutching their dried-up wounds, the stench of death almost tangible in the air. How casually the Ekons had ignored it all, more worried about replacing their lavish furniture than the loss of human life.

When the sewer gate closed behind them with a low creak, Jonathan released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. However, the vampire next to him appeared even more on edge with his hand clenched around the hilt of his longsword and his eyes darting nervously along the curve of the tunnels, scanning the semi-darkness for any threat. “There’s no one in this part of the sewers who’d attack us,” he assured him in an attempt to allay his wariness.

McCullum threw him an irritated look, though Jonathan thought he could see his fingers loosen their rigid grip incrementally. “If you say so,” he grumbled and unsheathed his weapon in one fluid motion, making it clear that he believed not one word from him. Instinctively, Jonathan took a step away, his skin still itched where the metal had shredded it to ribbons the other night.

Soon after they had made their way deeper into the tunnels and the air had become stale and thick with the stench of refuse, Jonathan could hear promising squeaks that had him perk up his ears and quicken his steps unconsciously. Small dots of red scurried between loose bricks and rotten crates searching for food in the washed-up muck. The rats were wary of the two vampires but not quite scared enough for their own good. Only when Jonathan snatched one of them up with his bare hands, the others fled into their hiding places. He held the rodent fast in his grip as it panicked and scratched his skin, and was about to bury his teeth into the small creature when he noticed McCullum staring at him open mouthed and suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze.

“You actually meant rats,” McCullum blurted out and gestured at the struggling animal in his hand.

“What else would I have meant?” Jonathan responded somewhat defensively and scowled until his eyes flickered back to the rat and he wasn’t able to tear them away again. What did it matter if the other vampire was disgusted by this? It wasn’t like he cared what McCullum thought of him. He needed to feed and this way at least he could spare a human becoming victim to his sick addiction.

“I don’t know. Like Skals, or some other kind of foul creature,” the hunter explained hesitantly, but the other man was listening only with half an ear. “You’re really going to…?”

After glaring at him in annoyance, Jonathan simply turned his back on him and then didn’t waste another moment to finally bite into the squirming animal. Fresh, hot blood ran over his tongue, barely a mouthful before it was sucked dry and he threw the meagre corpse away with a frustrated snarl. With the maddening thirst still burning up his insides, he lured one rat after another from their hiding holes using a faint mesmerism and hungrily dug his teeth into their fetid fur. Their blood wasn’t as sweet or rich as that of humans by far, still it tasted better than any food he could remember from before.

Eventually his hunger was sated to a bearable state. As his strength returned his pain receded with the blood rushing through his veins and quickly healing his wounds. Conscious of how feral his behaviour must have looked to McCullum, he carefully wiped the red from his mouth and out of his beard. His eyes fixed to the ground he quietly said, “It’s not far now.” Without waiting to see if the other followed he continued down the tunnel. For a while they walked silently side by side and a few times McCullum opened his mouth, a question apparently on the tip of his tongue, until he shook his head and didn’t try again.

As they went deeper the sewers became even filthier, the brick walls covered high in mould and slime. Between rotten wood and rusted barrels, putrid corpses of both animals and humans floated in knee-deep water and Jonathan refused to think about how they had ended up here and who or what had gnawed the flesh off their bones. McCullum too was visibly relieved when they left the sewage behind them and entered the abandoned tunnels that had been dug into the raw stone beneath London.

Since his thirst no longer dominated his thoughts, Jonathan began to ponder how he could keep the Sewer Skals out of this. It crossed his mind that McCullum wouldn’t be so cruel as to cut them down on sight as Jonathan expected him to, but then he just shook his head, chiding himself for his naivety. He was running out of options the closer they got to the hideout, so when they rounded the next corner, he stopped in his tracks. “I was reluctant to tell you where Harriet is because she’s staying with a group of people I don’t want to see get hurt,” he explained in a sober tone. “Just follow the tunnel and you’ll get there.” Gesturing ahead he cast a glance at the hunter to make sure he had listened.

If McCullum had realized a split-second sooner what the other vampire had on his mind, he would have caught him. As it were, the moment he lunged forward Jonathan had already vanished into the shadows and out of his reach. “REID! You fucking bastard!” He shouted after him enraged. His voice echoed off the walls and so did his footsteps as he gave chase.

Jonathan couldn’t waste any time if he wanted to make use of his head start to warn Old Bridget and persuade her and her kin to clear out. Gracefully he jumped over the narrow abyss and hoped that the hunter would follow the longer way around as he had instructed him to. He didn’t dare look back lest he lost his footing while he sprinted along the familiar path up the stairs. In his haste, he didn’t notice the stench of blood at first.

His steps led him further into the hall until they didn’t, and he stood frozen in the middle of the blood-covered floor. If he had thought his vampiric nature would always make him perceive blood as a kind of irresistible drug no matter how abhorrent the carnage, he would have been wrong. He remembered this, the torn-up body parts scattered about, the stench of acrid iron tainting the air, the puss seeping from shredded skin and cloth soaked in stale piss. Corpses piled high next to freshly dug ditches in the rotten earth, the smoke of bomb shells in the distance and a breath full of mustard gas. Crude violence and animal fear and someone whispering in the dark under the bedsheets that they want to go home, please.

They’d all been slaughtered.

He’d seen worse, he reminded himself to smother the horror scratching at the insides of his chest, he’d seen so much worse. He’d just never thought he would have to see it again after he’d returned from the frontline. So many times had he failed to save lives. Did a dozen more even make a difference anymore?

“Jonathan,” a distant voice reached through the fog filling his head and tugged him gently from the thick of it. But he refused to follow the whisper of his name back to a distorted reality that drowned him in a red sea of suffering and death. Instead, he shook his head minutely and closed his eyes, longing to escape this nightmare. What he wouldn’t give to return to a life before the epidemic and before the war. Where his only concern had been fighting injury and sickness that could be explained and overcome by rational thought. Not this demonic hatred infecting the minds of the people around him and provoking them to tear into each other with wicked delight.

“I’m sorry, I dragged you into this,” McCullum said quietly, standing somewhere too close. “Go home, Jonathan. I’ll find her and put an end to this.”

He cursed him for his words, for their gentleness and understanding, and for their terrible cruelty. There was nothing he wanted more than to go home. Back to his sister who would hold him fast and he could take her into his arms in turn, soothe away the pain of her loss with promises he could keep. Share stories over a cup of tea with his mother of days long past when their family had still been whole. And by nightfall, retreat to his childhood room, throw away his tin soldiers and let sleep take him away. But there wasn’t much of a home for him to return to anymore, only the fading memory of a shattered life that soon would be his alone to remember.

He looked up and found McCullum a few steps away, crouching down to inspect one of the fresh corpses. “She wasn’t a monster,” Jonathan spoke in a dejected voice. “She hadn’t killed anyone yet.” But she had said to his face how badly she wanted to, hadn’t she? He just hadn’t been willing to listen. “So, I let her be.” The lack of comprehension in McCullum’s unguarded expression as he turned towards him was as infuriating as it was justified. Of course, the other man would see no sense in his words when he still held the believe Jonathan had created this horror himself. But even though he hadn’t, it was his fault all the same because he had stood by and let it happen. “I know, you wouldn’t have made that mistake! You’d kill any one of our kind without a second thought,” he snapped at him in bitterness, not sure if he despised or envied the vampire hunter for his ruthlessness. All his knowledge and skill as a healer had turned out to be utterly useless in this twisted world where the only cure was death. Unaware of his bared teeth and fingers curled into claws in response to the raw frustration flaring inside his chest, he turned on his heel to follow the trail of freshly spilled blood Harriet had left in her wake. Behind him, the shadows had crept closer and McCullum’s knuckles had turned white gripping the hilt of his sword.

Though he couldn’t hear him, he knew the hunter was somewhere close behind him, following him through the winding tunnels. He cared little what the other vampire was up to. In the end he could still trust that he was just as determined as Jonathan, if not more so, to take down Harriet before she destroyed the city and slaughtered everyone in it.

The scent of blood that had led him grew more pungent with sickness and decay the closer he got. After passing the corpse of another Skal slain as she’d tried to escape, the narrow passage opened into a large reservoir. Thick columns painted almost white with mould stretched out of the murky waters towards a ceiling that lay somewhere above shrouded in darkness. He slowed his steps to a walk when he felt a presence familiar but dreaded and the air around him turned viscous with the colour of blood. Whispers in an ancient tongue echoed off the walls and blurred together with the heavy drum of a heartbeat in his ears. A human form cut itself like a mirage out of the red mist, crooked and horned. Jonathan clenched his jaw at the sight. He couldn’t stand listening to the riddles of his maker on a good night, never mind now while his thoughts were restless.

“Take not a step further, child, for you are unprepared,” the vampire’s smooth voice grated in his ears.

“Stay out of my way,” Jonathan demanded without any attempt at patience. “I’m here to stop Harriet Jones. She’s the source of the epidemic.”

The ancient vampire, as always, was undeterred by his blunt animosity, or by anything else for that matter. “I have heard you, but be wary. Harriet Jones’ mind is no more. She has-”

Not an hour ago, Jonathan would have been disheartened to learn that she was beyond saving, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. “I just want to end this epidemic,” he interrupted his maker, unsurprised by the tiredness that was already creeping back into his tone. For all the anger that burned up his insides and edged him on, he realized it was a fleeting one, at its core nothing more than a brittle mask. As the confrontation with the mysterious entity forced him to pause and think, he felt it quickly losing ground to the heavy exhaustion that had long taken up permanent residence in the hollow of his bones.

“You cannot expect to withstand the effects of the blood of hate without protection from its poisonous kiss,” the older vampire cautioned. “I shall let you pass only once you possess it.”

Jonathan took an involuntary step back and blinked at the creature, then past him where the scattered corpses marked the path further into the darkness of the hall. Suddenly bereft of choice, his shoulders slumped in relief or defeat, realizing he wouldn’t have to confront Harriet, at least not for now. “What is the blood of hate? What protection do you speak of?” he asked in a dull tone and felt like a child for his glaring lack of knowledge - though in a conversation with his maker the feeling wasn’t exactly an unfamiliar one.

“It’s the curse of the Goddess. It’s the hunger in you, the need for blood. You’re not the first to face it and you will not be the last. Look to the memories of those who came before you,” he answered in his usual manner that explained barely anything.

“Goddess?” he echoed in disbelieve. He screwed his eyes shut and raised a hand to massage his temple where a headache was beginning to build up pressure on the other side of his skull. “You can’t be serious.” Was he asking the wrong questions or too plain stupid to understand his answers? Why couldn’t his maker just speak clearly for once, without riddles and metaphors?

“We don’t have time for this, Reid. He’s obviously stalling,” McCullum pointed out as he approached them. He paused next to Jonathan and gave him a questioning look that was only met with a tired, helpless shake of his head. Disappointment flickered in his blue eyes, or at least that’s what Jonathan thought it was, but when the hunter faced the mysterious vampire, his expression had already gone back to his usual scowl. “Will you let me pass or do I have to force my way?”

The creature eyed him with an unreadable expression, perhaps a kind of mild curiosity, and simply gestured him to go ahead. “Be my guest.”

“You would let him pass?!” Jonathan blurted out and then turned to McCullum who was giving him an odd look. “Don’t go. If what he says is true, Harriet Jones will infect you with her sickness. You will turn into a mindless beast.” His voice cracked on the last words. He knew and he feared that the other man wouldn’t listen to him.

“Can’t you see he’s manipulating you? We are vampires, Reid. We don’t get sick,” the hunter said in a way that left no room for an argument. “We already are.”

His maker spoke with indifference, his gaze already back on Jonathan, “You will learn from his mistakes.” McCullum huffed indignantly at his words and then decided he was finished with their conversation. Without a stumble in his step, he moved past the ancient vampire, further along the brick path between the waters.

Jonathan stared at his back as the hunter walked away, wide-eyed and frozen in dismay. Even if McCullum survived whatever monster awaited him in the depths of the sewers, Jonathan would have to kill him, just like his sister. Put him down like a rabid dog. He wanted to call out to him, ask him to turn back, but there was no air in his lungs. “Geoffrey…” he managed to choke out, the name a slip of the tongue or something more desperate. “I don’t want to fight this crusade alone.” Words that were too childish to be taken seriously and too quiet to be heard.

“You don’t need him,” the older vampire chided him, a meagre note of pity in his voice. “He is of no relevance to your quest.”

Jonathan looked to his maker and wondered if he could even blame him for not taking kindly to the leader of Priwen when he must have hunted and killed so many of their kin without remorse. But McCullum hadn’t killed him when he had the chance, he had even shown him kindness for no other reason. There was more to him than the blood of monsters on his hands. “You’re wrong,” he whispered and took another step back to gather his focus, his eyes snapping back to the hunter and his headache forgotten.

It took McCullum barely a second to break through the ice freezing his veins and his body. With a snarl on his lips and his sword up to defend he whirled around, threads of shadow fluttering around his frame. For just the blink of an eye it all fell away when he caught sight of Jonathan, and left bare the confusion on his face, the look of one who’s been betrayed. Wouldn’t he have known better though? “Don’t cross me, Reid,” the hunter growled with his teeth flashing sharp and a threatening slash of his longsword through the air. “This is our only chance to kill her before it’s too late. You know that.”

Jonathan hesitated, thrown off by the pang of guilt in his chest. “There has to be another way. I won’t stand here and do nothing while you run towards certain death,” he shot back and his raised voice echoed distorted off the walls. “Turn back!” Darkness poured out between the cracks in the brickwork and twitched in time with his fingers as it pooled at his feet, restless and volatile.

“You’re even more of an idiot than I thought if you believe his lies.” It sounded almost disappointed. He began to advance, slowly at first but quickly falling into a run, the tip of his sword pointed low and slightly behind him. A glint of red on the sharp blade, but maybe it was just a trick of the light.

Before the other vampire could reach him, Jonathan jumped back and sent out a wave of shadow, lapping up from the dark waters around them and spilling over onto the pathway. Thick spears split the air and forced McCullum to sidestep. While he managed easily the first two or three times, the next one shredded part of his coat and then Jonathan could hear a muffled hiss of pain as a black spike pierced through his side and left a gaping wound running red. He let his magic fall at the same instant, like ink dropping lifelessly to the ground it peeled back over the edges, before he remembered the other man wasn’t human anymore, he didn’t break as easily anymore.

“I should have cut out your rotten heart,” McCullum snarled darkly as he stared up from his hand that had come away covered in blood from the wound. With those words the expression on his face shuttered. There was nothing of the menacing glares he’d shot Jonathan during their last fight, nothing of his open hostility and disdain. The blankness was somehow far more terrifying. The hunter moved fast as he rushed forward, the edges of his form blurred black with his speed amplified by the supernatural blood flowing through his veins and perhaps the recklessness that came with immortality.

Again Jonathan retreated, further back into the tunnels and away from the invisible line his maker had drawn for him. With a flick of his wrists his fingers turned to claws, razor-sharp and dripping with darkness. At first cowardice stayed his hands and he focused more on dodging the other vampire’s brutal swings instead of attacking himself. The narrow corridor made it difficult enough for McCullum to use the full advantage of such a large weapon. More than once the tip scratched along the brick walls and showered the two of them in fetid mould and dust alike.

As the sword came down in a particularly failed swing Jonathan saw an opening and instead of ducking away he made a grab for the blade. Shadow flared up between his hand and the sharpened iron to cushion the blow, still he could feel the sheer force behind it thrumming painfully through his arm. Too late he realized he’d fallen for a feint. He let out a surprised gasp when the weapon was twisted easily out of his grip and he was seized by the throat in a merciless hold. Pain pierced his chest as cold steel carved its way through flesh and bones until the cross-guard settled against his ribs.

He blinked, his vision swimming with darkness, and then all he could focus on were the hunter’s blue eyes, blank to the point where they just seemed lost. No triumphant grin, no mocking sneer and Jonathan wondered what emotion McCullum was so desperately trying to hide from him. A smile formed on his own lips, twisted delirious and sad. “I'm sorry, but I mean to win this time,” he coughed out alongside a mouthful of blood. An ugly thing reared its head inside him, something disregarded and despised, and it whispered to the shadows and the shadows swallowed both men whole.

Fear. Fear was the last thing he saw in McCullum’s eyes and he realized he’d never before seen him afraid of anyone.

Chapter Text

The air was cold on his clammy skin, cloyed with the heady smell of spilled blood. It was silent in the tunnels save for his rattling breath, a mortal habit that seemed to resurface whenever pain drowned out his thoughts. On every inhale his lungs seized up around the blade lodged between his ribs. He stumbled along the wall through the darkness until his legs wouldn’t carry him anymore and his knees hit the floor hard. With numb fingers he fumbled for the hilt of the sword, but it slipped from his grasp slick with blood and it took a few clumsy attempts before he managed to pull the weapon out far enough so he could switch his hands to its blade for a better grip. On its way out he could feel every inch of the heavy steel scrape over his bones and cut deeper into his flesh until it finally came free and dropped to the ground with a loud clatter.

Coughing up a gush of blood he doubled over and barely managed to brace himself on his hands before he hit the ground face-first. A ringing started up at the back of his mind and his vision threatened to black out. His body felt so heavy, his shaking limbs so tired he had trouble remembering why he didn’t just lie down to rest on the cold, wet brick floor. Let sleep take away his pain and his worries until they were nothing more than a bad dream. In the darkness it wouldn’t make a difference anyway if he closed his eyes for a while.

Only, as soon as he let his eyes slip shut he could hear the echo of his screams. So full of pain, his eyes wide with horror as the shadows had reached for him, torn into his flesh and snapped his bones with an effortless brutality like a child would break a doll. Black spikes had dug themselves through his chest until they emerged on the other side dripping with red. His violent struggle had seemed to make it worse and it had taken Jonathan too long to understand that it had been his own fear that had the tendrils lash out with increasing viciousness. Only when he had screwed his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears they had receded, leaving behind a limp body and deafening silence.

A broken whimper echoed through the empty tunnel, and Jonathan dug his teeth into his lower lip to stifle the sound when he realized it came from himself. McCullum still lay motionless but a few steps away, barely alive with his blood seeping sluggishly from too many wounds. He felt disgusted by himself and his sick desire for blood when it registered as flecks of bright red in contrast to the blackness surrounding them. Gritting his teeth against the pain and with one palm pressed against the wound in his chest, he peeled himself halfway off the ground and crawled over to the other man, oblivious to how the sharp edges of brick stone under his hand scraped up his skin.

With trembling fingers he reached for his face and turned it ever so carefully towards him. The hunter looked almost peaceful, his eyes closed and his expression slack like he was sleeping, if it weren’t for the blood and grime covering his skin and the dark bruises under his eyes. Searching for a pulse at the veins of his neck he found the faint beat of a heart, too slow for a human, but too fast for a vampire in its attempt to compensate for the low blood pressure. Out of habit he catalogued the wounds littering his body and the amount of damage would have made him lose all hope if McCullum had still been mortal. His fingers traced along a gaping gash running from one side of his chest to the opposite shoulder, cut so deep he could see bits of broken bones sticking out of the red mess of shredded flesh, and part of him was relieved that he wouldn’t have to patch up the terrible injuries he had inflicted himself.

His eyes didn’t leave McCullum’s pale face while he clumsily rolled up one of his sleeves and raised his forearm to his mouth. Almost absentmindedly his numb lips grazed along the wrist before he buried his teeth into his own skin. His addled mind barely registered the pain as the blood started welling up from his veins in thick, sluggish droplets of red. A muted voice inside his head revolted at the idea that a mouthful of blood would be of more help to his patient than all his medical skills, but it was easily ignored as he gently curled his other arm around McCullum’s shoulders and pulled him close. The other vampire was still out cold and didn’t stir even when Jonathan pressed his wrist to his lips and let the blood trickle into his mouth.

He could have stayed like this, slowly sinking into himself until he was almost curled around the man in his lap. Shadows drew like a blanket closer around them and the gentle sound of waves in the distance bade him to close his eyes and let himself drift away with the exhaustion tugging him down. But it was the same darkness that should make him feel safe in its familiar embrace that had him remember over and over again the terrified expression on McCullum’s face as it had torn violently into him. With shaking hands he gathered his broken body more closely to his chest and another low whine escaped his lips before he could shut himself up, because he knew how wrong it was to search for comfort where he clearly wasn’t welcomed. The quiet only made it more noticeable how alone he was and that nothing about it would change even when the other man would wake up again.

“Wouldn’t it be so much easier to just kill me?” The quiet words slurred against his chest had Jonathan jerk awake from the daze he’d fallen into. As his gaze dropped to McCullum he saw that he was barely conscious, his eyes half lidded and glazed over. One of his hands was pawing at Jonathan’s shirt, curling into the dirty fabric with stiff fingers in a feeble attempt to grab him.

Shaking his head he mumbled in a voice dragging with exhaustion, “I need you alive.” He didn’t have to see the scowl on the hunter’s face to know his words would not be well received, but he was too tired to wrack his brain when there was no right answer to begin with. If Jonathan were the evil mastermind the other man thought him to be, he couldn’t have done any better. Convince him to set him free, lure him far away from the protection of his Guard and into his hidden lair underneath the city and then strike as soon as he’d turned his back. If he had let McCullum go, Harriet would be dead by now. Instead, they didn’t even know if they’d get a second chance at stopping her before she infected everyone in the city. It really made no difference that Jonathan’s intention had been to save him.

Lost in his misery he didn’t notice McCullum move until he had pushed himself half-way off the ground. At first he thought the other vampire just wanted to get away from him, so he was surprised when the hunter clambered on top of him and toppled him over with his weight. He was too slow to react and the back of his head hit the ground hard. While he lay there momentarily dazed, it took all of his self-control to stifle the panic swelling inside his chest and keep himself from lashing out by instinct, though when his mind focused again it became clear he risked being killed if he let his guard down like this.

McCullum had grabbed him roughly by his jaw and wrenched his head back with unexpected strength. Patches of red bloomed on his shirt where his wounds had opened again, but he didn’t seem to register it at all. While his eyes were still clouded, his lips were peeled back to reveal sharp teeth and there was no mistaking his aggression. Jonathan’s threw his arms up to stop an attack that never followed. He blinked up at him in wary hesitation, his palms still pressed firmly against McCullum’s chest. “You like to see me suffer? Is that it?” the hunter asked with not enough venom to cover up the wounded rasp in his voice. “The poetic justice of a vampire hunter turned vampire.” A choked laugh bubbled from his chest along with a gush of blood that spilled over his lips and ran down his chin. His sneer was smeared red when he threatened darkly, “Don’t think I’m indebted to you for sparing me. I’ll be your worst nightmare, Reid.”

Jonathan stared at him, at a complete loss what he could say to fix this. He’d known fighting McCullum would incur his hatred but he’d been stupid enough to hope he could somehow make him listen, afterwards. He’d thought, despite all the hunter’s distrust it must have meant something that he had let Jonathan live, just like it must mean something to him now that Jonathan hadn’t killed him either. How ignorant he’d been – McCullum was right, of course it didn’t mean anything. Had he thought the other man would thank him for it? That he would suddenly agree and stand down because Jonathan had torn his body to shreds and put him in his place?

As his gaze flickered between McCullum’s eyes he thought he could see something like uncertainty underneath the mask of cold resentment, and then grimaced inwardly at his unfaltering ability to lie to himself. He gave up, like he should have to begin with, and let his gaze slink away. Silent with his jaw clenched shut because he was terrified to make things between them even worse with whatever desperate plea wanted to escape his lips. He forced his muscles to relax, tipped his head back and bared his throat in submission, fighting against both the knowledge and the fear that this would get him killed. After all, the other vampire had every reason to tear into his skin without hesitation, if not out of anger then out of thirst for blood. But Jonathan didn’t know of any other way to prove, that despite what he had done, he had no desire to hurt him.

McCullum let go and flinched away so abruptly Jonathan could have hit him and would have gotten a less startled reaction. “What is wrong with you?! Why do you look at me like you give a fuck?” he lashed out in accusation, though the look of utter bewilderment on his face belied the heat in his voice. With a frustrated groan he screwed his eyes shut seemingly working out something decidedly complicated. “Why did you lose the last time we fought?” he wanted to know. His hands curled into Jonathan’s shirt and he sank into himself like he had neither enough strength left to keep himself upright nor to fuel his anger.

Jonathan felt no relief when he realized the other man had arrived at the end of his rope. Loosely he wrapped one of his hands around McCullum’s and rubbed a thumb soothingly over his knuckles, hesitantly at first until he was sure the other didn’t mind. “I don’t want to fight you,” he said quietly with a voice that wasn’t quite steady. His gaze still wandered cowardly through the darkness instead of facing him. “Not then and not now.”

The hunter barked out a bitter laugh at his words and shook his head. “You’re not making any sense. I could have killed you. I wanted to.” His eyes turned wild and his expression grim as he explained, “You’re a leech. You’re evil and you don’t care about anyone but yourself.” It seemed like a principle he’d internalized a long time ago, something that helped him keep his work as a vampire hunter free of complications. Though with the way his voice cracked towards the end, McCullum had already understood that things weren’t as black and white from this side of the looking glass.

Too many questions were on the tip of his tongue, but this was neither the time nor the place, so Jonathan settled on a soft-spoken, “I care about you.” It slipped so easily from his lips that he realized too late how that had sounded. “And the people in this city,” he amended awkwardly. His gaze snapped back to McCullum and when he saw the doubt in his scowl, Jonathan was compelled to meet it with a challenging glare, daring him to call him a liar on this. He propped himself up on one elbow before he added with more emphasis, “I am deeply sorry I attacked you, but I couldn’t let you sacrifice yourself.”

For the smallest moment the other looked back at him, his eyes widened in disbelieve fragile enough to hint at something worse that lay beneath, before his anger slipped back in place. “I wasn’t going to sacrifice myself. I had a plan, you arrogant ass,” McCullum hissed, though there was little spite behind his insult.

“I have no doubt you would have defeated Harriet, but her blood would have turned you into a monster,” Jonathan tried to get through to him and while he managed to sound sure of himself he felt anything but. If his maker had lied and there was nothing to the blood of hate, Jonathan had made a terrible mistake in believing him.

“No difference there then,” the hunter scoffed. “But that’s not what I meant. The Tear of Angels. That’s what your maker was talking about. Marshal writes about it in his memoirs and used it to cure himself a hundred years after he got infected.” His voice took on a pained edge as he continued, “You would have helped me figure out the antidote, right? We could have put an end to it, Jonathan.”

“You… know about it?” Jonathan whispered in disbelieve and was suddenly very aware of the hands fisted into the fabric of his shirt and pressed against the hollow feeling of failure in his chest. “You should have told me.” But that would have required an amount of trust the other man had no reason to put in him.

McCullum shrugged with faked ease and averted his eyes, though not before Jonathan caught a glimpse of the guilty look on his face. “Blood of a pure heart. Garlic. Blood of a king. I guess, two of them are easy enough to procure. But…” His shoulders sagged and his gaze darted back, filled with doubt. “A pure heart? I’m too old for fairy tales.”

His scientific mind bristled at the list of ingredients, but Jonathan had become more or less used to ignoring it since he had point blank shot his own heart and still woken up at sunset. “I might know a few people we could ask where to acquire it,” he ventured carefully. “But you won’t like them.” Two of them vampires and the other one the Primate of the Brotherhood.

“Fine,” McCullum conceded with a huff that lay somewhere between amused and tired. “We’ll do it your way. First the antidote, then we kill Harriet Jones.”

Jonathan allowed himself a moment of hopefulness at the hunter’s reluctant compromise, but at the same time he couldn’t deny his sadness as he heard him speak of death so easily. Both his maker and McCullum didn’t appear to even consider any alternative solution, even though it might not be too late to cure her after all. If they could gather enough ingredients for three doses of the Tear of Angels there was no reason not to give it a try. He almost opened his mouth to share the idea with the other vampire before he thought better of it. It was not worth starting an argument about something that might never happen.

This time he recognized the pungent stench of death in the air long before they entered the hall. As soon as he noticed it, he clasped a hand over his mouth and nose and stopped his breathing completely. He could feel McCullum’s gaze on him and berated himself for his squeamishness.

“We don’t have to go back there,” the other man offered with unmistakable worry in his voice and at the same time a kind of cautiousness like he wasn’t sure if it was his place to speak out.

Jonathan didn’t look at him, afraid he wouldn’t be able to hide the fear in his eyes or the lie he was about to tell. “It’s the shortest way out of here,” he said after a reluctant inhale. With his injuries McCullum needed a place to rest as soon as possible and still Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to show him the way through the Night Asylum. It was one thing to trifle with his own life but something else entirely to endanger the lives of others. The moment they would enter the cellar and find it full of cut-up, half-eaten corpses the hunter would have no other choice but to decide a Skal couldn’t be trusted with running a shelter for the poor.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Jonathan paused before he could bring up the resolve to step into the room. There was nothing he could do to help them, he reminded himself, they were already dead. He hadn’t known them, not even their names, just a passing acquaintance, a short conversation here and there. Most of them had been too afraid of him, an Ekon who embodied all they despised and all they craved. Old Bridget had been the only one to show no fear. “Wait here,” he told McCullum absentmindedly and made his way deeper into the cavern, not noticing the flicker of relief on the other man’s face at the chance to rest.

The hunter watched him as he examined the corpses one by one. “Who are you looking for?” he asked, quiet enough to be missed.

Jonathan didn’t feel like answering and first intended to ignore the question before he thought better of it. “The leader of the Sewer Skals. I’m hoping I won’t find her among the dead.” His gaze lingered on the other side of the canal and he wondered if some of them had managed to escape that way. He gave this part of the hall another cursory glance before he crossed the bridge that span above the sewage. There was no blood here, no corpses. Reluctantly he took a deep breath to scent the air. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to pick out her blood beneath the thick layer of death, but its absence was all the consolation he would find here.

He circled the longer way back to McCullum, up the stairs and over the wooden gallery where he knew a few rats would be scurrying about. After he had stilled his own hunger, he grabbed one of the small, furry animals and brought it with him as he approached the other vampire who was eyeing him askance. “I thought you might prefer to have a choice. What will it be? Rat’s blood or mine?” Jonathan asked him with a levity he didn’t feel inside.

The hunter stumbled back and stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Don’t do that!” he hissed.

Jonathan lowered the hand holding the rat and his gaze alternated between the rodent and McCullum like the explanation to his adverse reaction lay there. “Don’t do what?” It bothered him more than he cared to admit that he didn’t understand what he had done wrong this time. “You’re hungry,” he said, waiting for the other to disagree.

McCullum gestured vaguely at him and when Jonathan just frowned none the wiser he let out a frustrated huff. “I want- Do you even- What are-” he tried but then just cut himself off with a grimace. “Forget about it.” A determined scowl covered up any other expression as he stepped closer and snatched the rat from his hand. His lips peeled back and revealed his sharp teeth and the saliva pooling on his tongue. Though instead of biting into its dark fur, the hunter only watched the panicked creature struggle to escape his fist, how its tiny paws dug into his skin in a futile attempt to gain enough leverage. Then, suddenly, he crouched down and opened his hand to release the rat. With a high squeal it ran away and vanished underneath a pile of loose bricks and planks. “It’s so…” His voice was already barely audible and quickly tapered off.

“You need to drink blood,” he pointed out bluntly and though he kept his voice soft he expected to get a snappy response or at least a dark look from the other vampire. But the new-born kept his gaze on the shadows where the small animal had disappeared and said nothing. Jonathan suppressed a sigh and rolled up his sleeve. While he didn’t presume to understand why exactly McCullum had let the rat go, he knew there were countless reasons for his reluctance to kill it. And at least the hunter had tried. “My offer still stands. After all, it’s my fault that you’re hurt.” He held out his bared arm but oddly enough those were the words that had the hunter take a step back again and glare at him.

“I know what I’m doing,” McCullum muttered with an annoyance that couldn’t quite drown out the tiredness slurring his voice. His shoulders were tense and his eyes darted away to an empty spot on the ground. “You always think you know what’s best, Doctor Reid, but you’re only making it worse.” The words obviously aimed to hurt and Jonathan couldn’t help but wonder if he had just said them to stifle the conversation.

McCullum stood in the red-painted door, one hand resting on the wooden frame while his body was half turned towards the open backyard. Rain soaked through his clothes and his skin appeared almost white in the pale light. He looked like a child that didn’t remember the way home anymore, with his gaze directed into the distance where a sliver of orange behind the jagged silhouette of the city heralded the dawn. Blood trickled down his chin where he had worried his lower lip and bitten down too hard.

Jonathan tore his eyes away from the red gleaming colour and the lost expression on McCullum’s face that reminded him too much of the things they couldn’t have anymore. “The sun will be up soon,” he said and swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. When the other vampire didn’t react, he tugged him away from the door and closed it. “You should try to get some rest.”

McCullum looked at him for a moment, then at the room they were standing in like he didn’t know where he was. The place was rundown and its sparse furniture half broken and scattered. The floor was littered with tattered rags and crumbled newspapers, old blood from a corpse Jonathan had cleared out a week ago had left a dark stain on the wooden boards. When he had suggested the hideout, he had expected McCullum to argue or even have a better idea - or to just tell him they should go their separate ways. Instead, the hunter had continued to follow his lead without questioning where they were going. Twice Jonathan had pulled the other man back into the shadows to avoid running into a Priwen patrol on their way here. The first time McCullum had given him a weird look while they had waited for the group to pass their hiding place, the second time he’d apologized for his carelessness with a mumbled “Sorry.”

“Take the bed. I’ll sleep in the chair,” Jonathan offered, because it didn’t seem like the other man knew what to do with himself. His drowsy behaviour began to worry Jonathan more than his wounds and he hoped a day full of sleep would help the new-born reorient himself. When he saw McCullum considering the bare mattress that had nothing but a white blanket as a cover, he busied himself with closing the shutters. The room fell dark except for the bleak light from the lantern outside that stubbornly cut thin lines through the cracks between the boards. The wind rattled at the window frames and the wooden supports of the building creaked above them.

“It doesn’t make any sense for you to kill me in my sleep, right? If you wanted me dead…” Jonathan heard McCullum say and turned to find the hunter watching him with an oddly unguarded expression. He was sitting on the bed, his elbows propped up on his thighs and his shoulders slumped. His coat hung over the footrest to dry and without it the extend of the damage Jonathan had inflicted on his body was obvious underneath the torn and bloodied remains of his shirt.

“I would have already killed you,” Jonathan finished his sentence and shook his head. “You’re safe here. But does it matter what I say? You shouldn’t trust a leech.” His joke fell flat against the resentment he couldn’t keep from seeping into his voice.

McCullum huffed a small laugh and leaned down slowly to curl up on the bed without jostling his injuries too much. “You’ve never lied to me,” he said quietly with his back turned. It almost sounded like he meant it, but he was probably just too tired to inject the missing sarcasm into his tone.

Chapter Text

He woke up to the sound of rain pattering against the wooden shutters and the distant rattling of a train crossing a bridge over the Thames. Sluggishly his eyes blinked open and with still sleep-blurred vision slipped towards the bed. To his surprise he saw McCullum already awake and sitting at the edge of the mattress with his head hung low. His sword lay in his lap, the metal of its blade dulled and stained dark by dried blood. While one hand held the hilt loosely, the fingers of the other traced along the fuller absently and scratched off flakes of red.

When Jonathan got up from the dusty armchair he’d been curled up in, the hunter’s gaze snapped towards him. Though his eyes were half lidded and glazed over, they attentively followed his movement, or rather the place in his chest where his heart beat, like all the new-born could see was vibrant red pulsing through his veins. “McCullum?” he asked with a low voice, still rough from sleep. “How are you feeling?”

At the sound of his name the hunter came back to himself, if only reluctantly. He blinked slowly and dragged his eyes with difficulty up to Jonathan’s face. For a moment he just stared at him, then he frowned and sunk in on himself. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing, Jonathan,” he admitted haltingly, his voice so timid it made him seem helpless. “I’m not used to fighting this.” His fingers curled around the blade as if there was any comfort to be found in the cold metal.

The frightened expression on his face had something ache deep inside Jonathan’s chest. “Let me help you,” he implored, wanting nothing more than to ease the suffering he knew so well himself.

McCullum shook his head minutely and asked with a strained voice, “Do you know what you taste like?” His gaze wandered back to Jonathan, his eyes clearer now and his teeth bared in hunger. He rose to his feet, the grip on his sword so loose it almost slipped from his fingers. “I want to lick your dried blood off my blade. I want to drag you to the ground where you stand and bury my teeth into your neck.” He took an unsteady step forward and his tongue darted out to taste his lips like they were already covered in blood. “You wouldn’t even struggle, would you?” he said darkly. “You’d let me.”

He smothered the uneasiness that was crawling up his throat with the way McCullum looked at him like he was prey. “Yes, I would. So, what’s holding you back?” he asked, trying to figure out why the hunter kept hesitating. The other man scowled at him and stayed quiet, but it was hard to tell if that was because he didn’t want to talk about it or because he simply didn’t know the answer himself. “You need to feed before you lose control,” Jonathan reminded him and stepped closer. He thought he knew what to expect from the new-born and so he was surprised as McCullum’s eyes widened and hunger turned back into fear.

But the moment Jonathan hesitated, McCullum swayed forward and grabbed him, one hand at his collar, one around his elbow. The sword hit the ground with a loud clatter and if he had even noticed it, he didn’t care. It was painfully obvious how hard he struggled to keep himself together, his heart beat loud and fast like a drum inside his chest and his whole body was trembling with it. His breathing was a harsh sound in the quiet of the night, his voice so small it was barely audible. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The shadow of misery and self-loathing in the hunter’s eyes scared him and he didn’t know how to make it disappear. Jonathan tried for a smile that turned out too brittle. “This is really the worst moment to go soft on me, McCullum. You’re a vampire hunter and I’m a leech – remember?” Although he told himself it was to keep the other from retreating, he knew that was only half the reason that had him reach out carefully to tug him closer.

The other man followed without resistance and buried his face in the crook of Jonathan’s neck as he sagged against him. “Hmm,” he mumbled distractedly. His hand wandered up the column of his throat and its touch was light, barely there as the back of his fingers traced the veins underneath his skin. “It used to be so easy to hate you.” He released a shaking breath and sniffled quietly. “Say it,” he begged in a whisper.

Jonathan’s head was swimming with the flutter of eyelashes against soft skin, the graze of dry lips over his throat, and it took him a moment to understand what McCullum needed to hear from him. “It’s alright,” he promised, curled his fingers into the tattered fabric of his shirt and tilted his head back minutely. Though he expected it, it took all his self-control not to jerk away when the gentle touch turned violent with need and white-hot pain pierced his flesh. He felt his blood run down the slope of his throat, the tongue lapping it up in messy, greedy strokes. What air he had left in his lungs slipped through gritted teeth in a stuttered groan as the other man pressed closer. He screwed his eyes shut, clawed his fingers into his back and held onto him, searching out comfort against the pain in the source of it.

He knew he was letting it get out of hand when he felt his head grow cold and empty, his skin numb. Weakly he pushed against the other vampire and said in a dulled voice, “Stop. That’s enough.” All the response he got was a flare of pain as fangs dug deeper into his neck, and with the memory of breaking bones and ripping flesh still echoing in his mind, part of him was content to let the new-born take however much he wanted, even if it meant he would bleed him dry in the process, just to smother the ugly twist of guilt in his chest. But McCullum had said he didn’t want to hurt him, he’d asked for his help to end the epidemic and more than anything Jonathan wanted to be of help. “Geoffrey, please,” he tried again and his words were barely more than a slurred whisper. With shaking fingers he sought out the side of McCullum’s face and let his thumb stroke gently along the line of his cheek bone, a too careful attempt to coax him away from the red fog of his thirst.

It took a while until the other vampire reluctantly pulled his teeth from his throat and let out a questioning whimper so quiet it was almost lost in the silence. “Sorry,” he muttered meekly against his skin. His grip slowly relaxed and his fingers soothed over the bruised flesh in an apology though he still didn’t let go. With small licks he cleaned the blood trickling from the open wound, tentatively, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. Jonathan didn’t have the heart to push him away and let his eyes slip half shut, drifting with the feeling of receding pain as the gentle touches quickly eased the worst of it and flesh began knitting itself back together.

After the bleeding had stopped, McCullum hesitantly stepped back. There was a hungry darkness to his eyes and a flush high on his cheeks from the rush of fresh blood, both a stark contrast to the guilty expression on his face and the misery in his voice while he apologized again. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you and killed that rat. Instead, I let it come to this.” With his head inclined and his shoulders hunched it seemed as if he was bracing himself for an attack, or punishment.

Jonathan wanted to offer a few reassuring words but his trail of thought derailed when his gaze dropped to his mouth stained with red. McCullum caught his stare and looked away. Self-consciously he wiped off the blood with the back of his hand and then his tongue darted out to clean what he had missed on his upper lip. Though his own blood didn’t have any appeal to him, for a moment Jonathan wondered what it would taste like if he licked it off the other man’s skin. Blinking hard to dispel the image from his thoughts he tore his eyes away before his mind could take it any further. With as much calm as he could muster, which really wasn’t enough to cover up how he was stumbling to regain his composure, he said, “It’s fine. It is my decision to offer you my blood and you’re welcome to take whenever you need it.”

His hands curled into fists and anger flashed in his eyes, but still he kept his gaze averted. When he replied, “No, it’s not fine. I… After we’ve put an end to the epidemic, our paths will not cross again,” his tone was strangely void of any emotion. Jonathan was about to inquire what exactly he meant by that, when the hunter quickly cut him off with his familiar gruffness. “So, who did you have in mind to help us with the last ingredient? And please don’t tell me you want to go ask Talltree.”

Either McCullum was still too worked up to hide it completely, or Jonathan had come to know him well enough to hear the slight tremble in his voice. He wished he could just right out ask what was on his mind, but that was not the kind of relationship they had. After a moment’s hesitation he decided to put his worries aside for now and go along with the deliberate change of topic. “I’m afraid he’s on the list,” he answered with an apologetic smile. “But first we need to talk to Lady Ashbury. If my assumption is correct, it was her blood Swansea used on Harriet Jones.”

McCullum side-eyed him. “You’re saying, she was his accomplice?” Though his constant suspicion was grating, it was a step away from his usually straight forward hostile attitude towards vampires that he at least intonated it as a question.

While Jonathan had considered that possibility, he had also already discarded it, and it irked him that the hunter’s words brought back his doubt so easily. “She wouldn’t have agreed to his experiment,” he replied with less confidence than he would have liked to. “If you don’t mind, I would ask her to join us. As a healthy carrier of the blood of hate she would be immune to its effect. She…” He hesitated with his next words, but he was fairly certain McCullum shared his view. “If things take a turn for the worse and we get infected, she could help us… or kill us.”

“And what will you do when she tells you she gave her blood willingly? When she tells you, the whole thing was her idea and she just wanted to have a little bit of fun?” the hunter asked and his gaze was sharp, almost predatory, like he was waiting for Jonathan to fail the answer.

Fed up with his unjustified mistrust, Jonathan didn’t try to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he replied, “Obviously, I’ve been looking for an opportunity to betray you, so I will immediately switch sides and leave you to fend for yourself. Is that a lie you would believe?” Whatever answer McCullum had expected, this wasn’t it. Instead of retaliating with a snappy retort, he just glared at Jonathan who jutted out his chin and refused to back down.

A moment later it was the hunter who averted his eyes first. With a grumbled “No,” he turned away and picked up his sword, apparently done with the conversation.

Taken back by the hunter’s cold reaction, he watched in silence as he sheathed the weapon brusquely and strapped it to his belt. Only after McCullum had put on his torn coat and straightened his collar, ready to leave the hideout, Jonathan spoke up. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

The other vampire paused at the door, his head tilted slightly towards him. “You’ll be on your own. So, be careful around her, yeah?” he said in a low voice. Though Jonathan quickly hid his crestfallen expression behind one of easy acceptance, it wasn’t fast enough for the hunter to miss it completely. McCullum gave him an unreadable look that softened into something almost apologetic as he explained, “I would accompany you, but you know as well as I do, she isn’t stupid enough to invite the leader of Priwen into her house. If she turns out to be evil just get the hell out of there. I’ll wait for you right outside and the Guard won’t be far either.”

Jonathan hadn’t expected the honest concern on McCullum’s face and he couldn’t quite bring himself to trust it. With a lopsided smile he joked, “Don’t tell me, you’re worried about me.” It earned him a scowl that by now was too familiar to still carry any serious threat.

“I’m not. I know you can hold your own.” He opened the door, stepped outside and with a deep breath took in the cold autumn air. The glaring light of the street lamp threw his profile in sharp relief against the darkness and the odd thought occurred to Jonathan that he would never know how his skin looked under the light of the sun. Just before McCullum jumped off the balcony he added, “But take it from someone who beat you, you can be a bit daft when it comes to finishing off your opponents.”

As they walked along the canal McCullum picked up their conversation again. “You didn’t set up any traps,” he noted apropos of nothing.

Jonathan looked up from the play of lights reflecting off the dark waters and eyed him curiously. “Why would I set up traps?”

“Because…” For a moment it appeared like the hunter would give him an explanation but then he frowned and just muttered with audible exasperation, “Because you’re an idiot.” He fell silent for a while and the only sounds left were their footsteps on the stone and the soft murmur of waves against the pier. “Your room at the hospital, the one with the open door to the balcony,” he continued haltingly. “Are you saying that convenient, terribly obvious point of access is not a trap?” Jonathan gave him another puzzled look which seemed to be all the answer he needed. “All this time I could have just grabbed a ladder and a stake and put an end to you in your sleep?”

“I guess so,” Jonathan answered slowly and wondered if he should reconsider leaving the door open during the day. He remembered reading something about vampires trapping their hideouts against unwanted intruders but had never found it necessary. Besides, he couldn’t just leave his plant to die without sunlight after he had gone through so much trouble getting fresh water for it.

“How are you not dead?” McCullum grumbled and kicked one of the loose stones in the road. With a quiet splash it hit the water and vanished in the darkness under the waves.

Raindrops clung to his eyelashes and blurred his sight as it absently followed the lines of two trees stretching towards the night sky. Their leafless branches seemed almost black against the grey clouds, their outlines silvery from the reflection of moonlight on the wet bark. He leaned his head back until it hit the brick wall behind him and let his eyes slowly slip shut. Water ran down his cheeks, soaked his beard and dripped along the column of his throat. The new clothes he’d changed into on a quick detour to the hospital were already wringing-wet again and he thought he could feel the icy wind biting into the skin underneath.

He couldn’t even bring himself to be angry at her. Not when the desire to run away was so familiar to his own thoughts. Get on the next train out of London, leave the city to fall apart and never look back. Everyone else was leaving, so why should he be the one who had to stay and carry on? Hadn’t he already done enough for this country? Hadn’t he saved enough lives, killed enough? After three years of war, he just wanted some peace and quiet. A place to rest, fall asleep and forget about the horrors behind him and the eternity that lay before him.

A dry laugh escaped his throat as he chided himself for the irresponsible thought. He huddled up against the wall at his back and deeper into the meagre shadows, buried his face in his hands and pulled up his knees to curl into himself. A pathetic bundle of a human figure, left and forgotten on the steps to Lady Ashbury’s mansion. Soon he would have to get up and find McCullum. Just not yet, when his limbs were so heavy and his heart so tired.

“Reid?” a voice called out to him and the sounds of feet running over wet cobblestone came closer until they stopped right next to him. A hand gently touched his shoulder, a silent request without demand, but the distress in his words belied its calm. “Are you hurt?” And wasn’t that a difficult question to answer?

“You said, you’d be here,” Jonathan croaked and was glad that his tiredness kept the accusation out of his tone. He didn’t understand why it had hurt so much when he hadn’t found the hunter waiting for him. McCullum didn’t owe him anything, he reminded himself, certainly not dealing with him when he was too weak to pull himself together and stop sulking. Already they had no time to spare and he was just dragging them down. Pointedly ignoring both the sway in his step and the supportive hand at his elbow he peeled himself off the ground and started walking.

“I’m sorry. I got held up,” McCullum apologized as he fell in step beside him. “Jonathan… what happened?”

She had looked at him in horror, begged him to stay away from her like she was the root of all the evil that had befallen the city. “Nothing. She ran,” he answered curtly and wiped a few wet strands of hair out of his eyes. Looking around he tried to remember the shortest way to Temple Church. If anyone knew about the Tear of Angels it would be Talltree. Jonathan had already acquired garlic essence and McCullum had access to blood of King Arthur, so they really just needed the last ingredient before they could make the trip back down into the sewers and face Harriet Jones or whatever she had become.

Suddenly McCullum stepped in front of him, effectively blocking his path and forcing him to stop. “Did she do something to your mind?” he asked and carefully looked him over.

What a convenient excuse that would be. It wouldn’t be his fault that he was too delicate and easily scared, instead it would be some evil magic messing with his head. “No. I’m fine,” he lied as he avoided his gaze and stepped around him. Neither the route through Whitechapel nor West End would be safe at night, but he was inclined to take the way through the latter and a quick glance at the hunter’s clean set of clothes told him they would be able to blend in easily enough with humans.

To his relief McCullum didn’t try again to stop him and instead followed quietly for a while. It was when they passed underneath a bridge that sheltered them from the rain that the hunter spoke up again and asked him to wait. He fished a few tattered pages from the inside of his coat and held them out. “I thought you might want to read it yourself.”

Jonathan had been about to ignore him but when his gaze fell to the documents and he saw what they were, he immediately reached out. Distracted as he read through the texts, he didn’t protest the other man tugging him to one side of the tunnel where shadows hid them from prying eyes. Turning monochrome his vision adjusted to the darkness while he skimmed first through a letter titled ‘The Vampire Knight’ and then an excerpt of William Marshal’s memoirs. He hadn’t been sure before but now he was almost certain the Tear of Angels could be used to heal Harriet and he allowed himself to hope they could avoid the unnecessary bloodshed altogether.

When he had finished reading he mumbled a quiet “Thanks,” and passed the pages back to the other man who stored them safely inside his coat. For a moment the two vampires just stood in silence while Jonathan struggled to find the next words and McCullum patiently waited him out. “I don’t think Lady Ashbury was in any way willingly involved. She was shocked when I told her about Swansea’s experiment and fled because she was afraid she could infect anyone else with the blood of hate,” he answered the hunter’s earlier question, half expecting him to disagree and twist her motives.

“We should check on her after we’ve dealt with Jones,” McCullum proposed. “The Guard already has her under observation, but she’s aware of that and she won’t be easy to keep track of.” After a pause he added hesitantly, “I know it’s not my place to ask, but does she mean anything to you?”

Though Jonathan still wasn’t able to meet his eyes, he huffed out a quiet laugh at the question. “I will not agree to killing her, if that’s what you want to know.” A dog could be heard barking in the distance as the silence stretched between them and Jonathan realized that McCullum had asked the question for a different reason and he might not have gotten away with pretending to be fine after all.

“You won’t tell me what upset you and I have to accept that, but you need to be more careful, Reid,” McCullum said unexpectedly and his voice had a soft, perhaps even submissive quality to it like he thought Jonathan didn’t want to hear what he had to say. “A Priwen patrol spotted you outside of the mansion and if I hadn’t stopped them they would have attacked you. I know you’re strong and you’re smart, and you can defend yourself, but sometimes… you just let your guard down completely and leave yourself vulnerable to anyone who means you harm.”

As Jonathan looked up he couldn’t help the tentative smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know how you ever got to be the leader of Priwen when you go around handing out advice to leeches.” After all this time he should have gotten used to people leaving him and yet, when he had found himself all alone outside of Lady Ashbury’s mansion the weight of it had been crushing. Years ago his father had been the first to disappear from his life. Later, the war had ripped away a whole chunk of friends he would never see again, and when he had finally returned home he’d killed his sister with his own two hands. And even though his mother was still alive, he couldn’t pretend it was much of a consolation to him - she had left him for the memory of a happier past and he couldn’t blame her. Eventually, McCullum too would leave and not come back. Jonathan had to be more careful not to make the stupid mistake to allow himself to get attached.

The hunter pouted and mumbled something defensive under his breath. Out loud he said, “We’re going to see Talltree next, right? Please don’t tell him I’m a vampire. Even an eternal lifetime isn’t enough for the Brotherhood to let me live that down.”

Chapter Text

The city was almost quiet here, between the high walls on either side of the narrow alleyway there was nothing except the patter of rain on stone, the reflection of the moon distorted by the circular ripples in the water. At the top of the stairs leading down to the crypt beneath Temple Church Jonathan stopped in his tracks, his expression carefully blank and his hands relaxed at his sides. He felt McCullum’s curious look on him but the words he wanted to get out were stuck behind clenched teeth.

“May I?” The hunter’s sudden words startled him. Jonathan gave him a wide-eyed look as McCullum stepped closer, his hand reaching towards his neck.

“How polite of you to ask before you slit my throat,” he said with a wry smile twisting the corner of his mouth. Despite his words he tilted his head back, baring the vulnerable skin without hesitation, but the hunter had already withdrawn his hand, his fallen expression one of confusion warping quickly into guilt. Barely in time Jonathan grabbed his sleeve and amended, “Sorry. It was a joke.”

McCullum let himself be stopped and turned around reluctantly. His eyes were dark, unreadable as after a moment he raised his hand again to reach out. Carefully he folded back Jonathan’s collar and let his fingers trace along the exposed line of his neck. Though his pupils widened with flaring hunger, his touch stayed gentle and Jonathan realized he was searching for the wound he had torn into his skin. For the fracture of a second Jonathan thought he saw relief crossing his features as well as an odd sort of regret. In the next moment the hunter plastered on a smile and straightened his collar. “You look like a drowned rat.” He reached up to comb the wet strands of hair out of Jonathan’s face.

Though the gesture was clearly playful and the scratch of fingers along his scalp was anything but unpleasant, Jonathan had to keep himself from flinching. He swatted McCullum’s hand away as if he hadn’t been spooked by it at all. “I don’t think Talltree will complain if I drip on his carpet.” The hunter didn’t laugh, instead he looked away, his lips pressed to a thin line, and Jonathan began to wonder if the other man was worried for the same reason he was. His voice was slowed with hesitation as he added, “Should we… talk about…?” He made a vague gesture towards the stairs.

“Do you want me to wait here?” McCullum asked him directly and with a tone so earnest Jonathan almost blurted out the truth.

He wanted so say no, wanted to explain why he wished the other man at his side despite the complications it would bring them, but instead he lied, “Yes,” burying his useless fears beneath rational thinking. “Talltree probably knows about Swansea’s death. He’s more likely to help if I meet with him alone.” He didn’t think he did well at hiding the uncertainty in his words, but the other man didn’t call him out on it.

McCullum just gave him a wry grin and said with a shrug, “He’ll have to get over it.” He turned towards the stairs that led down into the semi-darkness of the crypt. “Come on.” Clearly, the hunter wasn’t about to trust a leech or the Primate of the Brotherhood, never mind the schemes they could hack out together if left unobserved. But why then had he brought up the question in the first place?

“Of all the bad company you could keep, Doctor Reid, you chose him?” Talltree greeted them and managed to convey with just one raised eyebrow his entire disapproval and exasperation.

“I’m sure he can wait outside,” Old Bridget stated coldly. With her arms crossed defensively in front of her chest she stood next to the Primate of the Brotherhood and Jonathan’s relief at the sight of her was quickly overshadowed by the open hostility in her expression.

“I’m not a dog,” McCullum snapped back and then, with a sigh, added quietly enough so only Jonathan would hear it, “Maybe you were right.” As they approached the table at the back of the crypt he slowed his steps and let himself fall slightly behind. Jonathan could feel his eyes on him in what he imagined was an uncertain look, but he couldn’t bring himself to face him.

Bridget smiled sharply at the vampire hunter. “Indeed not. Dogs are amicable creatures.” Her eyes flickered between them and a crease between her brows gave away that she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the odd pair.

McCullum met her gaze with a confused scowl and Jonathan was quick to seize the silence to change the topic. “I’m glad to see you again, Bridget, and in good health,” he greeted her, though his attempt at a smile fell when he remembered the twisted shapes of the Skals who had survived so much hardship only to be killed by someone who was just as much a victim as they had been. “I had feared you’d been killed with the others.”

Where she had shared his short-lived moment of joy over meeting again, her eyes grew cold at the mention of the Sewer Skals. “I was up here in search of help when Harriet turned into this thing. Whatever she has become, it is not a Skal.” Her fingers tightened minutely around the fabric of the shawl around her shoulders and underneath the revulsion in her voice lay a stifled note of fear.

Jonathan couldn’t help his curiosity. “You’ve seen her?” he asked.

“Yes.” She looked away while the recent events seemed to replay in her mind. “I followed its trail deeper into the sewers, but when I saw it… I ran.” She made a dismissive gesture. “I assume then, you’re here for the same reasons as I am, young Ekon. But why did you bring him?” The disdain was back in her voice with full force as she waved a hand at the hunter like he was an animal she could shoo away. Talltree, who had been mostly content to listen so far, suddenly chimed in with a deceptively light tone, “I didn’t take you as the type of Ekon who has a taste for playthings, Jonathan.”

“P-pardon… what?” Jonathan stammered out and stared at him in wide-eyed perplexity. Before he could wrap his head fully around what Talltree was indicating, McCullum stepped forward. “He hasn’t mesmerized me. You know that doesn’t work,” the hunter grumbled. “I just want the same as everyone else here, put an end to this epidemic.” The last thing Jonathan had expected was for McCullum to defend him, although perhaps it wasn’t so surprising when it gave him the opportunity to antagonize Talltree. While he was oddly cautious of Old Bridget, he had no such reservations against the Primate of the Brotherhood.

“Hm,” Talltree made a mildly interested noise before his gaze settled back on Jonathan and he asked coldly, “Did you know his Guard of Priwen killed Edgar Swansea? They beat him to an inch of his life and then left him to die.”

It didn’t surprise him as much as it should have that the Primate of the Brotherhood even knew the details about his death. “I know,” Jonathan said and didn’t quite manage to keep the sadness out of his tone. He wished there was something he could say in McCullum’s defence, but while he didn’t hold him responsible for Swansea’s death, he couldn’t in good conscience argue for what the Guard had done. No matter how reckless the doctor had been and how terrible the consequences of his actions were, none of that could justify killing him.

“Don’t you dare hold his death against us,” McCullum growled at Talltree. “Swansea created this vampire epidemic and if you weren’t so arrogant to turn a blind eye on the wickedness of your own, you would have seen it coming. But even if you had seen it, you would have done nothing,” While his voice quickly shifted from aggressive to mocking it was still brimming with spite. “Because isn’t that what the Brotherhood does best?”

“So, you kill a man, whereas our crime is that we are not omniscient?” Talltree appeared completely immune to his venom and met it with an unfazed look. “At least we’re not the ones helping the epidemic along. You’re deluded enough to believe that all the dead bodies your Guard is piling up in the streets are improving the situation.”

“Without our efforts vampires would be running rampant in the streets by now. Is that what you want? Is this all just some sick experiment to you?!”

“McCullum, cut it out!” Jonathan interrupted sharply and the hunter snapped his mouth shut so fast, he thought he could hear his teeth click. “After the epidemic is over there will be enough time for your argument. But for now, I’d really appreciate it if we could all focus on the issue at hand.” This kind of quarrel was exactly what he had been afraid of after he had failed to make McCullum stay out of this. He had wanted to believe that the two would tolerate each other for the sake of saving the city but of course they had been quick to prove him wrong.

Guilt flashed in McCullum’s eyes just before his expression shuttered completely and, to Jonathan’s dismay, he turned around abruptly and walked away without another word. Talltree on the other hand conceded with the ease of someone who had gotten exactly what they wanted. “You’re right, this isn’t the time,” he said, but Jonathan barely listened to him. Part of him wanted to run after McCullum to make sure he was alright despite knowing the hunter wouldn’t appreciate his concern. Only when the other Ekon had walked up the stairs and out of sight did Jonathan manage to pull his gaze away from his retreating shadow. “I understand that the circumstances call for desperate measures, but the enemy of your enemy is not necessarily your friend, Jonathan,” Talltree warned him in all seriousness. “He will kill you as soon as you have outlived your usefulness to him.”

“Don’t forget whose blood is on his hands, young Ekon,” Old Bridget added and while her tone was soft it was also heavy with loss. Talltree’s well-meant advice was easily ignored, but she had every reason to despise the vampire hunter.

Picking up on Jonathan’s unwillingness to listen, the older man sighed and took off his glasses to rub at his temples with one hand. “How can we help you?”

Jonathan closed his eyes for a second to temper his irritation and gather his thoughts. Once he got the information they came here for, he could leave to find McCullum and they could figure out their next step. That was all he had to focus on for now. “Harriet Jones is the source of the epidemic. I can take her out, but I have reason to believe that her sickness is of a supernatural kind that can infect me even though I am a vampire.” He still didn’t know exactly what his maker had meant when he had called it the curse of the Goddess. Hunger and rage and blood – it had driven both Doris and Harriet mad with hatred, and apart from a macabre kind of curious he was above all terrified to find out what it would do to a creature like himself. “McCullum came across a passage by William Marshal about an antidote called the Tear of Angels. However, we’re struggling with one of its ingredients, the blood of a pure heart.” He grimaced slightly when he said it out loud and remembered McCullum’s words. It really did sound like something out of a fairy tale.

After a thoughtful pause Talltree spoke and his voice was quiet with solemnity. “Blood of the purest heart for the fortitude. Blood of a king for courage. Garlic essence for the painful cleansing,” he cited a text Jonathan wasn’t familiar with and then shook his head minutely, his eyes dulled with doubt.

“It does seem impossible that in a country devastated by war and disease there could exist blood from such a fantastical source,” Bridget pointed out. “But fortitude is born from adversity and you will find light in this city in the pits where it is darkest. If anyone is pure of heart, it would be the Sad Saint of the East End.”

The certainty in her eyes sparked a hope in Jonathan he hadn’t been able to ignite himself. She knew both the city and Sean far better than he did and he resolved himself to trust in her judgement where his own faltered. “He is a good man in bad times,” he agreed with a slow nod. “Though I would have preferred to keep him out of this affair.” He hesitated with his next words, because he feared Bridget would not take kindly to his request. “If then, the Tear of Angels can cure Harriet of her affliction, would you forgive her for killing your Sewer Skals and be her guide once more?”

Both Old Bridget and Talltree looked at him in surprise. “You mean to cure her?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I didn’t at least try,” he said dryly.

Her expression turned hard as she pondered his question. “Even if it does heal her, it cannot erase what she has been through,” she shared her thoughts. “From what she has told me, her life has been one of constant abuse and misery, without any friends or family to support her. I don’t know if I can find it in me to forgive her… I will try,” she promised and for those words alone Jonathan was already grateful. “But Harriet might not be able to forgive herself when she has no hate left to help her forget how she turned her own daughter into an undead monster.”

By the time he stepped back outside into the night, the downpour had lessened to a drizzle and the clouds had thinned out enough to allow a glimpse of a full moon. It bathed the white stone of the surrounding walls in a pale light that softened the edges and chased away the shadows. Jonathan couldn’t help a small smile when he spotted McCullum leaning against the facade on the other side of the alley. But after the moment of relief had passed, he noticed he was actually angry with him. “That was uncalled for, McCullum. Talltree didn’t deserve your wild accusations,” he confronted the other man as he walked up to him. “After what you said to him, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had refused his help altogether.”

For a second it seemed like the hunter would just glare silently at him, but then his carefully closed off expression shifted into one of irritation and he hissed, “He fucking knew. Did you notice that he didn’t even bother to deny it when I said Swansea was responsible?” Something muted flickered in his eyes and dampened the anger in his words. “I know you don’t trust me and you shouldn't. But Talltree? He’s a fucking liar who lies.”

Jonathan shook his head. “He might be a bit ambiguous at times, but he is on our side. Your wariness has you seeing enemies where there are allies.”

“He knows too much!” McCullum insisted vehemently. “He knows exactly what’s going on and what kind of monster Jones has become, and he still leaves us to grope in the dark. Every night more people die and he just doesn’t care.”

“Talltree isn’t the villain here. If the epidemic overtakes the city, he will die like everyone else. It makes no sense for him to withhold information from us.”

“It makes sense if he is a vampire,” the hunter noted with an expectant look as if he thought this would be the revelation to convince the other. It fell quickly enough when Jonathan was entirely unimpressed.

“He isn’t a vampire,” he groaned and wiped a hand over his face in exasperation. “You’re just suspicious of everyone. I’m beginning to think Swansea was nothing more than an arbitrary guess. He didn’t confess, did he, when your Guard interrogated him. He could have been entirely innocent and they still would have beaten him to death.” Talltree’s words that he had dismissed so easily before came back to mind and with them a nagging worry that Jonathan had made a mistake. That where he could admire an idealistic and uncompromising spirit in McCullum, in truth was nothing but zealous paranoia and an itch for violence to be found.

“We had enough evidence-”

“Stop defending them! They had nothing but your prejudice,” Jonathan cut him off with an anger that had been smouldering in his chest since he had woken up to the smell of Swansea’s dried blood on the floor. “Your Guard captured me - a leech, a creature so perfidious it would say just about anything to save its own skin - to get the confession he couldn’t give you anymore. That’s how desperate you were.”

If the other man was rattled by his words or by the bitterness in his voice, he didn’t show it. “I can’t change that they killed Swansea,” he snapped back. “I stripped them of their weapons, shouted at them for an hour and then kicked them out of the Guard. What else do you want me to do?”

It came to him as a surprise that McCullum had punished them at all, though what allayed his irritation more was that his question appeared to be genuine - despite the impression that the hunter was expecting him to ask for their execution. “Keep your people away from Talltree,” he told him with a laughable threat in his voice he already knew he wouldn’t carry out. When he had done nothing to stop Seymour who by all means was a psychotic killer, then what would he even do about the Guard?

McCullum crossed his arms over his chest and demanded, “Give me a reason to. Did he tell you anything about the blood of a pure heart that can help us?”

Barely Jonathan resisted the urge to mirror his stubborn pose. “As a matter of fact, he did,” he offered tersely. “But this time, I’m not taking you with me and you’re not going to follow me.” Even if he weren’t angry with the hunter he would have thought twice about introducing him to the Sad Saint. Sean might think himself protected by a higher power but Jonathan didn’t share his confidence, certainly not when it came to the leader of Priwen.

As McCullum realized the other man was shutting him out, his glare turned menacing in a way that would make a lesser vampire flee with their tail between their legs. “Fine,” he barked out. “But if this is a trick, Reid, I’ll have both your heads.”

Jonathan didn’t bother smothering the cold smile curling his lips. “Oh, you’ll have more than our heads. If we don’t succeed in creating the antidote, you’ll be slaughtering everyone around you.” Though McCullum growled under his breath, he didn’t managed to hide the uncertainty flickering in his eyes. It was oddly comforting that he was just as scared of this outcome as Jonathan was. “I need an hour. Where will I find you?” He asked, still brisk but the glimpse of weakness in the other man’s expression had drained away the rest of his anger.

With a huff McCullum broke eye contact and some of his frustration grudgingly dulled into resignation. “I’ll wait for you at the Pembroke Hospital,” he conceded in a strained voice. “Take care.” When he looked up again any trace of fear was gone and in its place, like a shield, his perpetual scowl.

After the echo of footsteps had faded out, the only sound left was the muted pitter-patter of rain around him. With a heavy sigh that did nothing to ease the worry tightening his chest, Jonathan slumped against the white wall of the alley and hung his head. It had been the right decision to split up for now but with McCullum’s absence it became harder to smother the dark part of his mind that was filled with possible scenarios of how this night could end, one more terrifying than the other. He fought it back, forcing himself to believe the Tear of Angels would save them, and to trust the hunter not to be stupid enough to run off into the sewers and confront Harriet without it.

Surely, a half-truth would have been enough to get the Skal to cooperate, but Jonathan had remembered how Swansea had treated his patients, and so some stupid, idealistic part of him had needed to be better than that. And maybe his bruised scientific mind was still straining to be acknowledged by the protest he knew the other man would raise at his explanation. Though after he had finished, Jonathan struggled not to let on how his confidence was crumbling under the open disbelief in Sean’s face.

“I don’t think you quite understand what a pure heart means, Doctor Reid,” he said with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes at all. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“You are the Sad Saint of the East End. You have witnessed the worst of humankind, and instead of turning your back on it you’ve opened your heart to its sorrow,” he countered and refused to admit how his words served to argue with Sean as much as with himself. He was so far outside of his element, he wouldn’t even know if he were lost already.

“It was the Lord who gave me the strength to do so. Without Him I would have never found the light.”

It had always been second nature to Jonathan to dismiss the supernatural, and after he had seen a glimpse of hell on earth on the battlefields, he had lost any and all capacity to believe in His benevolence. “Whatever you wish to call it. It is that strength I require for the antidote to work,” he replied and tried to temper the impatience that flared whenever Sean started talking about his God. Why couldn’t he see that his achievements were his own and what he thought was divine guidance was actually nothing more than a placebo for the mind?

A shadow crossed over Sean’s eyes, gone as fast as it had appeared, and Jonathan was left to wonder when the Skal spoke with deliberate placidity and a confused look on his face, “But you of all people must already know that my strength is lacking. That’s why you had to help me overcome my voracious appetite.”

“I gave you my blood, because I was not willing to take the risk and have what happened to William Bishop happen to you as well. There are too many people depending on you, people who in their admiration for you trust you completely.”

As Jonathan spoke, Sean’s expression darkened again and this time he didn’t manage to shed it. “If there ever was an iota of purity in my soul, you excised it when you disregarded my believe like it was nothing more than an obstacle. When you placed yourself above the Lord and forced me to drink your blood. I could have found peace in my faith but now I never will, because you sacrificed it to your incessant doubt!” Before his voice grew too loud it broke, and in an attempt to calm the turmoil inside him the Skal closed his hand around the cross hanging from his neck.

Jonathan shied back a step and stared at him wide-eyed. “I only meant to help you, Sean,” he rasped out, swallowing around the terrible sense of guilt squeezing his throat. “To save you from hurting a friend, an innocent.” Though he still thought his actions had been necessary, he felt sickened by them and the exhilaration he had felt. When he had used the awful events in Sean’s past to poison his trust in God, when he had commanded him to kneel and the Skal had crumbled to the ground before him. Blinded by arrogance and high on power - How could he think himself better than Swansea in any way?

While the Skal looked at him pensively the hard lines in his face slowly smoothed out. “Well, you did, and I am thankful for it,” he agreed in a tone that seemed too even to be honest. “But I am no subject of your medical experiments and I will not allow you to take my blood.”

“Please, Sean. It could heal her,” he begged quietly while a voice inside his head whispered it didn’t matter if the Skal agreed, he could just take it by force, and Jonathan hated himself for it.

The smaller man gave him a sad look and shook his head minutely. “I don’t have what you’re asking for. Use someone else’s blood, Doctor Reid. Mine will not work.”

“It has to. There is no one else,” Jonathan confessed and in the ensuing silence his new-found hope dissolved into nothing. Numbness spread in its place and he welcomed it, because underneath it all there was an ever-growing fear of the fate that awaited McCullum and himself after they would have killed Harriet. His mind wandered back to the moment when he had put a bullet through his heart with the taste of his sister’s blood still sweet in his mouth. He would have to try harder this time to end the nightmare before it really started.

Chapter Text

Waves of black water curled against the side of the canal, their gentle murmur soothing in his ears. The reflection of the moon on its surface broke apart into a myriad of gleaming shards, like a burst of fireworks all white. He stood there, his eyes half-lidded and gaze unfocused, watching the river flow past, the imposing silhouette of the hospital at his back.

Absently, his thumb traced the shape of the glass vial stored safely in his pocket as his thoughts circled around the blood inside. Between the promises to Sean and his sister and his own desire to help he was determined to create the Tear of Angels, though he couldn’t bring himself to believe anymore that it would protect them against the blood of hate, never mind cure Harriet of its effect. There was no miraculous potion to save them, nothing special about a king and nothing genuine about a pure heart, and the knowledge filled him with a grim kind of satisfaction. The science of blood was his dominion and it was free from such superstitions. He knew diseases, and like any other even a supernatural one had to adhere to a certain set of rules. He would keep his distance, avoid her poisonous attacks and strike from afar, the same way he’d survived fighting her daughter.

With a shudder, he remembered how he had faced Doris Fletcher with weapon in hand and no other solution than her death. Standing in front of her defeated form, he had hesitated and maybe she’d just taken pity on him when she had said farewell and doused herself in burning oil to let the flames blacken her skin and devour her flesh. A cowardly sick part of him had felt the scorching heat on his skin and breathed in relief that she had spared him the act of killing her with his own hands. If he failed to escape the blood of hate, it seemed only fitting that he considered ending himself in the same gruesome fashion. But he knew he was deceiving himself. He wouldn’t be able to carry out his own execution, he wasn’t desperate enough to burn himself alive.

A movement in the corner of his eye pulled him from his thoughts and as Jonathan looked up he spotted a shadow on the bridge spanning the canal not far ahead. When he recognized McCullum leaning casually against the parapet, he was at a loss what to make of the flutter of warmth inside his chest that displaced the dread far too easily. He could admit, some relief was warranted since the other man had decided to show up at the hospital instead of foregoing their plan and challenging Harriet alone in the sewers, but his quickened heartbeat at the mere sight of him just made him feel like a fool. Whatever this was there was no point to it, and so he put it out of his mind. What mattered, was that when Jonathan would emerge from the fight a rabid beast, he could trust the hunter to end his misery.

While he reluctantly continued on his way to the hospital, he tried to push off the morbid image of his own corpse and the blood spilling from the stump between its shoulder where once his head had been. He’d made it as far as the street beneath his office when he hesitated again. He had meant to jump to the balcony and go straight inside, knowing McCullum would follow, but before he could think better of it, his steps led him over to the bridge.

The hunter watched him approach and there was something alert in his eyes, perhaps even worried, that puzzled Jonathan. For a moment he could almost believe McCullum was looking him over to make sure he wasn’t injured. “Reid,” he said in lieu of a greeting, which still was more than Jonathan could bring out. “Did you get the blood?”

Inside his pocket, his hand curled around the glass vial and he wondered if their situation would be different now if he had just let Sean stay true to his faith, or if he had approached Ashbury more carefully, said things differently. “It won’t work,” he answered with an indifference in his voice that at least to his own ears made it sound less desperate. “Let me have the blood of King Arthur and return to your Guard, McCullum. This crusade is not yours to fight.”

“Not mine to fight?” the hunter echoed his words in disbelieve and scoffed. “What, you think I went through all this trouble to find the source of the epidemic, and now I’ll just wish you good luck and send you on your merry way to death?”

“It’s only practical. You need to stay away from Harriet so you can kill me afterwards if I get infected,” Jonathan explained with a light shrug to cover up the numbness he felt inside. “I won’t fight back this time.” At least he wouldn’t as long as he was still in control of himself.

McCullum set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest. “I think we stand the best chance if we face her together,” he said plainly.

Jonathan frowned at him as he felt irritation prickle under his skin. This was supposed to be easy. He simply had to present the hopelessness of their endeavour for the other man to see reason and back out. However, he couldn’t deny that McCullum’s objection was valid, and that made it all the more grating to his already sore nerves. “Don’t be so stubborn about this. Only one of us has to die,” he sighed. There was nothing to come back to anyway, no one waiting for him to return anymore. The nightmare, the death and insanity, it had already gone on for too long, maybe this was where it all could finally come to a close. He shook his head to push the darkness from his mind. The last thing he wanted was to die and he would do everything to avoid it. Just… if a sacrifice was necessary to put an end to the epidemic he refused to ask it of anyone but himself.

“I wouldn’t need to be so stubborn if you weren’t so stupid,” the hunter bristled, but he’d barely made it through half of it before his anger left him. A flicker of worry appeared in his eyes as he continued almost soberly, “You’re serious about this.” His head tilted minutely and his gaze turned thoughtful. “Since you don’t have the blood of a pure heart, what do you want with King Arthur’s then?”

“I…” Jonathan began and swallowed around the lump of doubt in his throat. “There is still a chance it might work. I have to try.” Reluctantly he pulled the vial from his pocket and offered it to the other vampire.

McCullum raised a questioning eyebrow at him as he took the vial from his hand. Even before he had uncapped it and sniffed at its content, Jonathan knew how he would react. “This is-” The hunter looked up at him with suspicion.

“Skal blood,” he completed the sentence with a wry smile. While Jonathan would gladly take it if this was the crux that deterred the other man, he didn’t want him to think he was trying to deceive him. “There is no such thing as a pure heart, but you will not find a kinder or more devoted soul in this city.”

“Is that so? What a saint,” McCullum noted, and if it weren’t for the sarcasm in his voice, Jonathan would have been worried. The hunter eyed the vial of blood for another moment before he screwed the cap back on and held it out. With a more serious tone he offered, “Maybe we’re overthinking this, Reid. Why reject the existence of a pure heart when we ourselves are blood-sucking demons most people only encounter in their nightmares?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jonathan evaded his point as he let the other man drop the vial into his open palm. “We can’t afford to believe in something so unlikely it might as well not exist. What we have to assume is this – the antidote doesn’t work. We will fall to our rage and hunger and become exactly the kind of atrocious monsters we are trying so hard not to be. We would save the city only to destroy it ourselves.”

Slowly the other shook his head. “It will be the two of us who finish this and if we get infected, we burn ourselves. And that’s that.” He depicted the outcome so matter-of-factly he must have already given it some thought, but veiled behind his cold demeanour Jonathan recognized a mirror of his own fears. McCullum knew exactly what terrible fate awaited them and despite that he had made his decision. No matter how Jonathan felt about it, he would need to accept it.

An ugly voice at the back of his mind pointed out how easily he had let McCullum sway him. He’d known this would happen, had even hoped for it. What cruel relief, it sneered in a whisper, he wouldn’t have to kill himself alone. The hunter had condemned himself to a needless death and it had been everything Jonathan had wanted to hear.

The other man took his fallen expression and his silence as the surrender that they were. “I know you don’t need me to win a fight against the Disaster. But you need me to end it.” His eyes softened as he nudged Jonathan’s elbow on the way past him. “Let’s get this over with.”

He watched the hunter jump to the balcony of his office and only slowly trailed after him. Just as Jonathan landed next to him he heard him mutter, “This is ridiculous.” McCullum met his questioning gaze with a pout, then his eyes shifted to glare into the room like something inside had offended him. With a quiet chuckle that sounded odd to his own ears in the aftermath of their conversation, Jonathan walked past him through the open door. “Please, come inside, Mr McCullum,” he said over his shoulder and turned the lights on.

The hunter grumbled something under his breath but interrupted himself as he exclaimed with more accusation than was reasonable, “You have a plant.” Jonathan inclined his head towards him, half confused if he was expected to defend his choice of decoration. “Plants need sunlight,” the other vampire said, stressing each word.

“Yes, now you see why the door needs to stay open during the day,” Jonathan replied, glad to be able to share this solid argument with the other man. He removed his wet coat and carelessly threw it over one of the folding screens on the way over to the washbasin. After rolling up his sleeves he went on to clean his hands thoroughly.

McCullum gave him a dirty look and gestured vaguely toward the entrance. “You couldn’t even close it if you wanted to, there is no door – it’s just an empty frame.”

“It faces north,” he dismissed his words, already busy collecting the tools he would need. “It’s not like any direct sunlight would get in here.”

“And what about vampire hunters?” McCullum pushed as he joined him over at his desk. After a short moment of hesitation he pulled a metal flask from his coat and added it to the assortment of items.

With a smirk he replied, “I have a deal with them, remember?” Seeing the other man roll his eyes at him, Jonathan couldn’t help his lips stretching to a full smile.

McCullum leaned with his hip against the table, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Fair warning, there is this… independent vampire hunter patrolling the streets at night. It would be such a shame if he caught you.” There was an impish glint in his eyes that softened the sarcasm in his tone to a tease.

“You mean Ichabod Throgmorton?” He surprised them both with a laugh and shook his head. “I hung some anti-vampire posters for him. I’ll be the last person he ever suspects.”

Something shifted slightly in the hunter’s face and his voice was sour when he said, “The cunning of our kind never ceases to amaze me.”

Jonathan turned towards him, trying to convey his sincerity. “It was an honest effort, actually. People need to be more careful at night. I know your Guard does their best, still the streets are anything but safe.” He didn’t know what to read in the other’s expression. Confusion maybe, or disbelief, hidden too quickly behind a crooked grin and a lopsided shrug. Though they were both pretending they would still be alive tomorrow, he found he hadn’t minded the distraction. Soon enough, the levity faded from his mind when he turned back towards the desk and started his work. First, he prepared slides with each blood specimen, then their combination with garlic essence. He didn’t like how little he knew about the Tear of Angels and its effect, of which he assumed it lay somewhere between panacea, poison and placebo.

For the first minutes McCullum was content watching him work, but it didn’t take long until he asked, “What are you doing?”

If there was any distrust in his question, Jonathan didn’t hear it while he fiddled with the setting of the microscope to bring the slide into focus. “I’m trying to assess how likely it is that drinking this will kill us.” It was bizarre to watch the blood cells rupture one after another as soon as they came in contact with the garlic essence, and reform again after a few seconds. As unnatural as it was, “This… might actually work,” he noted with no small amount of bewilderment. Though every fibre of sanity inside him revolted at the idea, he would have to disregard all the knowledge he had gathered throughout his studies. If whatever supernatural power the Tear of Angels contained could cure Harriet of the blood of hate, he decided it was worth it.

With a practiced movement he pricked his own finger for a drop of blood and mixed it on another slide with the garlic essence. These erythrocytes struggled to regenerate and were quickly overwhelmed, which apparently proved he was neither king nor pure of heart, nor human for that matter.

He measured the ingredients so each would account for one third of the antidote. After mixing them in a flask he poured the result into three vials, then reconsidered his choice and drew one dose into a syringe. If Harriet’s mind was no more, as his maker had put it, Jonathan had to assume she wouldn’t actually let him anywhere near her, never mind help her. Her daughter had been the same, and in the end, when she’d been kneeling in her own blood and told him she didn’t want to die, he had had no alternative to offer. He needed this time to be different.

He turned to face McCullum, preparing himself for an argument he would not lose. “I don’t want to kill Harriet. If the Tear of Angels really works we can use it to cure her,” he admitted, because he owed him the honesty.

A dark scowl took over the hunter’s expression until it smoothed out as he ran a hand over his face. “Took you long enough to tell me.” His gaze flickered away and he laughed quietly, a hollow edge to the sound. “I want to be so angry at you, Reid. The last time you tried to find a nice solution for everyone you lost the fight and almost got yourself killed. Your bleeding heart is a glaring weakness the Disaster will be happy to exploit. She’s not an idiot like me, she will laugh in your face and cut you down where you stand. With so many lives at stake how can you justify to take such a risk?”

“Harriet didn’t choose to become a monster,” he defended his intentions. “The least we can do is try and fix what Swansea did to her.” The glimpse of sadness and guilt he caught in McCullum’s eyes startled him, but since the other had shown little sympathy to the fate of either individual, Jonathan couldn’t figure out what it was about.

“Get it into your fucking head, Reid! You can’t fix being a monster,” the hunter snapped. Though his before so carefully smothered anger now shut down any other emotion, something was off in the way he carried his temper. His voice not quite steady and his eyes wild, more akin to a cornered animal. “Harriet Jones is long dead and all that is left of her is a corpse animated by evil. We can’t be saved. Neither by science nor magic, and most certainly not by your wishful thinking.”

Jonathan did his best not to flinch away as the other man stepped closer. But more than his aggression, his words were what twisted up his insides with dread because they reminded him so much of what his sister had said. Behind a masquerade that was bound to slip sooner than later they were nothing but rotting flesh, festering with disease and corruption. Mary had known it would take no less than a miracle to purge them, but the Tear of Angels could be exactly that. “We don’t have to agree on this,” he offered quietly. “Just let me try. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“You will get your chance, Doctor.” The hunter looked at him with a sudden coldness in his eyes, his hand clutched around the sheath of his sword. “And when she kills you in a moment of inattention, I will kill her,” he promised in a low voice.

Something inside him wanted to agree with McCullum, wanted to see Harriet dead before she could do any more damage and the Tear of Angels fail so he wouldn’t have to see science defer to magic, and he hated himself for it. Jonathan averted his gaze and managed a humourless smile as he said, “Two birds with one stone.”

Only little light had found its way down here, half the lamps were defective and left the shadows to pour out freely from the corners. Blood and dirt painted the tiles in a dark colour, hospital equipment lined the walls, discarded and broken. The air was stale with the aftertaste of decomposing corpses, a cold touch slithering over his skin and when he pulled up his collar he forgot for a moment that his kind was not supposed to feel the chill. Silence stretched between the two vampires as they walked along the empty corridor. The building was abandoned by both the dead and the living. No one would come here, even if they heard the screams.

In a secluded corner of the old morgue they found a small table with two chairs that suited their needs. While McCullum busied himself with clearing away a few sheets yellowed paperwork and an old stack of newspapers, Jonathan wiped the dust from the wooden surface before he pulled three vials and a small metal case from his pockets. He hung his coat over the back of a chair and sat down to prepare a syringe with practiced movements. As he tapped the glass to knock the remaining air bubbles to the surface, he heard the hunter mutter, “I wish we could just get drunk before we do this.” He looked up to see McCullum observing their surroundings with his arms crossed over his chest and an unhappy scowl. Since their last argument there was a darkness to his eyes that clouded their pale blue like a bitter memory. Not once had he looked at Jonathan and all his earlier confidence and determination had vanished without a trace. “Opium is much more effective than any alcohol,” Jonathan assured him with an apologetic smile. He would have preferred diamorphine, but the drug had been hard to come by since the beginning of the war. “It will sting a bit though.”

The other man huffed a small laugh as he took off his coat and pulled out a chair for himself. Without being prompted he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and if Jonathan hadn’t been prepared for the tempting sight of blue veins underneath pale skin, he would have struggled to ignore the sudden dryness in his mouth and the dull ache in his teeth that reminded him it had been hours since he’d last fed on a few incautious rats.

Part of him had thought the hunter would watch his every move like a hawk but though he was tense under his touch he seemed more interested in scratching lines into the remaining dust covering the table with his free hand. Falling into the familiarity of handling a patient, Jonathan cleaned the soft skin at the crook of his elbow with antiseptic and slowly injected the analgesic into his veins. The drop of blood that welled up afterwards he dabbed away with a piece of gauze until a few seconds later the small wound had already healed up. “Are you feeling alright?” he asked and while the question felt somewhat pointless because he knew from experience the drug would have no adverse effect on vampires, he was anxious for an answer.

McCullum pulled the sleeve back down and awkwardly smoothed out its creases. “You seem so human when you do that,” he mumbled instead of the defensive grumble or snapped insult Jonathan had steeled himself for. Still, if it weren’t for the softness to his voice, he would have thought the hunter was making fun of his concern.

“Do you want me to pretend I don’t care?” he asked with a frown, but McCullum wasn’t even looking at him and he felt stupid waiting for an answer when the other man clearly didn’t want to talk. If the hunter couldn’t deal with a vampire being friendly, Jonathan couldn’t help him. He busied his hands with switching to a clean needle and drawing another dose of analgesic into the syringe. The steps were routine enough, otherwise he would have messed up his own injection because he didn’t manage the attentiveness to handle it with as much care as the first time.

To his surprise, McCullum heaved a deep sigh and buried his face in his hands. “What I want…” he began slowly like he had trouble finding the right words. “Is for you to throw away your dumb plant. To keep your door shut, preferably locked, and to set up traps before you go to sleep.” He let his head drop and dug his fingers into his short hair. “I don’t want you to die, never mind be the one to kill you,” he confessed miserably. With a dull thud his forehead met the table top.

A simple part of him felt glad that the hunter didn’t want him dead, and it was stomped out violently by the bitterness rising at the back of his throat. “That’s not fair, McCullum. Why am I the one who has to remind you there’s a perfectly good reason to kill me? I had been reborn only for a few minutes when I took the life of an innocent woman,” he said quietly and packed the syringe back in its metal case with fingers that weren’t shaking. He felt the other’s gaze on him and resolutely ignored it. Why were they even talking about this? They needed to face Harriet and put an end to the epidemic one way or another.

“And how did it feel to kill your sister?”

He sucked in a sharp breath and clenched his hands to fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. The memory was a haze of painful emptiness and an imperative thirst erasing everything that once had made him human. One moment the sweet taste of her blood in his mouth was crystal clear to his mind, her desperate gasps muted and inconsequential. In the next, it all fell away but for the sound of her voice. What have you done? He remembered the wood splintering beneath his fingers as he had pushed the broken cross through her belly. The void in her pale eyes. I can forgive you. He wanted to scream.

With the steady hands of a surgeon, he reached for one of the two vials that lay between them and screwed it open. He met McCullum’s shocked eyes just for a second before he swallowed the Tear of Angels in one gulp.

Chapter Text

When the darkness receded it left him with an empty head and a throat full of broken glass. Fear kept him clinging to it, the numbness inside that made him slow to think, slow to feel. He drifted with it for some time, pretending he didn’t remember the reason why he needed to wake up again. If he just stayed like this, curled up tight into a shivering ball, maybe he could find some respite here, at the edge of his mind where the pain and the guilt seemed nothing more than forgotten shadows in the far distance. But there was no such kindness. His mangled flesh knitted itself together and consciousness trickled back like sand in an hourglass.

He came back to his body feeling cold and stiff like a corpse, his throat swollen and raw, throbbing with pain as if he had cracked a thick piece of glass between his teeth and swallowed the jagged shards. Liquid leaked from between his lips and dripped off his jaw, the taste of metal sour in his mouth. Hunger coiled tight inside his stomach, craving fresh blood to soothe the damage done, and though he tried to push it back it stayed a thrumming ache at the back of his mind. Reluctantly he dragged his eyelids open and blinked slowly to clear the red tint blurring the edges of his vision. It was disorienting, the room looked alien with its lines tilted and colours bleak from where he was lying on the ground. His fingernails scratched over the hard tiles as he pushed himself up with arms so numb and weak they buckled beneath him and he crumbled back to the ground with a quiet whimper. “Take it easy,” he heard a familiar voice somewhere close behind him, strangely dull in his ears. A hand cupped his shoulder and for a moment he could almost delude himself into feeling warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt. With clumsy fingers he reached for it, searching for contact when everything else felt either sharp-edged or dizzying. “The worst is over. You’ll be alright,” McCullum mumbled as he took his hand and rubbed his thumb over his skin.

It felt wrong, the care in his touch, the gentleness in his tone. There should be no comfort for someone like him, an imposter. Monster, she had called him, abomination, and she had been right. He clenched his hands into fists, pressed his cheek to the hard floor and gritted his teeth until they hurt. “Nothing ever felt as good as killing my sister,” he answered, words slurred and breaking apart at the seams. Because how could he pretend to be horrified by his actions when branded into his memory was this – the give of soft warm flesh beneath his teeth, blood pouring thick like molten sugar over his tongue and down his throat to numb the hollowness twisting his insides. As the life had drained from her veins every nerve in his body had lit up with pleasure, like a lover’s touch scorching his skin from the inside out, like soaring into the clear blue sky, overflowing, invulnerable.

McCullum was silent for a long time. While his hand curled around his had stilled, its warmth stayed and Jonathan knew he should pull away but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. When he spoke it was muted, nearly quiet enough to hide the quiver in his voice, “Maybe you are a monster that deserves no mercy, but that’s not all you are. You care… and you are kind and I-” With a weak sigh he fell silent and brushed his fingertips along the back of Jonathan’s hand as if the gentleness in his touch could convey what he left unsaid.

Jonathan didn’t understand any of it. He hadn’t expected the hunter to make up excuses for him, certainly hadn’t asked for it. It was confusing, the way his words sounded so nice, sincere even, a lie kind enough to believe if he only wanted to. And he did want to, the part of him that was too stupid to know better, desperate enough to seek comfort from someone who should hate him. It was nothing more than a cruel joke, a test for him to fail, although to what end he couldn’t fathom and he couldn’t bring himself to care when it already took all his effort to keep himself from shrinking away, closing his eyes and pressing his hands over his ears.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Jonathan. I understand your guilt, but this is destroying you,” the hunter tried again and his tone was delicate, as if he was scared of breaking something.

“That’s what it’s supposed to do,” he muttered and he was aware of his pathetic display of weakness, but he didn’t know how to pull himself away from the sorrowful memories when they were everything he had left of his sister. He should be angry, at himself, at his guilt and at his pointless apologies because all of it was nothing more than the most selfish self-pity. What good would it do his sister, to visit her grave and whisper, I’m sorry and I miss you, to the bugs and worms nibbling on her rotting corpse? Mary had been the one to suffer hell, not him. He was fine. He should act like it and just get back on his feet. When the Tear of Angels failed, the hunter needed a monster to slay, not this miserable creature feeling sorry for itself.

The other man drew his hand away and Jonathan pretended to feel lighter without it. Not the cold, not the shivers crawling over his skin. “You need to talk to someone about this,” he said and his words sounded distant like he had turned away.

A wet sound wormed its way up his throat, spilled from his lips an ugly thing, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Of course he needed to tell someone, but he was a coward and he didn’t know what he was supposed to say to her. I’m sorry, mother, I killed your daughter. Tell her the truth, maybe? I killed her for the taste of her blood. Or the same excuse he had told his sister? It was the hunger, it had taken me. So no one would blame him for it. I’m so sorry. He would be pleading until, eventually, he’d fall silent because his mother wouldn’t even be looking at him. Why have you returned, she would ask, this is not your home anymore.

The ground beneath him felt like it was tilting, slowly, like he was sliding off. He pulled his knees to his chest and wound an arm tightly around his stomach, the other hand clawed against the floor. Dimly, he heard the hunter mumble, “It’s alright. Get some rest.” The sound of shifting fabric and careful steps, over by the table the soft clink of glass. Then, Jonathan was alone again and he stared at the white tiles stretching out before him and watched them blur.

His heart pounded sharply like a clenched fist against his rib cage when he heard him scream. In the blink of an eye he was on his feet, only to have his legs almost give out under him as a wave of dizziness hit him. Struggling for balance he stumbled against a nearby cabinet, grabbing his head and willing the vertigo to subside. On the other side of the room he heard the scream cut down to a dull keening noise like it was being smothered beneath something. The room blurred as he moved through it, darkness curled around his figure until he skidded to a halt and his knees hit the ground hard.

McCullum hadn’t even noticed him. He was barely holding onto consciousness, his face twisted with pain, eyes wide in terror but glazed over. His limbs were trembling uncontrolled and pulled tight to his body cowering in the corner between a radiator and an old desk. Blood was pouring from his mouth where he had bitten down deep into the meat of his forearm to muffle his cries. Hands outstretched but at a loss how to help, Jonathan knew it was a mercy when he heard McCullum’s heart stutter. A moment later his eyelids fluttered shut and his convulsing body fell still like a puppet that had its strings cut. His arm dropped from his slackened jaw and Jonathan winced as he saw the flesh torn down to the bones.

With a human patient he would have known what to do, however a vampire needed neither air nor warmth. He sat next to the unconscious man, his hands slumped in his lap, empty palms turned upwards and his fingers felt numb. He wished analgesics would have more of an effect on their kind but as it was, the opium had barely dulled the edges of their pain. All he could do was wait and listen to the erratic beat of a panicked heart while it slowly found its rhythm again. And when his hunger stirred, he shoved it away with exasperation and decided it would be better to put some distance between them. McCullum wouldn’t appreciate a leech being so close to him anyway, not while he was the one defenceless and vulnerable.

He jumped down to the lower level of the room and walked over to one of the washbasins, half distracted listening to the steady beat of McCullum’s heart. While he waited for the tap water to run clear, his thoughts wandered and it occurred to him how odd it was that the other man had taken the antidote. If the hunter thought him a monster, he would have never drunk the Tear of Angels anywhere near him, knowing it would be child’s play for Jonathan to slip a knife between his ribs. With a frustrated huff he began washing the dried blood off his face and focused on the burn of ice-cold water on his skin. He knew where his mind was going with this and it was quite foolish. Sure, it would be nice if McCullum didn’t hate him, maybe even tolerated him, but the hunter really had no reason to, not when he knew what Jonathan had done.

His eyelids slit open, slow and heavy, and his gaze was dull behind them, staring blindly out into nothing for a while. A slight tremble ran through his limbs, all the way to the tips of his fingers. One shaking hand reached up to curl protectively around his throat and his mouth opened on a soft groan that had fresh blood spilling over his already red spattered lips. He looked small, scared even, cowering in the shadows with his back pressed to an old desk. While his gaze was still unfocused and bleary he dragged his eyes aimlessly through the room until he noticed Jonathan. He blinked tiredly, frowned, then opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then thought better of it.

Jonathan watched him from where he was sitting on the floor and leaning against one of the tiled columns, far enough away so the other man wouldn’t feel threatened. When the hunter met his eyes, he felt his throat close up and looked away. He should assure him that he would not shirk the fight and let him face the Disaster alone. At the very least he should apologize for the pathetic way he had acted earlier. Perhaps McCullum would be so kind to overlook the whole incident, perhaps it was all the same to him anyway. But first Jonathan needed him to know what he had done, and if he didn’t force the words out now, he’d come up with one too many excuse to stay silent. “My sister had already lost her husband to the war, her child to the flu,” he began hesitantly. “You’d think, that’s already far more sorrow any heart should ever have to bear.” While he spoke he made sure to keep his eyes down and his breathing even, folded his hands in his lap to stifle their nervous fidgeting. “And then she found her brother, who had promised to return. She didn’t struggle as I killed her. She knew her brother would never ever hurt her. But it wasn’t her brother she had found, it was me.”

He wished this was where the story ended and he could stop talking, could just shut his mouth and curl up. His eyes darted around the room, focusing on his surroundings to distract him from feeling like walls were closing in around him. “After her funeral, I was so absorbed with my own affairs I didn’t even notice her empty grave. She found me yet again, with a tortured mind and a shattered heart, and I stood there empty-handed, useless, stammering out an apology for what is unforgivable. I want to believe she was giving me a choice - that if I had just tried harder to come up with a solution, she would have laid down her weapon and abandoned her path of destruction. We could have left the city together, left the country even. Gone somewhere far away from mortals and stayed isolated until we would have discovered a cure to our sickness. But that was never going to happen. Where I failed her in every respect, she had already found a way out,” he spoke softly. Bring it to a close, he could hear her say. “She didn’t struggle that time either.” Let me sleep.

He pulled his legs to his chest, tucked his forehead against his knees and for a moment he just breathed, as if the air filling his lungs could break his mind from its cell, windowless and nothing inside but himself and his sister staring back. He tried to think back to happier times when they both had still been children playing in the park under the trees, her excitement when she had shown her newly finished drawing to him before anyone else, tried to picture her smile and the way her blue eyes had lit up. But all his mind could come up with was how cold her cheek had felt in his palm, the blood staining her teeth and dripping from her lips, the weight of her dead body in his arms as he had carried her back to her grave.

“I’m sorry the two of you had to go through that.” Jonathan startled when he heard the other man speak and looked up. McCullum was sitting upright and though his shoulders were slumped and his hands still trembling, the pale blue of his eyes was clear. His expression was open and there was no cruel twist to the corner of his mouth, no edge of sarcasm in his voice to belie the softness in his gaze or the sympathy behind it. Bereft of the lie he had clung to, Jonathan couldn’t pretend any longer the hunter was offering anything other than comfort to soothe his sorrow, and that snapped him out of his daze.

A blur of shadows and Jonathan was crouching next to his slouched form, one hand pressed against his chest to keep him down when he flinched, the other at his jaw to force their eyes to meet. He watched his pupils dilate with fear, listened to the thump-thump beat of his heart accelerate. “I don’t want your kindness, hunter,” he spat out the words like a curse, his voice bitter and his lips curled back to reveal a row of too sharp teeth. “You of all people should know the depravation of our kind. I am not the exception to the rule. I killed my sister and I enjoyed it. I am a monster like any other you have dedicated your life to wiping out.” He needed the hunter to discard whatever misguided compassion had strayed into his heart. Blame him for it all, revile and despise him for the blood on his hands so he didn’t have to do it himself anymore.

McCullum shook his head and grabbed the hand at his jaw, though where Jonathan had anticipated violence there was none to be found. “You never wanted to hurt her,” he argued like he wasn’t listening at all. “If there had been any way-”

“You think it matters that I didn’t want to?” he snapped at him and while he forced a mocking tilt to his lips, his voice betrayed him, coming out ragged and desperate. “Nobody wants to be a monster. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what you said? It’s in our nature.” Addicted to suffering and death. He felt his chest ache, the space between his ribs just left to his sternum where there wasn’t even a scar left of his failure.

The other man held his gaze, his eyes dark and sad. “I was wrong,” he uttered so quietly it would have been lost if they hadn’t been so close. “It matters because…” His words faded out and a weak smile appeared on his lips instead, at odds with the troubled lines in his expression. “It makes no difference what I say. I can’t reason away your guilt and I can’t take away your pain. I wish I could help you, Jonathan…”

He could see the other had more to say, but not for another moment could he stand the earnest concern in his voice, in his pleading eyes, so he cut him off with a frustrated growl from the back of his throat, “Save it, Geoffrey.” Despite the terse edge to his tone he averted his gaze and shrank back. He wouldn’t be able to hold onto his anger for much longer, certainly not when McCullum was determined to keep up his nonsense. There was a whisper at the back of his mind, as cruel as it was desperate, that reminded him there was still one way left to make the other submit and it didn’t even matter if it worked or not, he wouldn’t be forgiven for even trying. Though he silenced the thought immediately, it still left a disgusting aftertaste on his tongue that made him feel sickened by himself.

When the hunter moved with him and sat up, Jonathan noticed him swaying and had to stifle the stupid instinct to reach out and help him steady. Instead, he got to his feet and took half a step back, painfully aware of the space better kept between them. He couldn’t bring himself to look at McCullum, not when he could already feel the pressure behind his eyes and the wetness gather along his eyelashes. His thoughts were a churning mess, tearing and twisting inside because in his heart he knew, he should feel miserable in his guilt but he didn’t want to. “You need to feed and then we need to get going. There’s not much time left until sunrise.” Said just to silence the part of him that wanted to give in so badly, wanted to soak up whatever comfort and understanding Geoffrey was so eager to offer, so it would numb the ache festering in his chest and make him forget how Mary had suffered by his hands.

The hunter was terrible at hunting rats. With an incredulous kind of amusement Jonathan watched as McCullum tried to hold onto the rat that was squirming in his grip. A beast of grungy fur, dark as the night, with half its ear missing. It snarled at him, gouged his flesh red with its claws and finally dug its teeth deep into the soft skin between thumb and index finger. With a yelp he shook it off and threw the rat to the ground where it hissed at him before it turned tail and darted away. McCullum didn’t look like it bothered him much though, if anything, his eyes spoke of relief as he lifted the empty hand to his mouth and licked the blood trickling from the wound.

“I’d say you’ll make a terrible leech, but you’d probably take it as a compliment,” Jonathan noted as he stepped closer, tilted his head slightly and raised his fingers to his throat. Shadow as fine as a surgeon’s blade parted his skin, left a trail black then red, blood running down the slope of his neck. The new-born stared, eyes wide, nostrils flaring and his teeth buried into his lower lip, still, he took a step back and Jonathan couldn’t have that. “I can’t let you out while you’re still hungry.”

“You’re such an…” McCullum began, but the words caught in his throat as he swallowed hard. When he reached out he didn’t quite seem in control.

“The hospital’s too close, with the weak and the wounded.” Jonathan crowded his space with a confidence in the jut of his chin that he didn’t feel inside. “I can’t take that risk.” The other vampire gripped his waist and pulled them together. Jonathan knew what to expect and he braced himself for the pain, screwed his eyes shut and dug his fingers into his palms. When it didn’t come, he almost flinched at the ticklish touch of a tongue gently following the trail of blood from his clavicle upwards. “Stop fooling around. We don’t have time for this,” he growled when the other vampire continued to lap at the cut that was already closing up again. The grip around his middle tightened and that was all the warning he got before sharp teeth buried themselves into his flesh. The jolt of pain would have made him jerk away, instead McCullum forced him impossibly closer.

He realized too late that his mind was happy to ignore the pain in favour of relishing the illusion of intimacy, the way the other was holding him, his arms slung around his back and his head tucked into the curve of his neck. It was just feeding, he reminded himself, nothing more, and still his thoughts craved to warp it into something else. He curled his fingers carefully into the coarse fabric of Geoffrey’s coat as if the embrace had any meaning. His heartbeat picked up and a wave of cold spread through his chest. When it reached his head and washed out his senses, he knew he was making a mistake to allow this to continue. But it was nice to let his mind just float further away the more blood left his veins. He thought of draining the poison, thought of bloodletting though his scientific mind baulked at the idea. Until he didn’t think of anything anymore.

The Disaster stood above the hunter’s broken body bleeding out on the floor, a vicious snarl on her lips. Meanwhile, Jonathan was still babbling on like a fool, trying to talk her out of killing off the other half of the city. He had no idea what he was doing, he hadn’t been able to help anyone, never mind save them. It wouldn’t be any different with Geoffrey or Harriet.

His eyes snapped open to the crunch of breaking bones. Like a rotten twig, too small, too quiet. The metallic smell of blood filled his nose and in the next moment he felt something wet and warm drop to his lips. Nausea twisted his insides and he jerked away retching, though his stomach was empty. He pressed one hand against his sternum and tried to smother the cold shivers running through his body.

“I’ve decided,” he heard the hunter say, exasperation dripping from his words. “You’re an idiot.”

It took him a while to find an answer in the sinking sand that was his brain. “I thought you had established that already,” he slurred, lips numb and his eyes still trying to follow the flashes of bright light through blurred vision.

“Just made it official.” McCullum drawled, “Jonathan Idiot Reid.”

“My second name is actually Emmet,” he corrected while he swatted weakly at the hand that curled around his chin and gently forced his head to turn.

The other man scoffed at his words. “Not anymore it isn’t. Now drink. I killed it for you.”

Rough fur brushed against his cheek and then there was warm flesh pressed to his lips and with the smell of blood heavy in his nose he couldn’t help but bite into the corpse of the small creature. Sweet, always sweet, the liquid ran over his tongue, down his throat and he swallowed.

Chapter Text

When the sewer gate screeched open under his hand, Jonathan paused in slight confusion. He turned around, squinted at the dark back alley that had led them here. He hadn’t realized they’d already made it this far. Stuck in his own head, the sleeping city had past him by in a blur. Dimly, he remembered that his gaze had clung to the cobblestone beneath his feet, more shadow and fog than anything else. His gaze slid over to McCullum who looked back at him with a scowl, though there was something in the lines around his eyes that made it appear oddly soft. He tried to recall if they had talked even one word since they’d left the morgue and came up empty. Earlier, the hunter had exchanged some hushed words with one of his Guard, a woman flanked by two other humans, dark capes shadowing their faces and large crossbows slung over their shoulders. They had intercepted the two men at Finsbury Gate with a casualness as if they had waited for them to come this way. The smell of petrol and burned flesh had clung to their clothes, and Jonathan had preferred to keep his distance.

He ran a hand over his face and forced himself to focus. Before he gave the other man enough reason to point out his hesitance, Jonathan pushed the door open all the way and stepped into the darkness. The metal hinges creaked loudly as McCullum pulled it shut behind them, and then the tunnels were quiet, the distant gurgle of water dull and distorted in its melody. A draft of cool air carried with it the sickly-sweet stench of all things bloated and rotting down here, and he had to press a palm over his nose and swallow against the urge to gag. The muffled sneeze he heard from the other vampire made his lips curl at their corners without his permission.

The darkness grew thick around them as the winding tunnels led them deeper, across streams of sewage and past rumbling machinery. “You’ll want to reason with her, right?” McCullum asked out of nowhere. “When we find her.” His gruff voice was a welcomed change to the static of rushing water, but Jonathan wasn’t keen on talking, so he just nodded in assent. Unfortunately, the hunter didn’t let the poor response deter him. “She might not listen. She might just attack,” he pointed out carefully.

He sighed and resigned himself to the conversation. “I know.” He was aware it was necessary that they agreed on a plan for the approaching fight, though when the other man didn’t say anything else for a while, Jonathan was at a loss how to break the silence.

Only when Jonathan gave him a questioning look did McCullum speak his mind. “I don’t want to see you disappointed when it doesn’t work out.” It was strange to hear timidity in his tone and to see his fingers fidgeting nervously at the hilt of his sword. “Healing her, I mean.”

He stopped in his tracks, taking a moment to school his features before he turned to face the hunter again. “You think I wouldn’t be used to failure?” he asked with one eyebrow raised in slight irritation. He hadn’t quite accepted it in his heart, but he was well aware his intention to cure Harriet was one doomed to fail. The choice he would bring before her was no choice at all, he would be forcing her, either take the antidote or be killed. There was nothing ethical about it, no peaceful conclusion waiting at the end. “Besides, my hurt feelings should really be the least of your worries.”

“I’m not…” His shoulders slumped and when he continued there was a tired edge to his tone. “Just try not to die.” His eyes flickered between Jonathan’s as if searching for something, but when they were met only with a confused frown, McCullum huffed and bowed his head to avert his gaze.

Jonathan watched him turn away to continue on their path through the depths of the sewers. He mulled over what the hunter had said and why, and then he carefully picked it apart so it was easier to brush off his concern. All the hunter’s kindness and comfort had only been offered with the pure self-interest at heart that he needed Jonathan to fight the Disaster for him. If he got himself killed, McCullum would have to face her alone or call on his Guard for help. But the sewers were a terrible battlefield for mortals. Darkness and water made it difficult to orientate or even keep one’s footing. In the narrow tunnels their greater number would be of no advantage. Harriet would slaughter the humans by the dozen. Even if they managed to kill her eventually, there would be no victory for McCullum’s precious Guard of Priwen.

That, at least, made sense to him, one leech was barely a casualty. After all, fighting the Disaster was what he had been made for, what Jonathan had been killed for.

Halfway down the tunnels they came across a trail of corpses on the other side of an iron gate. After breaking the lock with a flick of shadows they wandered into the familiar chamber where Jonathan’s maker had greeted them the last time. A bridge of red stone stretched out before them, lined with pillars rising from the black waters beneath. Dead Skals were strewn along the way, their darkened blood was spattered generously across mould and brick and trickled in a shallow runlet towards the wide opening on the other side of the hall.

Even though he didn’t breathe, his memory conjured the cloying stench of decay easily from decades of being around the dead and the dying. Water thick with blood sloshed into his shoes and he almost stumbled when he stepped over the corpses and tried to keep his mind from cataloguing their injuries out of habit. Twisted limbs, flesh torn to ribbons and bones shattered in so many places they spoke of a brutality that had been executed with a cruel kind of enjoyment. Whatever was waiting for them at the other end of this trail of slaughtered bodies had to be a monster. The thought had his limbs stiffen with animal fear crawling up along the vertebrae of his spine and for a moment he couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to take another step forwards. His gaze darted to McCullum and he wondered, not for the first time, if the hunter had been right and there was nothing left of the person Harriet had once been. But he shook his head stubbornly and reminded himself. Not a monster. Not by choice. Harriet was a victim of this nightmare, not a villain.

When they had crossed the hall and stepped into a massive circular space within the sewers, Jonathan barely had time to take in the high walls and cascading waterfalls before his gaze fell to the middle of the room and the creature cowering there compelled his full attention. The extent of Harriet’s mutation and the way it had completely distorted her left arm was familiar, yet far worse than her daughter’s. The unnatural deformity of it made her seem like something conjured from a nightmare, but Jonathan had only eyes for the inflamed skin and lumps of swollen flesh, the way she hunched over, clutching her stomach as she retched and vomit spilled from her mouth.

Something inside his chest tightened in concern as he heard her whimper and she must have noticed their arrival because she was asking for him, pleaded in a voice rough and thinned by weakness, “I’m sick. So sick, Doctor. Help me, please.” Harriet groaned as she raised a shaking hand to wipe the bile from her lips. “I’m in such pain.” The warning at the back of his mind that this could be a trap didn’t even register as he moved on impulse. “Jonathan, don’t!” he heard McCullum hiss and though the urgency in his tone wasn’t as easily ignored, he sidestepped the hunter’s attempt to stop him and jumped down to the lower floor.

He raised his empty hands in a placating gesture as he cautiously approached her. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he assured her, hoping that McCullum would keep his distance. Harriet however barely spared the hunter a glance. Instead, her gaze was focused entirely on him and there was a sharpness to her dark eyes that took the confidence from his words when he added, “I’ve come to help.” He fetched the syringe filled with blood from his pocket and was at a loss how he should explain to her, that the antidote would initially bring her even more pain.

“Like you helped my daughter? Liar!” she spat out and slowly the mask of misery twisted into something else entirely, as if she couldn’t stand to wear it any longer. With open hatred her gaze bored into him, bile sprayed from her lips as she snarled, “You killed her. You took my daughter from me!” Her eyes widened, more bruised red than white, and it was the last warning Jonathan got before she attacked.

The swing of her mutated arm cut through the blurs of his shadows as he ducked away and stumbled backwards scrambling for balance. The memory of blistering heat against his skin tore into his mind, blindsiding him with the bitter stench of singed hair, black burned flesh, and the moment she had stopped screaming. He hadn’t killed her, a terrified voice within pleaded, not with his own hands, and he silenced it with contempt because forcing Doris to burn herself alive was certainly no excuse to acquit him of her murder. “I couldn’t let her infect anyone else,” he tried to explain, struggling against the cold fear closing like a vice around his throat, because Harriet wasn’t listening, she was just waiting for him to come to his senses and run so she could claw his back to ribbons. “I didn’t have a cure for your daughter, but I have one now.” Liar, it echoed in his ears, and he swallowed around the disgust he felt at the faked certainty in his voice.

“There is no sickness to cure, Doctor. My Queen has given me the strength to set things right,” she sneered and drew herself up to her full height. It was disorienting to see hardened skin and thick, corded muscle where Jonathan was desperately searching for the remnants of a frail old woman. Something circled the air around her, older than the city above and darker than the shadows at their feet. A current of power cloyed with malice red and sweet as freshly spilled blood.

Again, she lunged for him and the wet sound of flesh hitting the stone where Jonathan had stood not a second ago was both sickening and a relief. “Please, Harriet,” he implored with his palms open and empty in a gesture that even to himself was a mockery of placidity, because while he spoke his tone was too calm, too rich, disguised as the voice of reason where really there was nothing but raw violence as it reverberated in her skull to bend her will until it would break. “You must stop this! You will kill thousands of people.”

Her eyes flashed as she stared him down, sharp and clear without even the smallest trace of confusion. “And they all deserve it! They are monsters, disgusting and cruel!” she spat out along a gush of vomit dribbling from her chin. “If you weren’t such a coward, Doctor, you’d be up there, belly full and knee-deep in their blood.”

Jonathan looked back at her in horror, shaking his head as he stumbled over his own feet trying to get away from her. “No.” Quiet and helpless and pretending there had been no blood on the knife he had found and returned to Clay Cox. Reminding himself, that Venus was bound to realize on her own that she loved her husband, and Seymour was nothing but a victim to the demons in his head. There was no proof that Whitaker burned the sick, or that Bates raped his tenants as payment for a roof over their heads, and Jonathan had saved him from their retribution.

He didn’t see the way Harriet clenched her fist and twisted her mouth in disdain, but a shout of warning jolted him from his spiralling thoughts just in time to sidestep a moment too late. Her arm clipped his shoulder and he barely registered the pain before the world was already spinning out of focus and he hit the ground hard. Darkness flickered along the edges of his vision as he sucked in a startled breath of air that only made everything worse. Harriet didn’t allow him any time to recover and though he hurried to scramble back to his feet, he realized with rising panic that he was too slow, too weak.

She’d almost caught up to him, when suddenly he heard McCullum speak again. “I wonder, how would your daughter treat you if she were here?” The second she hesitated was enough for Jonathan to flee out of her reach. Grimacing, he pressed a hand over his throbbing shoulder where he could feel the itch of skin and muscle mending themselves. “She despised you to the core for what you did to her. All those years of abuse and pain, and when she finally broke free you came back into her life and you took everything from her.” He walked towards her, his steps measured and careful, the tip of his sword held low. “She would tear you apart.” She turned around slowly to face the other man, her expression contorted and bloodlust seething in her eyes. Her bared teeth were clenched so hard there was red flowing from her lips. Jonathan watched how every muscle in her body shivered and tensed just before she charged at McCullum and her form dissolved in shadows with the speed of it. Anyone else would have been ripped to pieces in a heartbeat and even the hunter escaped her onslaught only by the skin of his teeth.

When he parried her next strike she swatted his blade aside like a toy, heedless of the blood spraying from the deep gouge the metal carved into her flesh. With a terrifying growl on her lips she went for his throat, threw him to the ground and though McCullum drove a wooden stake into her wrist she kept him pinned with a knee on his chest. Distracted by his frantic struggle, Harriet only noticed the pool of shadows lapping at her feet when it was already too late. Thick swathes of darkness twisted along her limbs, around her torso and by the time she’d let go of the hunter to fight the restraints they had immobilized her almost completely.

McCullum dragged himself away from her, blood running from his mouth and one arm clutched against his stomach while the other fumbled blindly for his sword. Though his expression was grim, his eyes were open wide and filled with fear. Jonathan spared him a worried glance as he walked up to Harriet, a stumble in his step as half his mind was focused on controlling the shadows and it was draining him quickly. He could feel them vibrate under his command, itching to tear his prey apart instead of keeping her bound. At the same time the weight of his hacksaw felt heavy at his belt, his fingers numb around the syringe in his hand. “Everything will be alright, Harriet,” he tried to reassure her as much as himself. “It will hurt at first, but…” His words faded out, turned to ash in his mouth when she raised her head and met his gaze with an abyss of sheer hatred in the blackness of her eyes.

The moment the first drop of the Tear of Angels joined her bloodstream Harriet began screaming, high-pitched and broken, and Jonathan wanted nothing more than to cover his ears. Instead of succumbing to the pain, she strained against his hold and her thrashing only became more volatile as if it were fuelled by it. She clawed her hands into the shadow and he felt it slowly bend under her strength until it gave way and the tension snapped apart. A shiver went through her body, she convulsed and let out a cry that was choked off by a rush of vomit and blood spewing from her mouth. The empty syringe fell from his hands as Jonathan quickly stepped back with a palm pressed over his nose to stave off the revolting smell of sickness. Before he could make a bad decision and return to her side, she clumsily wiped the bile from her chin and staggered to her feet. Harriet shook herself as if trying to dispel the pain burning through her limbs. For a second their eyes met again and he thought there was something different to her expression, something haunted.

The viciousness of her attack took him by surprise as she launched herself at him. “You can’t take this from me!” she roared, though the fury in her voice couldn’t hide the coiled terror beneath. With a sickening crack her fist hit him square in the chest and the force of it sent him flying through the room. Pain flared up behind his ribs and he groaned around a mouthful of blood spilling from his lips. He’d barely gotten to his knees when a shadow appeared by his side and McCullum hauled him up just in time to evade another swing of mutated flesh that splintered the stone beneath their feet. “Harriet, stop. You don’t need to fight anymore,” Jonathan pleaded weakly while he curled an arm around his stomach and kept himself upright against the hunter’s shoulder. The mesmerism laced into his tone went unheard like a whisper in a storm. He didn’t understand what Harriet had to gain from this. Without the blood of hate poisoning her mind she was supposed to come back to her senses.

“You act like I didn’t choose this,” she growled and let the meat of her arm drag a red trail over the floor as she advanced on them. “This is my power to wield. My pain to inflict.” Because for the first time she wasn’t forced into the role of the victim, Jonathan thought tentatively, examining her words like a patch of bruised skin to find the fractured bone beneath. She could protect herself and she could fight back – only, she had been mistreated by so many people, she had learned that everyone was an enemy. Even if the Tear of Angels had worked, it was worthless in the face of the deep-dyed hatred Harriet carried in her heart.

Her gait was unsteady and she was trembling all over, but unlike the two Ekons Harriet appeared to be able to fight off the antidote’s effect, or perhaps she was just too used to suffering. Relentlessly she continued her assault and the hunter threw himself against her, no less brutal in his attacks than she was. Not long and Harriet was bleeding from several deep gashes, but he wasn’t faring any better. Meanwhile, Jonathan skirted along the edges of the fight and though he summoned his shadows to impede her aggression, he deliberately held back so he wouldn’t add to her pain.

When Jonathan pulled him away from a wide swipe of her arm, McCullum forcefully shook off his hand. “She won’t stop. She’s going to kill us if we don’t fight back,” he pointed out without meeting Jonathan’s eyes, but the accusation in his tone was clear. The hunter evaded her next swing by a hair’s breadth, more luck to it than skill. Undeterred, he dashed for the opening her attack had left and Harriet wasn’t quick enough to catch on. By the time she had twisted around and let the deformed limb snap back like a whip, his shape had dissolved in shadows and her elbow struck nothing but air. A split-second later the hunter came up on her right side where the mutation was less severe, grabbed the arm that almost looked human and only now Jonathan noticed the silver flash of a dagger in his other hand. The metal buried itself deep between her ribs and when he tore it back out, a thick gush of blood followed. He yanked her down, aiming the blade upwards at her throat while Harriet lunged out for a heavy-handed punch that never should have hit its mark. That changed, when darkness suddenly flared up in the narrow space between sharpened metal and vulnerable skin, and just after his stab glanced off the barrier, her fist smashed against his head and McCullum was flung to the ground.

Jonathan stared with horror at the blood running down from his hairline, and he knew the guilt that spread through his chest would drown him if he didn’t smother it first. With a flick of his trembling hand he let the protective shadow around Harriet disappear. His eyes slid back to the woman and there was no hiding his despair as he tried again, “I know it feels like you’re all alone, but that’s not true. If you would just-” He saw her eyes flicker down to where the hunter was lying dazed and barely moving on the floor, and only then he understood the consequences of his action. Harriet would make sure McCullum never got up again before she’d move on to deal with Jonathan.

Black spikes surged from the ground to meet her when she tried to finish the hunter off, their serrated edges thirsting for blood, and they carved gouges deep and red through her body. His heart beat loudly in his ears and its pounding melted with her scream until he couldn’t hear himself think anymore. He watched as she crumbled to the floor, blood pooling at her feet and darkness protruding like blades from her back. With shaky legs he walked over to the two of them, dimly aware how McCullum was slowly regaining his senses, and knelt down at her side. “If you would just stop fighting, Harriet,” he begged quietly, too late, too little, when he realized she was barely bleeding anymore though as severe as her wounds were they should be pouring.

“I failed my Queen and I failed my daughter. You took everything I had,” she said weakly and if she had any strength left to raise her head and look at him, Jonathan knew he would find nothing but hatred for him. He rolled up his sleeve and cut into his wrist, because he couldn’t bear to sit by idly and listen to her heartbeat fall silent. Her fingers were cold on his skin when she wrapped them around his hand, her teeth sharp as they dug deep into his flesh. He felt her merciless bite and it was nothing like the way Sean had sucked at his wound, nothing like Geoffrey had licked over his throat. A whimper was torn from his lips and tears sprung into his eyes at the pain of tearing flesh.

“You can’t be serious,” McCullum croaked and though his voice was thin, it was brimming with disbelieve. He’d pulled himself up half-way into a sitting position and one hand was holding his sword in a white-knuckled grip.

Jonathan met his wide-eyed stare with an upset scowl and insisted, “She gets a chance.” If he cared for it he would have felt ashamed for the tears gathering along his lashes and the way his voice was thick and raw with too much emotion. Abruptly, he doubled over with a choked-off cry as Harriet ripped a chunk of meat from his arm. She wrestled him down easily, her mutated limb a heavy weight on his chest and her teeth closed like a vice around his shoulder. His mind blanked and he screamed as he felt muscles rupture and tendons snap. She chewed wetly and then buried her teeth into his jugular, tugging viciously at the cartilage like a starved animal.

From one moment to the next she stopped, and Jonathan couldn’t understand why she didn’t just tear his throat out. His head lolled to the side and through his swimming vision he saw McCullum dragging Harriet away from him with a hand clamped around her neck. The hunter threw her to the ground and pressed his red-smeared blade into her skin so she didn’t get up again. “No,” someone pleaded in a garbled voice and Jonathan didn’t recognize it as his own as he tried to fight off the darkness that was slowly engulfing him. His thoughts were a mess of pain and fear and all he could think was that Harriet didn’t deserve to die. If she only had a bit of time and rest she could find herself again. She could live her life in peace, free like she never could before. He could help her, he could fix this. Jonathan pressed a hand to his throat as if that could keep the blood from streaming down his shredded skin and struggled to his knees.

The hunter turned towards him and his sword moved with him, the tip of it now pointed at Jonathan. “That’s enough, Reid.” His tone was flat and his stare cold. “Stay down.” Still, when Jonathan bared his teeth and knocked the blade aside in a weak display of defiance, the other man let it give way easily. His mask fell and beneath it his blue eyes were filled with sadness. “I’m sorry.” He averted his gaze and tightened the grip on his weapon. There was no moment of mercy at the end, neither asked for nor given. No hesitation for violence in the face of a beaten and defenceless creature. McCullum raised his sword and cut the head clean off her shoulders.

Jonathan watched it slide from her neck, tumble over the floor and he felt cold. Colder even than when he’d first woken up in a bed of dead bodies at the bottom of a mass grave. Like his heart had stopped beating inside his chest, frozen over, lifeless and rotten. He barely noticed how the other man hauled him up and dragged him away from the corpse. The ground turned red beneath his feet, rose around him and the stench of iron was suddenly overwhelming. Blood, red and viscous, until he was wading knee-deep through it, until he could lie down and drown in it. A nightmare turned into hell, he thought to himself, and he would never ever wake up from it.

Chapter Text

Small waves lapped at his stomach, deep red like a bullet wound or like a shredded limb, the colour he was most familiar with. He had meant it when he’d told McCullum that he was used to failure. Ever since he’d been working at a hospital he had been well aware that death was the only constant. Though if he thought about it, it must have been the war that had made him understand the fact as reality. He hadn’t even witnessed the worst of its atrocities, soldiers with half their legs blown off begging for help amidst the deafening rain of artillery shells, men with their fingers still twitching piled like cushions onto barbed wire. The air filled with flies and the trenches filled with mud and piss and twisted, swollen corpses with their eyes wide and empty staring at the sun. Maybe he just didn’t remember, didn’t want to.

Sometimes, when the night was quiet enough, he could still hear them scream, with their throats raw and their corroded lungs. Blood pouring in rivers from gaping wounds, covered his hands, soaked into his clothes, a red coat on the floor and he could feel it stick to the soles of his shoes, could taste it under his fingernails. He would set to work, stitched them back together like a collection of broken dolls. But they were at war and everyone was so eager to find more efficient ways to kill each other. The ones that managed to recover had a rifle shoved into their arms and were sent to the front again until they were torn into so many pieces they couldn’t be fixed anymore. A last tired exhale and they fell silent, slipped away beneath his fumbling hands. He watched them die, one after another and it never stopped, there were always more.

It felt wet and warm against his numb lips, thick like syrup at the roof of his mouth before he swallowed it slowly. The taste a vibrant trail down his parched throat like a coin of copper dissolving on his tongue, metallic and so sweet it was almost putrid. With every sip of blood that pooled in his stomach, it chased away the pain thrumming through his body and calmed the tremor in his limbs, until it felt like he was floating. He cupped his hands, dipped them back into the red pool surrounding him and the blood ran through his fingers stiff with cold as he raised them towards his mouth to drink.

It took a while before the fog began to recede from his thoughts and he could make sense of the scene playing out in front of him. Of the blood and the cries and the waves rippling over the sea of red. The curling shadows and the blur of creatures and the metal that cut through it all like lightning in a storm. Another fight, another monster, as if Harriet had just been a preliminary and her death meaningless. Part of him wanted to curl up and close his eyes, slip underneath the blanket of obliviousness to pretend this was nothing more than a gruesome theatre play where he didn’t have to care for its conclusion when it would just start anew the next evening. He was so sick and tired of this, the violence and bloodshed and their inherent futility. And yet he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he stood idly by and left the hunter to face this monster alone.

Pain burned through his flesh and clawed into his head the moment he pushed himself off the ground, and for a second it was all white inside his mind, all dark. Blindly he grabbed for the railing behind him to keep himself upright while he waited for the room around him to come back into focus. Before he could find his bearings he heard her speak. “I will reap the land myself!” And despite the terrible intention of her words, there was a strange allure to her voice. “Abundant the harvest! Red the crop!” Something that made the blood in his veins sing in response. He shook his head and blinked, trying to dispel the blurriness from his vision as he stared at her. The vague form of a human distorted in the ever-changing flow of glistening blood, her arms spread wide while the red waves thrashed and boiled beneath her feet. Next to the grace and power of her movements he felt slow and clumsy, and it made his limbs feel numb, made him want to run and hide away in a small corner where she would walk past and never find him.

But he saw half a dozen creatures rise slowly from the sea of crimson and he thought he could see them smile even though they were faceless. He stumbled forward, resolved to throw himself into the battle if only so he would have no other choice, when McCullum suddenly appeared in front of him, his eyes wide and his hair matted down with blood. “Geoffrey, I-” he’d barely gotten out the words before the hunter grabbed his shoulder and cut him off.

“You can’t fight,” he told him sounding breathless but resolute, and when Jonathan frowned at him and opened his mouth, he added softly, “Please.” McCullum’s hand slid upwards to cup the side of his face and its tenderness was a strange contrast to the white-knuckled grip his other had on his sword. “Stay out of this, Jonathan.” Barely more than a whisper, but there was a weight to it, heavy and thick that made the words linger, and something inside Jonathan melted with the sound of it. A moment ago he had wanted to shake his head and protest, and now he couldn’t even remember the reason.

When he let the other vampire push him back to the ground, he thought he could hear him mutter an apology, though he didn’t understand why. Of course McCullum was right. It had been his own fault that the Disaster had ripped him apart and now he was too weak to be of any use. Worse, he would just find another reason to take pity on their new enemy, would wonder what must have happened to her to make her so hateful, so cruel, and in his endless stupidity he would try to find a way to help her. Maybe this time he’d even succeed in getting Geoffrey killed while he made a mess of everything.

He wrapped his arms around himself and pressed his face against his knees. Saving the city was no longer his responsibility, and wasn’t that what he had wanted? To turn away and leave the killing to someone else, so he could keep on pretending that there was a choice other than bloodshed. He didn’t need a second chance just to prove that someone like him was too much of a coward to save anyone.

He couldn’t say how much time had passed when he noticed that it had become quiet around him. With a slow blink he opened his eyes and didn’t bother wondering when he had closed them. The scene had changed now, the surface had smoothed over into a mirror of red and two creatures made of blood hovered in the air like a pair of ancient gods. Beneath them the hunter looked small, a soldier lost in the barren stretch of land between trenches, unsure if this was the end of the fight or the beginning of yet another. The tip of his longsword was touching the ground and he swayed for a moment, stumbled before he caught himself in a movement that was sluggish and uncoordinated.

The sound of voices reached his ears, faint and dulled as if they were coming from far away, and he realized they were speaking now. He tried to focus his thoughts, but the haze wrapped around his tired mind only reluctantly gave way. “That is not my champion,” he heard his maker say in a disgruntled tone, petulant like a child.

“So you chose wrong. Again,” she pointed out, dissatisfied as if she had expected the other to do better. He couldn’t help but agree. His maker had chosen an arrogant doctor who had presumed Harriet a victim, a woman confused by her sickness, old and weak and in need of saving. Oh, how Jonathan prided himself on his rational thinking, yet he had been quick to attribute all of her actions to the influence of a demonic curse. Dismissed her hate as unwarranted and her thirst for revenge as petty, while he knew nothing of her life and had not once made an effort to listen and understand her. It was laughable, really. Harriet had told him herself how she had been exactly what she’d wanted to be. She had spurned his offer of help with good reason, for it had been nothing more than an attempt to pacify her and trap her in a life where everyone around her would have continued to see her as a monster, to be destitute and discarded all over again.

He wondered how Harriet would have been rewarded if she had succeeded in fully unleashing the plague to kill hundreds of thousands. “Did they feel my wrath?” If she had turned the world into the hell that to her it already was. “Have they suffered enough?” With bleary eyes he looked up at the horned creature and his mind was slow to understand as he watched her form simply dissolve and spatter red to the ground. The gentle waves subsided and the surface sank away around him, a moment later and the last of the blood had seeped through the grates and washed away with the sewer waters. The air turned thin with her absence, the room silent, even though the rush of waterfalls droned in his ears. Would Harriet have been able to find peace in the love and forgiveness of a goddess or would her hate have been inconsolable?

He flinched from the loud ringing as metal clattered onto stone and his eyes widened when he saw the hunter hunch over with his arms clutched around his middle. His face was ashen, his mouth opened on a stuttered gasp and red spilled from his lips, dripped from his jaw in viscous strings. It took a few staggered steps before his legs gave out beneath him and his knees hit the ground, two dull thuds one shortly after the other. A mess of fresh blood leaked from between his fingers, ran over his hands and through his already soaked clothes and Jonathan could pick out the scent of it easily because it was reeking of adrenaline, sharp and ozone.

Jonathan grabbed the railing for support and while he struggled to pull himself to his feet his whole body protested the movement. His left arm hung limp at his side, rendered useless with pain, and the torn muscles at his neck made it difficult to keep his head up. He was slow, barely managed a straight line and by the time he’d reached the other man, a dark pool of blood covered the ground beneath him and drained away through the nearby grate.

McCullum was trembling in every limb and his breath came in wet, choked off gasps like there was liquid sloshing around in his lungs. When Jonathan was only a few feet away he went still and looked up, but there was no recognition in his eyes, only the glazed look of a man who was at the brink of succumbing to exhaustion and pain. In the next second his gaze suddenly focused, turned sharp and red and Jonathan didn’t know anymore if this was Geoffrey looking at him or something else. For a terrible moment he wondered if it would be easier for everyone if he stepped away and did nothing, let the hunter bleed out and when there was nothing left in his veins, cut off his head for good measure. Nausea coiled his stomach at the thought, but he couldn’t deny that at least it would be a death more peaceful than being burned alive.

If he wanted to, he could argue that in his selfishness he was too scared to be left alone, or that he cared for Geoffrey so much he couldn’t bear to let him die. But no matter how he felt, he knew it wasn’t as simple as that. He didn’t know if the Tear of Angels would save them, and he had been fed up with trying to believe in it for too long already. He could see it all play out in front of him. How the blood of hate would take root in Geoffrey’s heart and how he would have to watch the man turn cruel. The hunter would return to the surface and slaughter the humans he had sworn to protect for no other reason than to hear them scream. And it wouldn’t be Jonathan who had to put him down, because he would be right there with him, covered in blood and smiling.

Whatever choice he made he would come to regret it. So he decided it would not be his decision alone. They were in this together and if McCullum wasn’t in his right mind, that was fine. Jonathan would bring him back. Only a tiny voice at the back of his head was mocking him that after he would have saved him they could go out and gather wood for the pyre together.

He dropped to his knees and met the hunger in the new-born’s eyes with a brittle smile. Being so close to the other he was able to catch a glimpse of his injuries and he swallowed hard when he saw his coat hang in tatters off his shoulders and beneath it, the criss-cross work of rent skin and terrible gashes that ran deep enough to have cut bone. “I’m sorry I left you to fight her alone,” Jonathan mumbled his apology while inside he was shouting at himself how he could have been so weak to surrendered to his misery and fear. How could he abandon Geoffrey when he had needed him most?

The hunter showed no reaction to his words. Since the moment he had looked up he had been focused entirely on the beating heart in Jonathan’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he tried again but it just sounded hollow. With the guilt and the shame throbbing in his head, pain was a welcome spike of clarity as he bit into the skin of his own arm. He stared at the faint trace of red that sluggishly made its way to the surface, and before he could despair over the fact that he couldn’t even properly feed him, a hand closed around his wrist. With a brutal pull he was yanked forward and then the other vampire was on top of him, his eyes wild and his teeth bared. Growling low in his throat, McCullum shoved his face against the open wound at his neck and as he sank his fangs into the wet flesh Jonathan choked on a whimper.

A firestorm of pain set his skin ablaze, burned through his nerves and in its wake a wave of panic crashed into him, bloomed cold like ice along the inside of his skull. He opened his mouth to beg Geoffrey to stop but instead he started screaming at the top of his lungs and the room tipped into darkness around him. Blindly, he scrabbled for a hold, dug his hands into the blood-soaked fabric of the other’s shirt and his arms trembled under the strain to push him even an inch away. His heart beat frantically against his ribs like it was trying to break them and what little strength he had left waned quickly, until finally something gave and he felt too sharp teeth snag on his tendons, then dislodge completely.

Immediately, he shoved the other man off him and dragged himself away to put as much distance between them as he could manage before his limbs buckled beneath him and he collapsed. His body felt numb and cold and all he could do was curl up protectively around his wounded side, grit his chattering teeth to fight off the darkness creeping in along the edges. He watched the hunter stumble off into the other direction, a hand pressed over his mouth and so much fear in the white of his eyes that Jonathan wanted to rush to his side and assure him that everything was alright. But what deceptive comfort that would be. McCullum was right to be terrified and Jonathan should have known better than to go near him in the first place.

Far above, where the high shaft reached the surface, dawn had broken and painted the autumn sky a mellow blue. Though the sun didn’t reach down here, Jonathan had to shield his squinting eyes from the scattered light as he stepped to the edge at the end of the drain. His gaze fell on the man who lay on the other side of the room and worry filled out the space behind his sternum. The beat of his heart had weakened to a flutter and his breathing had lost its ragged edge and become shallow. In the time Jonathan had been gone he’d barely moved.

He dropped to the lower floor with ease and behind him a dozen small furry spots crawled down the brickwork, remnants of a mischief he had fed on earlier. Stripped of their sense of danger, the rats bustled around between his feet with conversational squeaks and followed at his heels as he walked over to the injured vampire.

He hadn’t thought McCullum was coherent enough to even notice him approach, but his eyes flickered open and from one moment to the next the expression on his face turned from drowsy confusion to aggression, his gaze dark and his teeth bared in a sharp snarl. With jerky movements he staggered to his feet and Jonathan felt a bizarre sort of rejection when he realized that the hunter was trying to get away from him. McCullum was not scared of him though, he had to remind himself, he was scared of losing control to his thirst, and as much as Jonathan wanted to help him, he had no intention to corner the new-born. So, he kept his distance and only winced in sympathy when the other man tripped over his own feet and gracelessly fell to the ground.

Even if McCullum had wanted to back further away, he looked like he would just collapse if he tried again. His heart was racing a mile a minute, pushing out fresh blood from his wounds and his hands were slippery with it as he struggled to his knees.

With a mere thought Jonathan sent the group of rats the rest of the way over to him. He wished Geoffrey would keep glaring at him, anything to show that he was still himself, but he knew he was being unfair. It would be so much easier for the hunter if he just let the thirst take over, and from the way his gaze was drawn to the furry animals scurrying around him, he did. As he snatched the first one up and sank his teeth into its small body without any of his usual reluctance, Jonathan had to look away. One after another he heard them shriek out in terror, then fall silent, and after a while the only sound left was the endless rush of water and the steady, slow rhythm of two undead hearts.

When Jonathan turned back around he didn’t know what to expect. McCullum’s lips were glistening with red, his eyes glazed over, staring down at the tiny corpse that was growing cold in his open palm. He looked more tired than Jonathan had ever seen him and part of him itched to just gather him up and tug him into a bed so he could pull up the blankets around himself and turn his back to the world for a night or two. “Is it alright if I join you?” he asked instead and made a vague gesture in his direction.

There was something terribly vacant in his gaze when McCullum slowly raised his head, and it felt like minutes passed until recognition began to form behind his eyes. A tentative nod was all the answer Jonathan got.

He had to restrain himself from rushing over, and by the time Jonathan knelt down in front of him, he felt sick with worry churning his stomach that made it difficult to concentrate on anything else. He had half a mind to pick the dead animal from his hand, then his eyes darted over his body in search for the remaining wounds, the damage that required more than a few drops of rat’s blood to heal. “Will you be alright?” he asked and winced at the ugly rasp in his throat. “It’s a bit hard to figure out the state of your injuries since you’re practically drenched in blood.” He’d tried to force some levity into his voice, but it got lost somewhere along the way when he noticed that McCullum couldn’t meet his eyes. Guilt washed over him like ice water running down his spine and he curled his hands to stop them from trembling. The city was saved - or would be, in time - and yet everything was so much worse. Now Jonathan needed to figure out where to start apologizing, for almost getting him killed, for leaving him to fight alone, for dragging him into this mess and failing him in every way that mattered. He knew the other would be angry with him and there was nothing Jonathan could say to change that, but he wanted him to know how sorry he was for all of it.

A hand tugged at his right sleeve and Jonathan startled. McCullum still wasn’t looking at him, but he spoke in a muted voice, “Thanks for the rats. And for-”

“Don’t mention it,” Jonathan dismissed his words automatically, before his brain caught up to what the other had said. Confusion set in and he looked down at the fingers curled into the dirty fabric of his shirt, waiting for them to explain to him why the hunter was being nice.

The other man huffed and ignored his interruption. “And for stopping me from killing you.”

His eyes snapped up and immediately flit away again when he was confronted with the misery in McCullum’s expression. “You wouldn’t have killed me,” he disagreed curtly and wondered if it would have been better if he had just let the other vampire drink. That way at least, Jonathan wouldn’t have been completely useless to him. “I should have never abandoned you to fight that monster alone.” He felt his insides twist in disgust at himself, and he wanted nothing more than to run away so he wouldn’t have to look up and see the disdain in the hunter’s eyes.

McCullum tightened his fingers around his sleeve, as if he had picked up on Jonathan’s desire to escape. “You don’t remember,” he said in an odd voice, almost like a question. “I shut you down. I mesmerized you, so you would stay out of it.”

There was something scratching at the back of his head, a memory to fit the words, and Jonathan ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath to clear it from his mind. “No. I knew exactly what I was doing,” he explained with as much calm as he could muster. “I made up all these convenient excuses in my head and at the time they sounded so rational. But I was just looking for a way out, because I’m a coward.” While he spoke he could feel his bitterness give way to an uncomfortable uncertainty. He wanted McCullum to be right, if only so he wouldn’t have to think himself so easily cowed by fear.

“You could hardly stand on your feet and still you were about to throw yourself into a fight against a goddess. I was so scared for you,” he said, his voice brimming with a protectiveness and worry so familiar it tugged at the mirroring parts in Jonathan’s chest and he couldn’t help but look up. “I’m sorry for doing this to you. I would have argued with you, but there was no time.”

McCullum held his gaze as he searched his face for a deception he already knew he wouldn’t find. There was no reason for him to lie, certainly not just to make Jonathan feel better about himself. Though it was disorientating to consider his own actions as foreign, when he closed his eyes to carefully examine the memory he could feel the wrongness of it like a piece of him had been cut away from his brain. Confusion shifted to relief, and relief twisted to an anger that slowly filled out the space behind his ribs. “Not even you had ever faced a monster as powerful as her before.” Though he hadn’t meant for the coldness to seep into his voice, he didn’t bother to curb it. “You shouldn’t have stopped me.”

“You were in no shape to fight. She would have taken one look at you and then finished the job Harriet started. She would have torn you to pieces in a matter of seconds and I would have been helpless to watch,” the hunter pointed out and the truth in his words was infuriating.

“And in her moment of inattention, you would have had a perfect opportunity of attack,” it slipped out before he knew what he was saying. McCullum shot him a dark frown that almost made him shut up and back down, but he stubbornly held onto this anger, because he refused to think himself as useless as the hunter apparently did. “You’re the one who said we stand the best chance if we face her together. Keeping me out of the fight was a luxury you couldn’t afford, and you knew that. If she’d been any stronger, she would have killed you, then me, and the whole city would have suffered terribly for your brainless whim.”

Instead of folding under the sharpness of his words, the other man jutted his chin forward. “I didn’t want to defeat her at the expense of your life. Is that so unreasonable to you?” he asked with as much sincerity as stubbornness.

“How do you expect me to understand?” Jonathan couldn’t help the way he sounded frustrated. He’d been trying to come up with reasons why the hunter kept him around, but since it was neither for his skill as a doctor nor his supernatural abilities, he had never been able to figure it out. “You’re the leader of Priwen. Killing leeches is what you do and you should be delighted at the chance to watch me die.” Spoken out loud it sounded absurd, and when he saw the fallen expression on Geoffrey’s face, he hurried to amend, “You’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t want me dead, and I believe you.” He hesitated for a moment, waiting for the realization to set in that he was making a mistake, but it never came. “I need you to tell me why you didn’t kill me at the Pembroke. Why you’ve continued to make irrational decisions to keep me alive.”

McCullum dropped his gaze, let his shoulders slouch and sank in on himself until there was no trace left of the seasoned vampire hunter he was supposed to be. Darkness crept into the lines of his face and revealed a tiredness that sat far deeper than the exertion from a fight, even one as harrowing as against a goddess. When he spoke his voice was quiet, soft in a way that left him vulnerable. “I had a brother once… feels like a lifetime ago now. I’ve got a picture of him, so I remember his face.” He stopped himself, frowned like he didn’t quite know where to continue. “I didn’t want to kill him,” he said slowly, and Jonathan’s heart sank when he understood how this was going to end. “But the person that had been my brother was already dead, they told me, and in his place was just a monster wearing his skin and it had to be dealt with.” For a moment his eyes met Jonathan’s, pleading with him to understand. “I had to watch my father tear out my mother’s throat, so I knew they were right. There is no choice with leeches. We hunted him down, trapped him like an animal, and when he was on the ground I cut off his head, because that’s how you make sure they don’t just crawl out of their graves by the next night. I didn’t carry a heavy weapon back then, so it was… it was messy, but it needed to be done.” He wrapped his arms around himself and there was a calmness to the motion that seemed faked in contrast to the way his voice was cracking at the seams. “And then I met you, the idiot vampire who doesn’t want to hurt anyone, and now everything’s fucked up and I killed my brother.”

He looked at Geoffrey, the sadness and grief pouring out from every crooked line, and he didn’t know what to do. “I’m so sorry,” he tried, and it was inadequate. He shifted so he could sit down next to the other and his worry that he was acting intrusive melted away into something warm when Geoffrey didn’t hesitate to let himself slump into the open circle of his arms. His hands snuck underneath Jonathan’s coat and his fingers curled into the back of his shirt like he was trying to hold onto something as he began to tremble. “S-sorry… I- I need…” Geoffrey stuttered half a sentence and pressed his face into the crook of his neck. While Jonathan would have been happy to let him drown his sorrow in the taste of his blood, the other just clung to him like a lifeline and he understood only too well. Blood was everything they needed, and yet it meant nothing at all.

They sat like this, curled around each other while the day went by above them. Jonathan had assumed the other man must have fallen asleep at some point, so he was surprised to hear him speak, “Maybe my brother would have turned out like you.”

“Like me?” Jonathan inquired and continued to stroke soothing lines down his back.

“You know,” Geoffrey began and turned his head so his words were no longer muffled against his neck. “Keeping the rat population under control. Running around town at night doing charity work. Letting your archnemesis win because you don’t want to hurt him. That kind of you.”

Geoffrey had to be half asleep after all, and Jonathan didn’t have the heart to remind him, his brother could have turned out like any member of the Ascalon Club, or worse, like Mary. Instead, he let his lips curl into a smile and decided to humour him. “You’re my archnemesis?”

“Sure. I think I earned that title.”

“When did that happen?”

“Our staring contest in Swansea’s office.” It could have sounded indignant if his voice wasn’t worn down with tiredness.

“Which you lost,” Jonathan reminded him not unkindly and got an unhappy huff as reply. “I would be honoured to have you as my archnemesis,” he offered, and this time Geoffrey made an approving sound at the back of his throat and buried back into his side. The weight of him was heavy against his chest but all Jonathan did was tighten his arms around him and tried to commit the shape of him to his memory.

Chapter Text

The faint daylight chafed against his skin, but the burn of it barely registered beneath the exhaustion. His limbs felt heavy with it, a blanket around him to slowly suffocate him, push him under. Each time his eyelids gave in and fell shut it became more difficult to force them back open. They wouldn’t be safe here for long, he reminded himself, both of them drained from the fight, and he needed to keep guard over the man asleep in his arms. But a while ago his vision had turned blurry and then dark, and he’d barely noticed how his head sank until it came to rest against the other’s.

“It’s not over yet, young Ekon.”

His eyes flickered open as he fought his way back to the surface, alarmed at the sound of her sudden voice. The figure stood a good distance away and despite the lack of weapons or signs of aggression, his arms tightened around Geoffrey before he recognized her. “Old Bridget?” he slurred and blinked, trying to chase the sleep from his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

She made no move to come closer and he was grateful for her caution. “The Guard of Priwen is sending scouting parties into the sewers.”

While his mind was slow to process her warning, he wasn’t particularly surprised by it. McCullum must have told his Guard about the Disaster, so he could rely on them to take care of whatever monster survived the fight. Jonathan would have done the same. “Do you think…” he trailed off, swallowed back the question if it would be better to wait here and let themselves be found.

Bridget gave him a scrutinizing look and he averted his eyes because he already knew what she would find. The sickness running through his veins, lying in wait just beneath the surface - if not to swallow him up whole and suddenly, then to drown him gently, imperceptibly, until one night he wouldn’t be able to recognize himself anymore. “I can’t see it. You’re nothing like Harriet,” she said softly, but when Jonathan frowned at her in doubt, her expression turned stern. “I will not let them harm you.” Her gaze darted to McCullum and a sneer twisted her lips. “Though it would be quite satisfying to watch your guardians of justice execute you.”

Jonathan was surprised to realize the other man had woken up. “Another day maybe,” he heard him mumble and wished there were more spite to his words instead of their dull resignation. But Geoffrey had to understand better than anyone that Priwen knew no reason to spare one of their own, not when it was undeniable he was no longer human. Covered in so much blood from wounds a mortal would not have survived, his mouth stained with it, his lips, even his teeth.

As he clumsily peeled himself away from his side, Jonathan moved to help him up, wincing when his own body barely cooperated. His limbs were stiff and his left shoulder was aching around the ugly scarring where Harriet’s teeth had torn into his flesh. Together they somehow managed to get to their feet, though McCullum was listing dangerously to one side and Jonathan grabbed his elbow in fear he would collapse. His eyes were drawn to the red stained tears in his clothing and his fingers itched with the need for bandages and a bottle of disinfectant that a vampire had so little use for.

While they stood close Geoffrey kept his head bowed, his gaze lowered to the floor, and wiped over his face with the back of his hand. Flakes of red came away from where the blood had dried against his cheeks, still, it was unfairly obvious that he had been crying, and Jonathan wanted nothing more than to pull him back in, wrap his arms around him and shut out the rest of the world. Before he could do anything so unhelpful, Geoffrey shook his head minutely, placed a hand over his to gently ease it off. It took a moment too long for Jonathan to constrain himself to step back and let the other turn away.

He stumbled over to where his sword was lying on the ground, picked it up carefully and stared at it as if he were holding something alien in his hands. His fingers traced along the edge of a blade that was too clean for a tool that had been used to decapitate someone. After the fight, the blood it should have been stained with must have drained away with the rest of it. “I’m not like you,” he said suddenly, his head inclined towards Jonathan but his eyes still lowered. With a fluid motion he slid the weapon into the scabbard at his hip and let his palm rest on the handle. “Don’t expect me to regret killing Harriet.” When he finally looked up there was a blankness masking his face that Jonathan couldn’t see past.

For a moment he turned his gaze inward and wondered if he could be angry at McCullum for ending her life, for letting all his efforts to help her come to nothing. “If you were like me,” he voiced his thoughts, “we would both be dead now and the city overrun with monsters.” His tone dropped to the same iciness as McCullum’s. “Don’t expect me to regret trying to help her.” He had offered Harriet the wrong kind of help at the wrong point in time and still it had been the right thing to do. Even if he could go back, knowing exactly how the scene would play out, he would make all the same mistakes again in the empty hope that this time she would let go of her hatred.

But when Jonathan saw his expression darken with a scowl, he realized that he didn’t want to have this conversation at all. He couldn’t justify the recklessness he had acted with, bordering on desperation to help Harriet, when it had driven him to turn on Geoffrey and very nearly allowed the Disaster to kill him. Jonathan only had to look at the terrible state of his injuries to be candidly reminded how any resentment towards him was warranted.

He threw a pleading look to Bridget and to his relief she took pity on him and decided, “We need to leave. They’ll be here soon.” Her eyes flickered between the two of them and there was a frown on her face showing her discontent. “We can hide in the deeper tunnels,” she suggested and started walking back towards the exit. “At least until sunset.” With little effort she jumped up to the upper level and while Jonathan hurried to follow her, he tried to convince himself he wasn’t running from a rebuke he deserved.

This time, the familiar sight of the dead Skals scattered along the drain barely caused a skip in his step, and all he felt was irritation at how willing his mind was to get used to bloodshed. It was a practical thing his brain did, he knew that, to protect him from falling to insanity. Their deaths had been avenged, whatever that was worth. Now there was nothing left but to burn their remains, and not even that Jonathan could do for them.

His steps slowed down until he stood still, and he turned around just in time to see McCullum stumble onto the ledge and almost fall over before he caught himself against the wall. It wasn’t a conscious decision to return to his side, and Jonathan was at a loss what to do when he found himself standing in front of him, hands reaching out half way in an aborted motion. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt,” the words spilled from his lips without his permission.

Geoffrey slumped with his back against the wall to let it take most of his weight. “It was a fight, Jonathan,” he dismissed him simply, rolling his eyes. “People usually get hurt during a fight.”

“No!” he blurted out as if he had made a claim he needed to disagree with. The other man looked at him with a startled expression, a question where Jonathan didn’t want to give answers, and it added to his fluster. “I’m sorry,” he tried, only to immediately regret it. He knew Geoffrey wouldn’t forgive him, he didn’t want him to, not when he would risk it again in a heartbeat - stop McCullum from killing her, even if that meant he would get hurt. If he could have just gotten Harriet to listen, to understand that there was still a way out... “I had to try,” he added quietly, as if that gave any excuse for what he had done.

“I know. I’m not angry at you.” The words at odds with the sharp edges of his tone, his eyes glowering but in the next moment darting away as if to shirk from a confrontation. He let out a stuttered breath and rubbed his hand over his face, pushing the fingertips against the harsh lines of his scowl until it smoothed out. “I’m too tired for this,” he ended in a voice low and dragging its weight. Without so much as another glance, Geoffrey pushed himself off the wall and walked past, barely avoiding stumbling into him.

He almost didn’t recognize the twitch of his hands as the impulse to grab him in time to correct himself. Curled them to fists at his side and his fingers were cold against the skin of his palms. It should have been an easy decision to stop him, remind him of the danger they were in and the time they didn’t have, the hunters on their trail and the deep dark waters waiting a careless step away. And if he still refused to listen, point out the tired haze in his eyes and the shake in his limbs, how he couldn’t even walk a straight line. It didn’t matter what the other man thought of him, at the moment he needed Jonathan’s help.

No, that wasn’t right. He paused, breathed in, fast and shallow. Something was wrong with him, half his thoughts serrate with anger, the rest of them blurred and scattered and too stupid to figure out the mess in his head. McCullum wanted to be left alone, that much at least he had understood, and that should be the reason why he had let him go.

Slowly, he turned around to trail after the others, the steps of his feet measured, carefully picking their way past the blood and the corpses. Geoffrey stood not too far, at the edge of the bridge, gauging the drop to the second path below that would lead them away from this place. He looked nervous about it, hesitant, then his head turned away towards the broken iron gate at the other end of the hall, but Jonathan couldn’t see his face and he didn’t know what he was looking at, waiting for. Suddenly, he took a quick step back, jumped and the landing forced him down to his knees, pushed a pained groan over his lips. McCullum wasn’t hurt that badly anymore, he could take care of himself, Jonathan told himself, when he staggered back to his feet a moment later. And if he didn’t need Jonathan, wasn’t that all the better?

There was something ugly moving under the surface, waiting to be found, a need tainted and twisted out of fear and guilt and something worse. He knew he shouldn’t go looking, if he didn’t name it he could pretend it was lying asleep in the dark, but it itched like the scab over a wound and so he scratched, and the scene replayed inside his head until he found where it stained. He had been hoping for Geoffrey to hurt and falter, so he would have an excuse to close the distance between them.

He flinched away from the thought, shook it from his mind like fire off his skin, only to realize that his flesh was charred with it, his lungs choked as it uncoiled inside his chest, pressed against his ribs, and he didn’t want to feel this way. Geoffrey should have never gotten hurt and Harriet should not have had to die and it was his fault, and it turned his intentions selfish and desperate to assuage his guilt, straining for any pretence to prove he wasn’t completely useless. He swallowed heavily, the taste flooding the back of his mouth bitter, looked down at his hands and saw them shaking, his fingers weightless and numb. But there was no time to deal with this, not now, and he gritted his teeth, ducked his head and let the shadows hide what he didn’t want anyone to see.

The tunnel opened into another chamber, the air thick and still, where stone columns reached at the high ceiling above and water filled out the space where the floor should be. Its surface stretched out quietly, so murky and dark it might be just a few feet deep, or it might sink for miles beneath. McCullum had stopped at the edge of it, one arm curled around his stomach, the other hung at his side, a thin trickle of red running down its fingers.

Jonathan made himself hesitate before he approached him, though he was well aware he wouldn’t be able to come up with a reason good enough to keep himself away from him. He knew better than to think Geoffrey would manage the jump across the water like he had before. The smell of copper was crisp in the air and specks of blood painted a trail on the ground behind him. Where he had at least been able to stay on his feet, he could now barely take a step without one hand braced against the wall. He would mess up the landing, fall and tear back open the wounds that were far from healed, break some bones if he was unlucky.

Before he could act, Geoffrey looked back over his shoulder, his eyes half closed they slid past him towards the tunnel they had come from. “I need to talk to them anyway,” he said quietly, as if they had been in the middle of a conversation. “Tell them…” He sucked in a shaking breath like his chest was too tight, swallowed before he tried again, “Tell them what I…” Left the sentence unfinished, but Jonathan didn’t want to hear it anyway, he turned around and took a step forward, unaware or uncaring of the way he swayed dangerously.

His thoughts were reeling to catch up to his words, and then Geoffrey walked past him and all he had left was to react on instinct, grab his shoulder to steady him or to stop him, he didn’t care. “No.” Though spoken softly, he made sure it left no room for an argument. Something dark clouded Geoffrey’s eyes when he met his gaze, and he tried not to let it scare him. “You can talk to them tomorrow,” he offered though he didn’t mean it, and held his breath because there was no point arguing how they would attack him on sight when that was all McCullum was hoping for. Where Jonathan was still acting like the Tear of Angels had worked, the other man must have come to the decision that they could not justify running from the Guard.

If he allowed it, his mind would wander back through the darkness behind them, past the muted babble of water in the distance, and his fears would fill in the gaps - maybe a muttered prayer, a forgotten melody, the soft fall of footsteps, closer now - would colour in sketches with red and black and all the violence in between. Flashes of metal in the flickering torchlight, the smell of gunpowder and petrol, and he had to look away.

After a moment McCullum lowered his gaze, a slight nod or maybe that was just what Jonathan wanted to see, his shoulders slumped and his body sunk in on itself. It was nothing more than weakness and exhaustion that had made him give in, and still Jonathan only felt relief as he tugged at him and Geoffrey barely put up any resistance. He ducked underneath his arm and pulled it over his back, and if it pressed against his shoulder where the skin hadn’t grown back yet, he gritted his teeth against the pain and let the light-headedness wash over him until it had faded enough to be ignored.

The water wasn’t far and Old Bridget was still waiting for them on the other side, concern visible in her eyes if he had spared a second to pay it any attention. It wasn’t a difficult jump to make, some fifteen feet in distance, under any other circumstances no more effort than skipping over a puddle on the street. Maybe Jonathan made no difference in the end. When they hit the ground his legs caved under their combined weight and he crumbled, taking Geoffrey down with him. He barely registered how his knees scraped over brick stone, the world tilted and in the next moment he was on his back, curved protectively around the other man, and stared up at the concave ceiling above with his eyes wide and his ears ringing.

“’M fine.” As if he had any right to say it with his voice so slurred and frail, when he rolled off him and didn’t even try to get to his feet because it would make his weakness evident. Fingers curled, palms numb, Geoffrey lay on his side with his arms stretched out carelessly.

“You’re really not.” As if a contradiction was even necessary. Jonathan coughed against the tightness in his chest and sat up. Blood stained his clothes, ran warm down his skin and he shuddered at the thought that it was not his own.

“Just need a bit of rest,” he croaked just to be difficult, and Jonathan shot him an annoyed look that quickly dissolved in concern.

He picked himself off the ground, all too aware that McCullum failed to follow, and offered him his hands. But even with his help Geoffrey barely managed to get back on his feet, so when he pulled away Jonathan didn’t let him. The other man came easily and leaned against him, his face tipped towards his shoulder and he could feel the air of his breath tremble against his neck. Something swelled inside his chest at the closeness, and it shouldn’t be so difficult to remind himself that it didn’t mean anything. “Sorry,” Jonathan muttered, though he still didn’t let him go, and the only answer he got was a quiet hum.

He turned towards Bridget and found her looking at him expectantly. “He’s not going to make it anywhere far.” If this was not what she wanted to hear, he refused to care.

“He will have to.” She shook her head and narrowed her eyes at him in warning as if she already knew what he was going to say next.

“He needs to rest,” he insisted. “I’m taking him to the Night Asylum.” Immediately she opened her mouth to disagree, and he hurriedly assured her, “I promise you he won’t hurt anyone.” Next to him he heard Geoffrey ask a drowsy “What?” And it made him realize it was a problem that he felt the need to make such a promise in the first place.

There was a strained undercurrent to her words, a twitch to the corner of her mouth as she spoke, “It’s his own fault he’s being hunted. He’s the one who told his Guard of Priwen where to find you, and then-”

“I didn’t-” Geoffrey mumbled, but it might as well have been too quiet to be heard. Jonathan had already made up his mind and the sharpness of his tone drowned out both of them. “He was right to do so.”

“And then didn’t even tell you,” Bridget finished undeterred, though her voice had turned acerbic as she was quickly losing patience.

“Because I didn’t want to know,” he snapped at her. Because it was easier to slay the beast that didn’t know it was being hunted. “If we had already been corrupted by the blood of hate, you would have left us for Priwen to find. They would have put us down and you would have been grateful.” At the words he felt the other man go rigid beside him and instinctively wrapped an arm around him. Once the blood loss no longer clouded his mind and Jonathan couldn’t simply drag him along anymore, he hoped he would have a good enough reason to keep Geoffrey from returning to his Guard.

“Not three nights ago, he wanted to kill you. But I’m sure you have an excuse for that as well,” she spat out and he tried not to wince at the memory. “Let’s take him to the Night Asylum. After all, you have put an end to this terrible menace. How could I refuse you anything now?” Brimming with discontent to the point where Jonathan almost got the impression she was mocking them. “See to it that you keep your hunter in line.” Her voice dropped and her lips parted on a snarl. “Or I will.” The startled expression on his face was apparently all the confirmation she needed before she turned away and left the two of them to follow. While she kept her distance, she matched her pace to the unevenness of their steps and waited whenever they started to lag behind.

There would be no graves for the Sewer Skals. Soon Priwen would find them, drag their bodies into piles and drench them in enough petrol to burn until there was nothing left but ashes, to wipe out the sickness, any trace of it. He wondered if they had talked about these things, what would happen to them after they died, when their life was brought to an end and this time they weren’t around to count their losses. Had Sean spun them the tale of the god who was waiting for their souls to find their way, not to hell but back into his arms? Assured them that they were still loved despite the blood on their hands, the blood on their teeth? Of all the lies they could have been told, this one at least was kind.

After they had passed the iron gate between the Skal hideout and the Night Asylum, Bridget did something that made the heavy locks fall in place and the light above the door turn red. They were safe now, at least from the Guard of Priwen, but the relief would be short-lived so he brushed it off before it faded. He adjusted his grip where he was holding Geoffrey up against him and drew in a careful breath. The difference was subtle, the air just a bit thinner, the smell of rot a bit sweeter. “A Skal lives here who will give us shelter,” he began and there was a slight tremble to his voice that he couldn’t hide. “You need to understand that he is a good man. He has never killed for his hunger, he only ever feeds off the dead.”

Geoffrey lowered his head. “Why… Why are you telling me this?” His words slurred and quiet, his fingers twitched where they were curled into the fabric of Jonathan’s coat.

How could he tell him about the scene ahead, the room filled with corpses spread out as a feast, cut into pieces and gnawed down to the bones? How could he show him that they were nothing but collected carrion when he didn’t know where they had come from, how they had died? Would Geoffrey close his eyes and look away if he asked him to? “Just let him see,” he heard Bridget say. She met his helplessness with a pointed gaze, like she knew what was going to happen, like she was waiting for it.

A shudder went through Geoffrey and he stumbled forward dragging Jonathan with him. They followed her up the stairs, to the top of them where they stopped. A forgotten lantern and a few candles cast the cellar in a soft light. Red dripped off the laden tables, spilled into puddles dark like rust, seeped slowly into the cracks in the floor. “Geoffrey…” He tried to remember how he had felt when he had first come here. Hadn’t he been shocked too at the sight of it? “It’s alright.” His lips were numb around the words, his throat hoarse.

His before loose grip turned rough, and suddenly Geoffrey shoved him until his back was pressed against the wall. “How could you think I would not hurt the beast that did this?” he snarled, the anger in his tone a blade thin and brittle but no less sharp. “Why did you have to bring me here?” He glowered at him, though his breath was trembling in his lungs and his voice frayed with it.

Jonathan swallowed and raised his empty hands. “There is no monster here to slay.”

His eyes widened, darted away, fatigue surfacing where his anger left him. For a moment Jonathan thought he would back down, if only to escape their argument, but Geoffrey looked at the dozen corpses around them and his lips twitched, half baring his bloodied teeth. “You can’t trust them,” he hissed. “They always fall to their hunger. It always happens.”

“No, not this one. I fed him my blood.” As soon as he had said it, he realized he shouldn’t have, and his confidence quickly faded in the numbness spreading out through his chest. “It quells their thirst,” he added, an afterthought that made no difference, and then he turned his head away and waited for Geoffrey to point out the flaw.

It was barely audible when he spoke, as though they could ignore the truth if it was quiet enough. “But you can’t feed him anymore. And when his hunger returns, how many will lose their lives before he is put down?”

Chapter Text

The first thing Sean asked about was her. His hand curled around the cross hanging from his neck, his face full of open concern and Jonathan couldn’t even meet his gaze. He’d been so focused on defending himself for helping her, that he’d forgotten someone would expect him to explain his failure instead. But he knew the words by heart and when he heard himself speak it was almost laughable his voice sounded so calm. “I’m sorry. I could not help her.” The rotten taste so familiar. “She is dead.” He wondered how many more had to die under his hands until it finally wouldn’t make him feel sick anymore.

Where there should have been disappointment if not anger, there was something oddly soft to Sean’s sadness. “Thank you for trying.” As if that were all that mattered. “It must not have been easy.”

His gaze dropped down to his hands when he felt them shaking again, saw the blood smeared over his palms, dried in the cracks of his skin. Coloured him red inside out, whatever he touched, and he flinched away at the sight of it.

“She couldn’t be saved. You did your best,” Old Bridget spoke, and though the sympathy in her voice was misplaced, it was difficult to dismiss.

His best just hadn’t been enough. He felt them scratching at the back of his throat, the excuses that wanted to spill from his lips, pleading to be heard because the two Skals were looking at him like they would listen. How he’d always been running out of time when so many had been suffering and sick and in need of help. And every night he had found himself hunted not only by humans but his own kind as well. Lost in a nightmare where he knew too little and presumed too much, and the people who should have given him answers only left him with more questions. He never wanted to hurt anyone and yet he faced every problem with nothing but weapons in hand.

“Would you like to pray with me,” Sean asked and he meant well, offered his open hands, “for poor Harriet’s soul?”

Jonathan sucked in a sharp breath. The air was cold in his lungs and the words died numb on the tip of his tongue. His gaze caught on the cross, and before he could stop himself, he had taken a step backwards. “No.” Because her death didn’t mean anything to him. Because he could not mourn someone he hadn’t liked, he’d barely even known. He had never even asked her how he could help. All he had done for her he had done out of pity, on principle to preserve a life no matter the reason or consequence. This had never been about Harriet, just about trying to prove his own worth by saving someone for once.

“Jonathan, wait.”

Startled by the sound of his name he stopped, only registering now that he had drawn back far enough to reach the stairs. “I need to check on Geoffrey.” The excuse came easily enough, he didn’t want to be here, barely had enough thought left to stop himself from running. The taste of blood at the back of his mouth, static spread through his head and it was distracting.

A beat of silence, but Jonathan had been too slow to make his escape. “It shouldn’t be necessary to tell you this.” Bridget’s tone was hard, like she knew he wouldn’t have listened otherwise. “You need to be more careful around him.” She unfolded the arms crossed over her chest to gesture at the stairs.

He blinked at her, forced the blurriness from his vision, and when he spoke, tiredness muted his voice. “I won’t let him hurt anyone.” He had every intention to keep his promise. Though, if it would come to it, he was at a loss what he would do to stop him.

“But you didn’t disagree with him,” she pointed out.

Jonathan tried to hold her gaze, but quickly gave up and let his eyes trace the thin lines of sunlight that cut across the floor. “He’s not wrong,” he said, barely audible because he didn’t want to lie, yet he hated his answer.

“What is this about?” Sean asked slightly puzzled, his fingertips followed nervously along the edges of his cross.

He already knew he would not be able to find the right words, and it made him reluctant to open his mouth. “When your hunger returns, I won’t be able to help you.” He didn’t miss the way the confusion in Sean’s face smoothed out into something unreadable.

“There is no need for your concern, Doctor Reid.” Maybe he hadn’t intended for the coldness, just wanted to hide his discontent behind a flat voice. “I have it under control.”

“I know you find strength in your faith, but…” The words stuck in his throat …but when you turn to God in your darkest hour, you will find yourself abandoned, stammering out prayers that will never be answered. “Remember you’re not alone,” he said instead, and looked to Bridget for help.

For a second, he thought he recognized pity in her gaze before it was quickly hidden behind a careful smile. “Of course. Whatever happens,” she agreed easily and it was the calmness in her voice that gave her away. She must have had this conversation too many times already, and he tried to imagine it, how it must have played out. To count each sunset to the stretch of an eternal lifetime and watch while their sanity was eaten away by a never-ending hunger, even the strongest resolve turned brittle then broken and nothing but raw desperation underneath. Every chance given failed at the cost of another life. Every choice taken away but to sink their teeth into soft skin, warm flesh, the taste of blood on their tongue to blot out the screams in their ears. To save themselves, he thought, before the void twisted up their insides and tore them apart.

“So, you decided to do nothing.” Jonathan had barely reached the bottom of the stairs when he heard the words, spoken with no inflection to hide the resentment underneath. “You’re just going to let it happen.” Reluctantly, he took the last step, careful to avoid the blood trailing down the stone, before he allowed himself to stop. Geoffrey was still where he had left him, leaning against the wall he had his arms crossed over his chest. Shadows carved out the tired lines in his face and cast a shroud over his half-lidded eyes as they stared into the room and at nothing in particular, though there wasn’t much else to see other than corpses anyway.

It was an unavoidable argument and still Jonathan tried. “The sun will set in five hours.” Because he already knew what the other man had to say, and he didn’t want to hear it. He would not change his mind, even if it meant disappointing both Bridget and Geoffrey since he was arrogant enough to believe there was still a way to find a nice solution for everyone. “We should try and get some sleep.” Geoffrey wasn’t the only one who was tired, and the last thing Jonathan wanted was to start another argument, or even a fight.

His expression darkened and anger flashed in his eyes as he turned towards Jonathan. “If you return one day,” he said and his words were measured to counterpoise the irritation buried beneath, “and your Sad Saint has killed a dozen people, can you look back and say it was right to spare him?”

He knew better than to pretend Geoffrey was mistaken about the consequence of his decision, or to think that he could make him understand his reasons. For the longest moment he looked away, lips pressed to a thin line as if the question would go away if he just didn’t answer.

When he stayed quiet, Geoffrey sighed and curbed the sharp edges of his words. “If you had told me that you trust him, that you discussed this with him and you both came to the conclusion that he will be able to control his hunger, then I would not argue with you. I would understand why you think he deserves a chance.” His tone was soft, deceptively so. “But that is not what happened.”

“It’s not his fault. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone,” Jonathan said and almost choked on the words because he didn’t believe it mattered either way. Bitterness tainted his voice then, when he looked at Geoffrey and added, “Isn’t that the excuse you allowed me?”

He took an unsteady step towards him, the arms crossed over his chest loosened in an aborted gesture. “I… I don’t…” he started only to falter, his lips moved but no words came out. Another step and the insecurity that had surfaced for the smallest moment was quickly overshadowed by a dark scowl. “He’s not like you,” he snapped at him. “No one is like you!”

Caught in indecision where his instincts told him to brace for an attack and every other voice was begging him to avoid a fight, Jonathan watched him approach. Each step he took was less steady than the last and when Geoffrey stood in front of him he could barely keep himself upright. The wounds he had suffered at the hand of the goddess should have at least closed over by now, yet most of them were still dripping blood. The sight of it made it easy as anything to overlook the thread-bare aggression in his movements, to reach out instead and place a hand on his arm to support him.

Geoffrey’s grip on him was weak but far from gentle and when he wrapped a hand around his neck he didn’t care if it hurt. “Give me a better reason,” he demanded with a growl that came out too broken to carry much of a threat, but his thumb pressed up against Jonathan’s jaw and his eyes followed the curve of his throat as he forced his head back.

“Geoffrey!” When he grabbed his wrist, Geoffrey’s gaze snapped up and though he had expected to be met with his anger, he wasn’t prepared to find the wide-eyed helplessness lying so close underneath. “I…” he began but his thoughts had derailed already.

“Please,” Geoffrey whispered, breath trembling. He didn’t let up, but beneath his fingers Jonathan could feel his pulse flutter erratically. “I don’t want to.”

Without thinking, he tugged him closer, because if this was a fight then Geoffrey was a deserter. “I promised my sister I would find a cure to our sickness.” The words left an acrid taste on his tongue and he painstakingly gathered every splinter of his confidence to wrap around them, for Geoffrey’s sake. “If I can no longer feed him my blood to quiet his hunger, I will find another solution. There is no need to kill him.” He meant it from the bottom of his heart, a promise desperate enough to be a lie. Because despite all the nights buried in his research he had nothing to show, and instead of an eternity grasping for success through trial and error, he now found himself with no time left at all.

His grip loosened to a light threat against his skin. “There’s no guarantee though.” His voice was frail with doubt and he seemed so tired then, worn down and skin thinned, driven to exhaustion by Do Not Negotiate and Do Not Compromise. “No matter how hard you try, you cannot find something that does not exist.”

“There is so much we don’t know. There must be something out there that can help us.” For the sake of his own sanity. “And there’s always another option,” he added with a small smile curling the corner of his lips, though he wasn’t actually sure he was joking. “We find a way to kill our gods instead, to keep them from creating more of our kind.” After all, if anyone was truly responsible for the blood lust of their nature, it was their makers.

His eyes flickered away as he let his hand slide off Jonathan’s neck and accepted it when their fingers intertwined. He didn’t respond, didn’t turn angry and didn’t retreat, and Jonathan did his best not to succumb to his own doubts growing sharper in the space of their silence. Finally, he looked at him, even tried to mirror his smile, and though it was a brittle thing that faded too fast, Jonathan felt warm at the sight of it. “I like that option.” A slight frown appeared on his face as he carefully asked, “When you say ‘we’… do you… mean us?” With his free hand he made a gesture to encompass the two of them.

“I could really use your help,” it slipped out before he knew what he was saying. How ridiculous though, to think that the other would want to stay with him after the mess Jonathan had gotten him into. His eyes flickered over the injuries littering Geoffrey’s body and when he breathed in, the air that filled his lungs was thick with the smell of his blood. He knew better than to think it would be different the next time around. Geoffrey would get hurt again and it would be his fault, because the problem wasn’t the strength or cunning of their enemy, the problem was that Jonathan was too much of an idiot to know whose side he was supposed to be on. “Sorry.” He turned his head away so he could manage a steady voice. “I should not have presumed,” he corrected himself. “I almost got you killed, almost got everyone killed.” Too late he noticed how his grip on the other man had tightened and as he hurried to loosen it again, Geoffrey’s hand slipped through his fingers.

Jonathan didn’t think there was anything left to say. It wasn’t too long ago that they had agreed their paths would not cross again after they had put an end to the epidemic. The Disaster was dead, the goddess put to flight, so there was no point anymore to their collaboration and their parting already overdue. “When you stopped me from killing Harriet,” Geoffrey recalled his mistake, “I thought I had outlived my usefulness to you. I thought you were going to let me die.” Despite the bluntness of his words they were tempered carefully. He took his hand and Jonathan’s skin felt numb against his warmth. “But you chose my life over hers. If you hadn’t let her feed off you, she would have died right there and then from the wounds you inflicted on her to save me.”

“If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have killed her before I had the chance to fuck everything up.” Jonathan laughed at that, a hollow sound that made his chest ache, and he wanted to hide himself away but there was nothing but the wall at his back. “We would have fought the goddess together. Do you not understand how much easier everything would have been?!” he spat out, all ice and iron in his voice. “Don’t think I won’t make exactly the same mistake again, bleeding heart and all. And next time it will be worse,” just to keep the worst to himself, Next time you might die. He wondered why Geoffrey hadn’t long grown tired of all his empty apologies, of all his repeated mistakes.

“I would have preferred if you hadn’t risked our lives to help her.” He grew quiet until he sounded timid in his confession, “But I admire what you did.” His words were met only with silent confusion and Geoffrey sighed when he realized that the other man didn’t want to understand him. “If I drink your blood…” He raised his hand to touch his neck, gently this time, and Jonathan stopped breathing. “Will it take away your guilt?”

He tried to shut out the voice that laughed at him - Because how pathetic was it that the whole extend of his usefulness was to offer his blood? - and forced himself to look at him. “It will take away your pain.” Because that was all that mattered. Geoffrey opened his mouth, but before he could protest and make it clear to the both of them how terrible of an idea this was, Jonathan drew the other man into him until he could feel the stuttered rise and fall of his chest against his own. When Geoffrey gave in and sunk against him, he welcomed the weight of him, the way he rested his head in the curve of his neck and wrapped his arms around him to bring them closer still. He could have been content like this, to cling to him and let himself float away with the tenderness of it, pretend their embrace was enough to be forgiven, but there was no point to any of it if it didn’t heal Geoffrey’s injuries. A low whine escaped his lips because he couldn’t stand how much he wanted just this, and he felt himself trembling while he slowly began to fall apart. Finally, the pain came as sharp teeth pierced his flesh and the blood ran wet and warm down his skin. With a stuttered gasp he let it take him away, pull him under.

And he would have followed it to oblivion, if only the pain hadn’t left him a long way before. His eyes still wide open waiting he had watched shadows displace the light, felt the air grow thick like ash in his lungs and he couldn’t stop breathing. “Jonathan?” A delicate touch to the side of his face, warm points of barely pressure on his skin, lifted his head so slowly until he was met with a colour winter sky. Concern laced into the voice, made it low and soft, and he wished he could hear it more often like this, just for him. “I’m sorry. I meant to stop sooner, but y- but I…” Silence swallowed his excuse. “Are you alright?”

Darkness weaved itself through his thoughts, clung onto them with wispy fingers, a shake of his head too weak to even loosen the threads. “I’m not the one who fought a goddess,” it tumbled from his numbed lips and it seemed important then to shift his weight away from the other. The wall at his back would take it easily enough, would neither leave nor break.

“Not what I asked,” he grumbled and pulled him back in with gentle hands to fall against him. “Come on.” An arm wound around his waist led him away from the quiet rotting piles of flesh and bones that had been human not too long ago, downwards and he was helpless to stumble along.

The ground was sinking sand and ocean waves and when he was told to sit down, his legs were happy to give out underneath him. It was cold here, he just hadn’t noticed before with the other so close, how he was shivering with it as it seeped through his pale brittle skin. Warmth was a person and he soon settled behind him, careful hands to bundle him up against a familiar form he could mould himself to. Lay his heavy head to rest, a heartbeat knocking against his skin spreading out into red pulsing branches to flow around him.

Muttered into the darkness it was not so scary, where sleep was right there to save him, “Do you want to go looking,” from falling, “for the cure that does not exist,” for him, “with me?” To save them both.

Silence stretched the space between them, a rising ache in his chest, still he would have waited an eternity, or half of it if he was sensible, if it would get him the answer he wanted to hear. But sleep was already reaching out for him and pulled him under, he had wished for it after all, and maybe tomorrow he wouldn’t even remember. Floating in pieces sinking beneath the surface, a tired sigh and he felt himself lose the fight against its kindness. His eyes fell shut waiting for “I do,” low and soft and just for him.

He must have been half awake for a while, head empty, somewhere in between, as if he was trying to keep himself tugged away inside the darkness for a little while longer. There was something in the depths of it, a faint echo like the remnant of an old dream, sounds torn apart by the wind and he wanted to stay and listen but he was drifting further and further away from it. When his eyes slit open slowly, still heavy with the sleep sticking to his lashes, the notes had long died away and he had already forgotten.

A different sound then, from a different direction, he heard the church bells chime softly in the distance and even before the last had faded he had become restless. “Geoffrey?” He began to disentangle himself from the nest of limbs, only to stop when the realization set in that he had slept curled up in Geoffrey’s arms, and for a second it seemed the most natural thing in the world to let himself sink back against his chest and close his eyes again. A shaking breath on his lips he hastily stuffed the thought into a corner of his mind, out of the way, because he couldn’t afford to let it linger. “Wake up. It’s already past midnight.” Despite his fidgeting, the other man didn’t stir, and Jonathan swallowed down a spike of worry and gently shook his shoulder.

Reluctantly his eyes fluttered open, their pale blue fogged over with sleep, and with an unhappy grumble he rubbed a hand over his face. “Are your friends…” he mumbled, stifling a yawn. “Are your friends gone?” He looked so soft then with his eyes half lidded blinking slowly, and Jonathan had to tear his gaze away.

Glad for the distraction, he tilted his head, listening for a moment until he was sure, “They’re not here.” He pulled away, like he should have done much sooner because now he mourned the loss of his touch all the more.

As he stumbled to his feet a wave of dizziness followed and if he hadn’t half expected it, he would have collapsed right back into Geoffrey. He caught himself against the wall, a pained groan on his lips while he waited for the vertigo to leave him alone. After a while, when the room had almost stopped spinning, he looked up again to see Geoffrey waiting for him only a few steps ahead, concern written all over his face. He didn’t want to add to his worries, so he allowed himself another moment to gather his bearings before he followed the other man up the stairs.

They passed the corpses in silence, but their gruesome presence was an argument that would not go away and he tugged Geoffrey along to make sure he wouldn’t linger. Sean’s office was empty, though from outside Jonathan could hear the peaceful sounds of quiet breaths and calm hearts of the people who had found refuge here to sleep for the night. And if he listened closely, he thought he could make out the familiar voices of the Paxton sisters as they made their rounds. He hated what happened next, when people turned to bodies turned to nameless blotches of red, and the hunger scratched at the inside of his chest, crawled up his throat and he swallowed.

“I guess that’s for you.” Geoffrey’s voice caught his attention and he shut down the thought violently and instead looked around to see what he meant. On the table he noticed a basin with fresh water and two old but clean towels, and next to them lay a piece of paper with his name on it. He walked over to pick it up and quickly read through the note on the back, “We will stay out of sight for a while. Tell your hunter he need not bother looking. Take care.” When he looked back at Geoffrey he was met with a thoughtful scowl and raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

His scowl deepened and his eyes darted away. “A few weeks ago, there was an article about Mr Hampton and his asylum in the newspaper, talking about some mysterious disease he’d contracted.” His answer came hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure he should be saying anything at all. “We investigated him but at that time I dismissed the report, because I didn’t think a Skal could walk around with a cross around their neck. But if any suspicion falls on him again, Priwen might…” He let out a troubled sigh and crossed his arms. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“So… why are you?” Jonathan wanted to know. “You obviously don’t want me to warn him.”

Geoffrey grimaced, like he’d rather want them to drop the conversation, and it took him a moment before he could bring himself to explain, “Because I can have him killed easily.” His voice turned dark to match his expression. “And you’d never know that it was my doing.” But telling him all this didn’t make any sense to Jonathan, quite the opposite, and the confusion had to be visible in his face, because Geoffrey tried again. “I just… If they…” He took a deep breath and sorted out the words in his head. “The Guard of Priwen isn’t a headless bunch of chickens when I’m not around. They’re quite capable when it comes to sniffing out leeches. But if I decide Mr Hampton needs to be dealt with, then I will kill him myself and you will know that it was me.” For all the threat of violence in his voice, Jonathan thought he meant it the other way around, asking him to understand that if Sean turned up dead one night because Priwen had gotten to him, he would know that it was not Geoffrey’s doing.

Chapter Text

Loosely, he held the small corpse in his hand, felt it grow cold against his skin until, after a while, it slipped from his fingers. They lay scattered on the ground around his feet, dead rats, dozens of them, and he closed his eyes, swallowed. He hadn’t been able to stop. He could still feel it scratching at his insides, the hunger that had washed out his head, turned it a place dark and bitter and cold, scraped it clean until there had been nothing left to his thoughts. A shiver ran down his spine, nausea pushed up against the back of his throat, and he pressed a hand over his mouth smeared and sticky with blood.

“Do you really think we’re…” he heard Geoffrey ask half a question that trailed off before he could focus on his voice. He would take any distraction so he didn’t have to be alone with the darkness inside his head. Because what if he tried to put himself back together only to find pieces missing? Slowly, his eyes slid open, and he blinked to chase the grey blurred fog from his vision. Geoffrey was leaning against the wall on the other side of the alley, and when their eyes met, the scowl on his face deepened and he looked away. Jonathan flinched and tried to wipe the blood off his face with clumsy hands, but the other man didn’t look at him again. “How much time do we have left?” Geoffrey asked instead, and though his voice was flat, the way he held himself too tightly gave him away.

He stared at him, wondering what Geoffrey wanted to hear, because he had to know already that Jonathan did not have an answer to that. “Once we’re at the hospital I’ll run some tests on our blood. Establish a baseline at least,” he offered with a tense shrug. “We’ll have to go from there.” He didn’t say, they would find out when it was too late. He didn’t say, they had all the time in the world. Marshal might have cured himself after a hundred years of being infected with the blood of hate, but Jonathan didn’t think either of them was willing to leave a trail of corpses in the wake of their sickness.

When he caught himself scratching the side of his neck again, he resolutely snatched his hand away and crossed his arms over his chest, fingers curled tightly into the tattered sleeves of this coat. They were standing just outside a factory building, tucked away in its shadow waiting for nothing at all, and Jonathan didn’t want to be here. “Geoffrey-” he tried again, just to bite his tongue when irritation turned his voice sharper than he’d intended. Last time the other man had at least spared him a wordless glance, now he didn’t even acknowledge the sound of his name, and Jonathan dug his fingernails through the fabric and into his skin, and let his eyes drift upwards.

Thick clouds crawled heavy and low across the sky, taking away the stars and the moon and leaving the city fast asleep wrapped in a dull gloom. A faint drizzle was in the air, more fog than rain, filled out the streets and alleys that otherwise lay abandoned. For once, the night was calm, and he caught himself straining his ears for any howling or barked orders in the distance, any echoes of screams or gunshots. Their absence should put him at ease, he thought, instead he felt deaf, restless in the quiet.

When the wind turned, he forced himself to breathe in and the air was viscous with it, the taste of burned hair and scorched flesh. Bitter and black it stuck to the roof of his mouth, and where he almost retched to spit it out he swallowed it down instead, thick like tar it clogged his throat. Reluctantly, he followed Geoffrey’s gaze to the centre of the backyard, to the pyre made of so many corpses they were spilling out onto the cobble. At some point it must have been drenched in enough petrol to withstand the damp autumn air, but now, hours later, the fire was dying down. Plumes of smoke heavy and dark with ash muffled the flames licking feebly over the charred remains of the Skal epidemic, and he tried and failed to find relief at the sight of it.

He wished he couldn’t guess at what was weighing on Geoffrey’s mind, but he remembered well enough what he had said and Jonathan had silently agreed on, back at the hospital before they had set out to kill Harriet. For a while, the Tear of Angels had been an alluring fairy tale to believe in, allowed them to face the fight with the illusion they could come out on the other side unscathed. But life made no allowance for such simple solutions, saw them trapped, waiting helplessly for the blood of hate to consume them, strip their hearts bare of any kindness and leave behind a black rotten thing, ever cruel and ever hungry. And if that wasn’t the worst, it would fester in their veins to bring forth another Disaster and the ensuing epidemic would wipe out half a city, assuming the best of circumstances. They had arrived at a dead end, unable to find a remedy before it was too late. Not even Lady Ashbury would be able to help them, given they could find her. If she knew of a cure wouldn’t she have told him before she’d run away?

He stepped closer and reached out to wrap a hand around Geoffrey’s arm just above the elbow, and tried to convince himself this was all it took to keep him close. An entirely selfish gesture and not even the gruffness of his voice could hide the helplessness it betrayed. “We’re leaving,” he decided for the both of them and twisted his fingers tightly into the fabric as he braced himself to be pushed away. Slowly, Geoffrey turned towards him, head tilted as if in thought but his face kept carefully blank. Still waiting, Jonathan realized, if not for an argument then perhaps for a fight, like the last time they had disagreed over a sacrifice. “Please, Geoffrey,” he tried, “we can…” and shut up. When he had spoken of a cure for all of their kind, he had already known he couldn’t even save the two of them.

While the other kept to his silence, there was a question in his eyes as they wandered over Jonathan’s face, searching for something, waiting for him to make a mistake. And Jonathan almost did, if it weren’t for the resignation that kept his mouth closed shut, because he knew perfectly well that all he had to offer were kind lies and empty promises. That it didn’t matter what he said. “I would have…” Geoffrey finally spoke, only to trail off when his words were too reluctant to follow, closed his eyes and shook his head. Tiredness softened the lines of his face, crept into the slope of his shoulders and drew the air from his lungs in a quiet sigh. “I never cared about the Tear of Angels.” His voice barely more than a whisper.

There was a place in the centre of his chest, a fracture where he could feel it hurt long before the words set in. By the time he recognized the broken pieces, his grip around Geoffrey’s arm had gone numb and he couldn’t make himself let go. What a petty way to feel. What did it matter that Geoffrey had never intended to stay with him? If Jonathan had been stupid enough to delude himself, it was no one’s fault but his own. “It doesn't make a difference now, does it?” he told himself and said out loud, and his voice was barely trembling with all the things swelling against the back of his throat, threatening to overflow.

With his gaze cast down and out of focus, Geoffrey seemed lost to his thoughts, and when he tried again there was an absentmindedness that dulled his voice. “Even before… It was never-” He cut himself off, dug his teeth into his lower lip, and Jonathan found himself hoping with bated breath that he would abandon what he wanted to say. Slowly he turned his head, and his eyes sought out the sight of corpses in the dying fire. “It’s the right thing to do, Jonathan.” Rain seeped through the mass of half-molten bodies, ran in rivulets black and thick with ash over the cobblestone. “This was always the plan.”

He must have made his choice that night when he’d woken up confused and cold and hungry. Had he watched the world turn dark around him too, had licked over his lips for the only colour left, red and sweet? How long had it taken him to understand, that he had died, what he had lost? Or perhaps he had made his choice when his Guard had come looking for him, when a symphony of beating hearts had flooded his mind and drowned out his thoughts, and his fear had been the only thing left to save them. Was he still afraid too, every time he met their eyes and he couldn’t make himself see a person, all he could see was a web of red veins to get caught up and lost in and tear through so easily?

There was something terrifying in the simplicity of it - to choose death over being a monster - familiar even. Because sometimes, when the morning sun painted the sky in lucid colour, in the narrow vast space between sleep and wakefulness where he couldn’t stop his thoughts from straying, Jonathan caught himself wishing the hunters had found him sooner that night, before he had dug himself out from beneath the corpses and crawled from his grave. By the time he had come to his senses and pulled the trigger, it had been too late to save her.

But how could he admit to Geoffrey how well he understood his reasons when all he wanted to do was beg him not to leave? It was better to keep his thoughts safely to himself where they could do no harm. If nothing else, he could still offer excuses. If Geoffrey didn’t care for the cure, then Jonathan would find something else. “We may have ended the vampire epidemic,” he reminded him, his expression carefully blank and his voice even, “but we still need answers from Lady Ashbury.” A task he could just as well finish on his own, and what was he supposed to do when Geoffrey realized it too? Before his fears could take shape, he spun around and started walking, and it must have caught Geoffrey off guard because he didn’t resist, he just stumbled over his own feet as he was pulled along.

A light tug at the back of his coat made him stop in his tracks. “Jonathan…”, he heard his name spoken quietly. When he turned around though, Geoffrey had already let go, his hand snatched back to his side. A scowl tried to fit itself over his expression, to hide how his eyes were just a bit too wide and his lips almost white pressed into a thin line.

Jonathan tilted his head and carefully checked their surroundings. He’d been careful to steer them clear of any Priwen patrols. Not far ahead he could already see the Pembroke, its scattered lights welcoming against the dark clouds, and his eyes darted through every shadow along the way, but he couldn’t spot whatever had spooked the other man. “It’s alright.” Though Geoffrey was still looking at him, his gaze had lost its focus. Jonathan took a step closer, swallowed back the tremble in his voice, and it almost didn’t sound like a plea, “Let’s just go inside and get ourselves cleaned up.” The words had barely left his mouth when the other’s expression suddenly shuttered, and slowly it settled in the pit of his stomach that somehow he had said the wrong thing.

Somewhere nearby a window stood slightly ajar and let the night air seep into the building. It washed out the colours and filled out the corridors, and where it touched against his skin he felt himself shiver. Dark strands of hair fell into his eyes and clung to his cheeks. Beneath his fingers his face was still damp. A slow breath pulled the cold into his chest, and he held it inside, a quiet pool of air to lie dead in his lungs. White blanket of snow to soothe the thoughts clawing into his mind, circles in circles of going nowhere. It was a lost battle, and there was nothing to fight, and it was tiring to pretend.

Trickles of water painted faint lines down the slope of his neck, another distraction and his fingers followed, traced the shallow welts in his skin that had barely been visible anymore in the mirror. But he wondered, counted back the days, how much time they had left, and he couldn’t quite trust how the scar was numb to his touch. If he closed his eyes he could feel it itching underneath, could feel it grow hot and swollen where his fingertips pressed into the flesh.

When the door opened with a soft click, he froze, the knot in his stomach pulled tight and he took in a sharp breath and it still felt like suffocating, the words pressed against the back of his throat. Half formed, shapeless things that forced him to look up at Geoffrey and open his mouth, and then made no sound. The silence that cut through the space between them swelled to a roar in his ears and drowned out his thoughts. But he needed to say something. Because he remembered, and he refused to believe he had just imagined it that there was a part inside Geoffrey that wanted to stay. “Do you not think we can overcome our nature?” What did it matter that he didn’t believe his own words? The only thing that mattered was that Geoffrey did. “You haven’t even killed anyone yet,” they blurted from his mouth. Childish and petulant and flaunting their contradiction. It was just a matter of time, he knew that, they both knew that, and he wanted to take them back. He wanted to repeat them until they made sense. “You haven’t even…”

He shook his head and stopped talking. Amidst the chaos of his thoughts he scrambled for something to hold onto, and as his eyes flickered through the corridor, they found their way back and caught at the sight of him. With his skin scrubbed clean and his hair neatly pushed back Geoffrey looked good. The spare set of clothes he was wearing fit him well enough, a light coloured shirt matched to a pair of tweed trousers. He looked ordinary, he looked human, and it made something ache deep inside Jonathan’s chest. And then he watched as Geoffrey averted his eyes and turned away, and everything blurred. “You don’t even know what it’s like. How it feels to… to…” And he never would. “I… I don’t want y-…” he stammered, stopped himself, raked a hand through his wet hair. His face felt hot, and his eyes were itching and his thoughts were grinding their dead weight against the inside of his skull. “You’re not a monster,” he lied through his teeth. He hated every word.

“I want to believe you. I really do,” Geoffrey spoke so quietly the words were barely outlined against the silence. “I'm not like you,” he said again, and Jonathan still didn’t understand what he meant. As he continued, the softness of his voice slowly eroded with bitterness. “All I know is how to kill things. There is nothing to save me from becoming a monster.”

There was something scratching at the back of his mind. A thought he had found in the dark places where he hadn’t meant to go looking. “You think that’s the worst that could happen?” he asked, his tone numbed in a sudden calm but its undercurrent vibrating like the teeth of a saw put against bone. “When the next war comes around, like it always does, and suffocates the earth in blood and death. When the next Disaster rises from it.” Because how arrogant was it to think a new Disaster could only emerge from their infected blood when it had found its way into this world before, centuries ago and no less devastating? The wrath of an unforgiving goddess, a red flood drawn against the shores to feed on the pain and suffering humankind was always so eager to offer. “What happens then?”

Geoffrey looked at him with a frown, caught off guard, because he had not allowed himself to think about a future he wasn’t planning to be part of. “Someone will stop her…” he tried hesitantly, as if he didn’t already know where this was going.

It was an ugly sneer that twisted his lips as he shook his head. “Even if the blood of hate consumes us and leaves nothing behind. If we become monsters far worse than our darkest fears. As long as we take down the next Disaster, it will have been worth it.” A slight tremble had started in his fingertips and climbed up to his hands. Somewhere in the distance he could hear screaming. Geoffrey stared at him, stunned in disbelieve, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Hands pressed over his mouth, he stumbled backwards. “Sorry,” he choked out. His back hit the wall. “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t meant to say any of this.

It was simple enough, to put one foot in front of the other as he trailed after him. Just another shadow lost among the night. You should know better, a gentle voice chided him. Turn around. Leave him before he leaves you. Do you want to get hurt so badly?

But he had been here before. And when his thoughts were left to wander out too far, amidst the blurred echoes and smudged lines, he found the shape of her, clear cut like a scar, with edges made to bleed himself on. Did she ever have a choice in this waking nightmare he had abandoned her to? Had she fought the new horrors, or had they paled against the darkness she had already been carrying inside? Where sorrow had left a gaping hole in her heart, she had cut away the rotting pieces one by one until she didn’t have to feel anymore how much it hurt. Had followed the hunger, tired and aimlessly, to let every act of cruelty take her further away from the life she couldn’t have anymore.

He stumbled, placed his shaking hand against the wall. Closed his eyes, and looked at her. Her dress worn and black for a funeral of husband, son, brother and her own. Her pale fingers and broken nails stained with blood and dirt as she’d shown him to her empty grave. Had she come and found her brother to prove herself lost? Shouldn’t she have known better? That he would have taken her hands, that he would have wiped the red off her skin. But she had asked him, and he had wanted to be a good brother. He had killed her, so she wouldn’t have to do it herself.

Geoffrey waited for him at the door to his office. “Don’t worry,” he said lightly. “They’re here for me.” Jonathan blinked at him in confusion, and he meant to ask but the words wouldn’t come out. Concern flickered over Geoffrey’s face, before it quickly disappeared beneath a grimace. His hand tightened around the handle as he nervously scanned the corridor behind them, and his moment of hesitation should have been enough for Jonathan to realize what was going on. When the door opened, he felt the air in his lungs turn to ice and the other man had to pull him inside with gentle force.

“I believe you’ve met them already,” he heard Geoffrey start conversationally. His voice was somewhere far off, and Jonathan couldn’t quite bring himself to listen. “But I doubt they bothered to introduce themselves.” His mind still reeling to catch up, he kept staring at the two vampire hunters hanging casually around his office as if they had been invited. Though their faces weren’t covered by masks for once, they were strangers to him. Instead, it was the scent of their blood that was familiar, flashes of fire and metal, and his body tensed in response, his feet inched apart along the floorboards.

“These are the Sheen brothers. Toby.” At the mention of his name, the smaller of the two canted his head and raised a questioning eyebrow at Geoffrey. It was a harmless look, but he remembered this one, a frighteningly good shot, and now too he couldn’t shake the feeling the hunter was watching them like targets. He had made the mistake only once, to think the arbalester wouldn’t shoot as long as Jonathan was grappling with his brother.

It had taken longer to bring down the other. Seeing his brother bleeding out on the ground, he had been angry and scared, a combination bad enough on its own, and then Jonathan had still been struggling to pull the heavy iron bolt out from between his ribs. “And Vincent.” The man quickly put the book he’d been holding back on the shelve and gave them a sloppy salute. After the fight it had been a frantic effort to staunch their bleeding. Barely a few weeks had passed since then, and Jonathan couldn’t help but worry if they had fully recovered from their injuries.

“You didn’t check in,” Toby spoke up first. His voice sharp, until he added, “You said you would,” and the admonishment was quickly reined back. “We were worried, McCullum,” the other hunter continued. “We came to see if you’re still alive.” A wry smile stretched the corner of his mouth.

For a moment, Geoffrey considered them. “You should not have come alone,” he pointed out with a slight shake of his head and a displeased frown on his face. It should have been a trap, Jonathan realized, to kill off one leech, maybe two, and Geoffrey had known they would be waiting for them at the Pembroke.

The two hunters quickly exchanged looks, yet it seemed they couldn’t quite agree, because when Vincent wanted to know, “What happened to y-” his brother abruptly stepped forward and cut off his question with another, “What did you find in the sewers?” It earned him an unhappy glance from Vincent, but he stayed quiet.

Again, Geoffrey hesitated, his eyes lingering on the taller of the two men before they flickered to Toby. “Do you remember the stories Carl used to tell us,” he asked, “about that Ichor thing? Something like that, just…” he paused, then gave a lopsided shrug and settled on, “Just worse. It’s dead now.” Because this wasn’t about Harriet, or her pain, this was about a monster easily categorized. “I guess, all the burning piles of leeches in the streets have something to do with that too?” When Jonathan gritted his teeth, he felt Geoffrey gently squeeze his arm where he was still holding onto him, but it barely mellowed his irritation.

“They’re all dead. Like, proper dead,” Vincent reported easily. “Nothing left to do but sweep up the corpses. Barlow’s having a blast. He got a bit-” His voice had grown excited when he suddenly broke off with a disgruntled huff. A deep frown darkened his face, his hands curled to fists, and Jonathan tensed as he felt something shift in the room. They had to know already, that Geoffrey wasn’t one of them anymore. Toby let out a sigh. “You know why we’re here, McCullum.” He paused, because if he said it out loud there was no turning back. “You need to come with us.”

Jonathan knew better than to let the two hunters out of his sight, but there was nothing he could do to stop himself from looking at Geoffrey. Cold filled out his head as the other man averted his gaze and gave a slight nod. Dripped down his spine, then he opened his mouth, and Jonathan didn’t want to hear what he would say. “You’re not going with them,” it came out in a half-choked snarl he barely recognized as his own voice. Geoffrey’s lips were moving, something soft and quiet and Jonathan shook his head, could barely make out the words, his heart beat frantically against his ribs. His hand slipped off his arm, and Jonathan caught it, stepped into his space. “No!” It hurt in his throat, this dark ugly echo he dragged out from deep inside his chest, “You’re not going with them.” It drowned out the room, it was the only sound left.

For the smallest moment, no one moved. Geoffrey stared at him, his blue eyes wide, waiting, his lips parted on a forgotten breath. Another heartbeat, just between the two of them, and the world came rushing back in.

He knew what would happen now. McCullum would laugh it off, or push him away, gently, and then he wouldn’t ever look at him again. He should step away, make it easier for the both of them. But when he had grabbed him he had never meant to let go, and so his legs wouldn’t move and his hand was tight like a vice around his arm. He lowered his head, felt the air cold inside his lungs, his lips numb, pressed to a thin line.

Geoffrey’s chest heaved with a sigh. He held up a hand towards the two hunters, and they reluctantly lowered their guns. “Can you give us a moment?” he asked them. Of course they wouldn’t. There was nothing worse to the Guard of Priwen than a vampire who knew all their tricks and secrets, all their weaknesses. They would take him away, cut off his head and he would let them.

The door closed behind them, and they were alone. “Jonathan…” The sound of his name a low murmur. “You understand why I’m doing this. Better than anyone.” Fingers skimmed across his temple, pushed a strand of hair out of his face. “I have followed you as far as I could. This might be my last chance to stop myself before I kill an innocent. Before I become a monster.” His voice was trembling, but there was a lightness to it, a hopefulness that Jonathan wanted to strangle. “I can have a happy ending still.” He cupped his face in his palms. The stroke of a thumb gently across his cheekbone stained with blood.

“I don’t want you to die,” he whispered into the small space between them, raised his shaking hands to twist his fingers into the front of his shirt. Geoffrey pulled him in slowly, wrapped himself around him and the warmth of his body burned against his skin. “I want you…” An unfinished sentence until he had to admit it wasn’t. He hid his face in the curve of his neck, clung to him, and let himself drown in the pain of it. Holding on until the last moment.

“This is my choice.”

Chapter Text

A lamp hummed faintly with electricity trickling through its circuit. Its pale light seeped through the darkness, edges quickly dulled and faded against the depth of the space. For each shape it touched, a dozen more were left lost to the shadows nestled along the walls and clinging to the high ceiling. At the centre of the room, safe within the reach of its brightness, a small group of people had settled around a table. Their voices were hushed and the conversation sluggish. A map lay spread out across the stained wood, its corners drooping over the edges and leaving just enough room for a bottle of liquor and a few scattered glasses.

They must have grown tired in the quietness of the late hour. When the front door opened and a gust of wind rustled through the hall, their heads snapped up, startled in sudden alert. Three sets of footsteps approached, a sharp clack each time their heels hit the tiles, until they entered the room and stone gave way to worn planks soft with mould.

Guns held loosely in their hands, the Sheen brothers flanked Geoffrey on either side. He’d fallen in step with them, unconcerned with their close guard. His gait was determined, his expression unreadable, barred by his perpetual scowl. The only sign that something was amiss were his eyes darting about the room to observe everything but to never look at anyone.

Before they reached the group, one of the hunters got up and slipped away through a side door. The other four rose in greeting, their faces brightened in tentative relief. “Geoffrey,” a woman was the first to speak, a careful smile set across her lips. “You’re back.” One of her arms was held in a sling, the fingers of her other were curled around the grip of a revolver.

Geoffrey slowed to a halt, his gaze flickering down to the gun in her hand. Holding his breath, waiting for her to understand what kind of creature the hunters had allowed to get so close. But she didn’t, none of them did, and he forced himself to look at her, so she would have to see it in his eyes. “I’m not here…” he began, only to falter with his lungs void of air. He drew in a slow breath, offered his empty palms and tried again, “Amanda, you need to-” But where his voice recovered, the words were stuck at the back of his throat.

“He’s not a leech,” Toby was quick to speak up when Geoffrey didn’t continue, his jaw set to a tight line as he faced the group.

“Or, good for us, he’s a very stupid one,” his brother added wryly. When Toby shot him an irritated look, he gave a tense shrug in response and gestured at Geoffrey. “He’s been acting weird.” Vincent turned towards the group to explain, “We found him at the Pembroke. With the leech doctor.”

“But he came with us, willingly.” Stubbornness hardened Toby’s voice and covered any cracks. “He’s not one of them, and he will prove it.”

Geoffrey glanced at him, his brow furled in growing restlessness. “Where’s the Reverend?” he asked.

Amanda kept her tone even to dull its tense edge as she told him, “Louis is already off to fetch him.” Geoffrey nodded minutely, eyes cast down. Reluctant at first, she looked around at the others before she came to a decision, holstered her gun and pulled up a chair for him. “Sit?” she asked but it wasn’t quite a question. “While we wait.” Her fingernails rapped against the backrest as she eyed him expectantly.

Geoffrey blinked at her, then at the offered seat and his expression slipped back into something blank. When he walked over there was the slightest stumble in his first steps, as if his feet had been stuck to the ground. The Sheen brothers trailed after him and found themselves one of the larger crates to sit on while the other hunters settled back around the table. Though they seemed somewhat placated by his compliance, their hands never strayed far from their weapons.

Once he had sat down, Amanda stepped closer and in a slow, telegraphed movement placed her fingers against his jaw. At first, he flinched away but then held himself very still as he let her turn his head one way, then the other. “You’re not cold enough for a corpse. But if I didn’t know you’re always a bit pale…” she mused as she studied his face. “It’s the new light,” someone added helpfully, and her lips twisted in a slight grimace. With a resigned breath she released him. “When this is over, you’re taking some time off.”

Confusion flashed across his face, but he quickly turned his head away to hide it. With a sidelong glance and a frown his eyes followed her as she returned to her place on the other side of the table. “Like you did, after that Skal almost chewed your head off,” he remarked belatedly, and his voice came out rough, unable to carry its intended bite.

The dark look she shot him in response held no real animosity. “Fine. We’re all taking some time off when this is over.” She paused and watched him like she expected him to answer back, but Geoffrey could not even hold her gaze. Her expression turned troubled, and she opened her mouth, only to close it again with nothing said. Instead, she found him a clean glass and picked up the bottle before she sat down.

“You opened the good stuff,” he noted quietly while he watched her pour.

She flashed him a frail grin. “Special occasion.” He huffed, almost a laugh. “Whatever you had to do, you saved the city,” she added more seriously. For a moment she allowed her smile to soften and her eyes to brighten with admiration, until she looked away. She picked up her own tumbler, loosely held between her fingers as she let it clink against his. “Priwen shall prevail,” she said with a sombre note, then downed the liquid in one gulp without waiting for anyone to join in.

Geoffrey slowly raised his glass to his lips and took a small sip. As the familiar taste washed over him, his eyelids fluttered and his limbs carefully relaxed. Gingerly, he leaned back in his chair. “How does it look out there?” he wanted to know, hesitating like he wasn’t sure he would be answered. His eyes drifted over the table and the map spread out across.

“Fairly quiet.” She followed his gaze over the small stones placed as markers along the lines of ink. “A few stragglers asking to be put down… but that’s it.” She ran a hand over her face and leaned back. Worn out by too many nights out there fighting with no difference made, she wasn’t quite ready to believe that it could be finally over.

“Anyone hurt, besides Jimmy?” He glanced to his left where a young woman with curly hair had picked up the task again to bandage the wrist of another hunter. From underneath the white mesh burned skin glimmered in colours dark and red.

Before anyone could answer him, the injured man puffed out his chest and informed him, “I burned down a shed.” His lips curved into a proud smile, and when Geoffrey only met his gaze with bewilderment, he looked around at the others for approval.

One of the Sheen brothers just rolled his eyes. “That’s your cue to take away his matchstick privileges.” And the other held back a laugh as he took a swig from a bottle.

Jimmy flinched, startled with wide eyes he looked back at Geoffrey. “It was just a small shed. More of an outhouse, really,” he was quick to backpaddle.

Geoffrey was spared having to give a response, when two men entered the room and their arrival caught everyone’s attention. Amanda leaned towards him and quietly told him, “No casualties reported.” Like she understood how much it meant to him. He held her gaze, grateful for a moment. Then, she stood up to vacate her seat, stepped back, and suddenly his expression shuttered completely.

Dressed in the dark cloth of the church, with his cloak waving behind him, the Reverend approached them. His face gaunt with age, his greying hair combed back across his skull. He walked up to the table and nodded in greeting. “You did well to find your way back to us, Geoffrey” he said, his tone a gentle praise. “You know this is just a precaution.” The Reverend sat down opposite to him and laid out his tools, his cross, his bible, a flask of holy water, neatly placed next to each other.

Silence passed between them while the Reverend waited for him to meet his eyes, but he never did. In a mechanical movement Geoffrey just offered his open hand across the table and so the chaplain reached out to join their hands. There was no deception to his voice. He meant it when he said, “You will be alright.”

“The Lord is with us,” he began. “In our faith He protects us.” His voice filled out the quiet space, echoed against the high walls. A shrill ringing grew in its wake, a serrated undercurrent that made it painful to listen. “To Him we turn, asking for guidance and understanding. To Him we answer, both the deceived and deceivers.” Between his fingers the cross flared white. “From the darkness He will reveal every secret. Even the shadow of death He will bring into the light.” It burned through the dark with gleaming brilliance, sharp-edged radiance to cut away with ease what the night had so carefully enfolded. A gaping wound deep and deeper, golden bright and bleeding, and it hurt.

Time stretched thin but it must have been only seconds until the echo of his words petered out and the searing glare dispersed. Even then the shadows were still struggling, skirting weakly along the fringes, reluctant to return. Geoffrey simply sat there, untouched, dazed with wide eyes he stared at the chaplain. “You’re fine, son,” the Reverend assured him calmly and squeezed his hand before he let go. “You’re not one of them.”

Someone laughed, loose and relieved. The hunters lowered their weapons and looked at him as if he were human. And all he had to do was open his mouth and tell them the truth. Geoffrey raised his glass to his lips, closed his eyes and swallowed it all. To feel it cut down his throat, a sharp taste, until the burn tapered out into something warm and soothing pooling in his belly. To feel human, to be back amidst his Guard, for as long as he could stand to pretend.

He didn’t notice the Sheen brothers approach him, and yet he didn’t even flinch when the taller one placed Geoffrey’s sword down on the table, almost jumbling the neatly arranged markers on the map. “Don’t scare us like that,” Vincent grumbled with audible relief. Slowly, Geoffrey raised his head only to pause half-way, staring down at his weapon. His eyes dragged along its edge, traced a colour he alone could see. Fingers curled tightly around the empty glass in his hand, he made no move to trade it for his sword.

“We thought… maybe the leech doctor had gotten to you. He seemed…” Toby began carefully. “How did you manage to convince him to fight the Disaster for us? He must have wanted something in return.” There was a scrutinizing overtone to his curiosity, but perhaps he simply wanted to make sense of what had happened.

With a small shake of his head, Geoffrey finally looked up. “He’s not like that. He just wants to help,” he said in a quiet voice, because he already knew that wasn’t what they wanted to hear.

Amanda snorted in irritation. “No. He doesn’t,” she corrected him, and Geoffrey hunched his shoulders defensively.

“You shouldn't have run off alone with him,” another hunter spoke up. Like the others, he looked at Geoffrey with a sour expression. “You know we would have had your back no matter how terrifying that creature was. We could have taken care of this ourselves.”

Geoffrey turned towards him and met his eyes with a scowl. “There was nothing you could have done,” he said, his voice suddenly hard. “She would have killed you all.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been that bad,” the man grumbled, put out about having been dismissed so easily. “You don’t have a scratch on you.”

“It might have been powerful, but it was just one beast, Geoffrey. Surely, we would have figured something out. We always do,” the Reverend added in a firm tone that masqueraded his hopefulness as confidence.

Geoffrey sighed, leaning forward to reach for the bottle of liquor. Its neck clinked softly against the glass as he filled it again. “Harriet wasn’t the…” He paused, unsure how to explain what had happened. “Her death summoned something else.” Hesitating again, he took a large gulp from his glass and swallowed slowly. As the alcohol saturated the memory, the blue of his eyes grew dark and unfocused and the edges of his voice mellowed out. “There was blood everywhere, knee-deep on the ground, pouring out from the walls. That thing, it…The blood gave shape to her, with horns and claws, like a…” He shook his head. “Like a goddess.” The words stumbling and weak, like pointing to a shadow to describe the endless black of the night sky. His knuckles turned white where his hand clenched around the glass. “She can’t be killed. One day she will wake up again, and all of her horrors will flood back into the world.”

“Geoffrey, stop.” His mouth clicked shut at Amanda’s words. “A creature made of blood? A goddess?” Her voice was sharp with disbelieve. “Even if you had the leech bear the brunt of the fight, you can’t tell us you fought some goddess of old and walked away unharmed.”

His shoulders slumped as he sank in on himself. “You don’t have to believe me. I just needed you to know.” He lowered his head and let his gaze drop away, tiredness pouring out from between the cracks.

Under her breath Amanda let out a curse, and turned away. It was Vincent who asked, “What happened to you?” His expression torn between concern and wariness.

The legs of his chair scraped across the floor boards as the Reverend rose from his seat. “It’s been a long night for all of us. We can talk more tomorrow,” he decided and then pointed at Geoffrey’s half-empty glass. “Drink up, and then get some rest. As we all should.” Despite his confident tone, he searched for agreement as he looked around.

Geoffrey closed his eyes and breathed. Just one more step. “I died,” he whispered, his lips barely moving around the words. He raised his glass and washed the remaining liquid down his throat. “I died three nights ago,” he repeated louder as the truth came more easily this time. With a dull thud he set the empty glass down on the table.

Where they should have drawn their weapons, nobody moved. They should have turned on him, and yet, “No,” Toby said firmly but gentle. “A leech would not tell us. Wouldn’t even be here. Clearly, Reid got into your head.” And his brother added without hesitation, “It wouldn’t be the first time one of those bastards tries to trick us into killing our own.”

Slowly, Geoffrey looked up and around at their faces, bewildered to find cautious doubt instead of open hostility. “Leave him out of this. He hasn’t mesmerized me, you all know that doesn’t work on me,” he reminded them, voice throaty but sharp, as if perhaps he had no patience for their excuses when he just wanted this to be over.

“What do you want us to believe?” Amanda snapped at him. “That you’re a…” The words failed her, and her flaring anger faltered, tipped into spite. “It will work all the better, since you’re too arrogant to even consider it.”

Geoffrey glared at her, irritation flashed in his eyes and a growl loosened from deep within his throat. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” Before anyone could react, he had stood up and drawn a dagger from his belt. His sleeve pulled up and out of the way, he set the blade to his skin. For the smallest moment he paused, his hesitation screaming like a siren. Then, he choked out a pained grunt and blood spilled red and rich over his arm. He wiped it away, smeared it down his skin, and where the metal had barely withdrawn, his flesh was already knitting itself back together for all to see.

Finally, the hunters stepped away from him, horror dawning pale on their faces and hands going for their weapons. Geoffrey cleaned the blood off the blade before he let it drop from his trembling fingers. It clattered to the floor. A token gesture, nothing more. As if he were less of a threat with his palms open and empty. “I’m not here to fight,” he forced out the words. “I’m here to… to…” But they were stuck so deep, so far down, he would have to rip his throat out to reach them.

“You did the right thing, Geoffrey,” Amanda said and there was meaning in speaking his name despite knowing better. The admiration in her eyes was an odd contrast to her pain, yet she had no use for either. “Soon the nightmare will be over.” She gritted her teeth and raised her chin, to steel herself against this new reality. But when she glanced at Geoffrey’s sword on the table, her expression fell.

The room froze to stillness, the space stretched cold and thin around the hunters petrified in indecision. It could not even have been a minute, and yet it felt far longer until one of them spoke, “It will be a clean cut.” A man of tall build, though where he was carrying strength in the breadth of his shoulders, his face was ashen and his voice weak. “We won’t let you suffer.” He set down his gun to pick up the sword, and stepped forward.

At first, no one noticed him when Jonathan jumped down from the rafters. His feet hit the ground hard and the impact had him stumbling for balance. He didn’t remember the decision to leave his hiding place. His head hurt, his eyes were swollen and itching, his vision swimming. But from the moment Geoffrey had arrived, he hadn’t been able to tear his gaze away from him, and now Geoffrey was looking back at him from across the room, eyes wide, not in surprise but fear.

A chair toppled over, and in the next second Geoffrey stood in front of him, placing himself between Jonathan and the hunters, his hands held out carefully. Perhaps he thought Jonathan had come here to kill them. Which made sense, because at some point Jonathan had thought that too. No matter how tired he was of fighting, he had weighed the hunters’ lives against Geoffrey’s as if it were a choice. He’d seen their corpses torn, scattered across the floor, unable to ever hurt him. And it seemed so easy a solution. But he already knew the hunters weren’t the problem at all.

“I’m sorry, Geoffrey,” he croaked out brokenly. He’d long given up on holding himself together. “I don’t know what to do.” He sniffled and wiped the heel of his hand across his cheek where the red tears had barely dried, but it only made it worse.

As Geoffrey drew away, Jonathan could barely keep himself from following. “You need to leave,” he said with his eyes sad and soft with endless kindness, and yet Jonathan only wanted to scream at him. “There is nothing here for you.”

If killing the Guard wouldn’t save him, then he could have snatched Geoffrey away, kept him locked up and chained until some day he would have to break and change his mind. The idea sat at the crown of his thoughts, a thing sick and rotten, like bile at the back of his throat, and he shook his head vehemently to erase it from his mind. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised as if it meant anything.

Geoffrey let out a resigned sigh and looked away. “Then stay, if you must.” His eyes snapped back to Jonathan, to make sure he understood. “And watch.” He held his head high, his bearing impossibly collected in the face of what was about to happen.

The air burned in his lungs, his skin trembling with cold, and he wrapped his arms around himself. Jonathan knew he should not have come here, he wasn’t wanted here. He should have kept himself tucked away among the deepest, darkest shadows where the world would pass him by and no one would remember to look for him. So he could lay his heavy head to rest, close his eyes and cry, until everything was over, and everything was too late.

It hadn’t been a conscious decision to follow Geoffrey after his men had taken him away from him. There had simply been no other choice he could have made. Only now Jonathan understood he had not come here to save him. He had come here to watch Geoffrey die.

As Geoffrey turned and walked away from him, he told his Guard, “Let him be. He’s not a threat.” The hunters’ faces were grim masks and they were reluctant to take orders from a vampire. But those who had their guns pointed at Jonathan lowered their weapons. If only because they assumed the two Ekons would side against them if it came to a fight, and they knew better than to think they stood a chance.

When he stepped back into the midst of his Guard, they allowed him just enough time to turn around and face Jonathan, before they forced him to his knees. Geoffrey went down easily, kept himself limp and compliant as he placed his hands on his thighs and lowered his head. The movement knocked loose a strand of dark hair and it fell across his eyes. Soft pale skin peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt, stretched thin across the back of his neck and the bumps of his spine.

The hunters were talking among each other in hushed voices, but Jonathan couldn’t hear them anyway. Somewhere in the distance a shrill drone had started up, and it cut out any other noise. With wide eyes and numb hands, gagged and bound in helplessness, he stared at Geoffrey. He had held himself well together for the longest time, but now his armour had begun crumbling away. Geoffrey curled his fingers inwards, clawed them into his legs to stop their trembling. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth where his teeth buried into his lower lip. His heart stumbled trying to outrun itself as it beat wildly inside his chest.

When the hunters retreated to give more room, only one of them remained at Geoffrey’s side. Sweat glistened on his brow, but the sword was held steady in his hands as the man raised it above his head.

Suddenly, Geoffrey looked up at Jonathan, and there was nothing but pure white terror in his eyes. In the next moment his gaze slipped away, and Jonathan’s mind blanked.

Everything happened very fast after that. The sword fell through the air, cut through wisps of shadow and then its heavy edge wedged itself into the floor boards where Geoffrey had knelt not a second ago. Jonathan just stood there, alone and forgotten, as the room around him erupted in chaos and curses. But before even the first shot was fired, Geoffrey was already gone.

As if the clouds had descended onto the city, a thick fog had rolled into the streets, left the scattered lights struggling to breathe underneath its heavy blanket. It spread out into the winding alleys and darkest corners, quieted the gurgling water of the rivers and pressed up against the houses to suffocate the city in its sleep. He was a smudge of shadow among its grey, and somewhere along the way it must have reached inside his head and dulled his thoughts to static.

Hours had passed since he had began his search, drawing ever wider circles around the theatre. Across the rooftops, through the streets and fallen buildings, and even down into the dark tunnels below. But with every face he glimpsed, every heartbeat he passed, sank his hope of finding him. Dawn was not far off now, and after a while his legs grew heavy and his feet dragged over the cobblestone, and when he looked around he couldn’t remember the street or how he had gotten here. But his mind was a silly thing, already bruised and unwilling to accept more hurt, and he had been caught going in circles from the beginning anyway. If Geoffrey didn’t want to be found, then Jonathan didn’t mind being lost.

“Doctor Reid? Where are you going?” a voice called out, and he turned around to find her standing only a few steps away. Charlotte tilted her head, curiosity turning to worry as she took in his appearance, but she didn’t comment on it. “I was hoping I’d run into you. My mother asked me to deliver this.”

He looked down as she pressed a letter into his hands, pristine white paper with a red seal. “Lady Ashbury?” he heard himself ask. “Where is she?”

Charlotte didn’t answer immediately. Looking down the street, she took a drag from her cigarette and when she breathed out, Jonathan thought for a moment the fog had found itself a nest inside her lungs. “Not here,” she finally said, waving her gloved hand dismissively and the smoke trailed her movement like a silk ribbon. “She said you’ll be leaving London.”

Jonathan blinked at her, and though he tried to gather his thoughts and make sense of it, he didn’t understand. “I… will…?” he stammered out and felt stupid for it.

“Well, if you don't know, I hope the letter will explain.” She shrugged and tapped her finger against the cigarette. “I thought you could come by the mansion in the evening? I'll have a car ready for you.” Something changed in her voice, made it brittle. “It’s mine now.” She cleared her throat and it was gone. “So you’ll have to knock.”

“She left,” Jonathan realized, and his slowness earned him a sidelong glance and a frown. Below her eyes her dark makeup was smudged just slightly. The letter in his hand grew heavy and suddenly he dreaded the thought of opening it, so he quickly put it away.

“You look positively bedraggled, Doctor Reid,” she changed the topic again. “What happened?” Her eyes skimmed over the mud caked on his trousers, his rumpled shirt, up to the mess of damp hair falling across his face. At least there was no blood on him anymore.

Jonathan should find out more about Lady Ashbury, but before he knew what he was saying, he blurted out, “I was looking for someone.” Because he was foolish and, “Maybe you’ve seen him?”

“Maybe I have,” she went along easily and tried for a mysterious smile that crooked oddly at the corner of her lips. “What does he look like?” Inhaling another drag from her cigarette, she craned her neck to look around, as if Geoffrey could just pop up and walk by at any moment.

He sighed, chiding himself inwardly for setting himself up for disappointment. After a short description of him he added, “He’s around my height. Blue eyes. Wears a red scarf.” He frowned at his own words, thinking back and wondering how he hadn’t noticed before. “Maybe no scarf.”

“Blue eyes? Is he handsome?” Charlotte asked teasingly but her tone fell short of the intended levity. She shook her head, though perhaps only to dislodge a stray thought, because then she pointed down the street behind her. “Could fit your description. He was carrying a backpack and a large suitcase. Perhaps he’s leaving the city too.” She hummed thoughtfully. “He did wear a red scarf, I think.”

Jonathan ran a hand over his face and tried to push back the hope bubbling up inside his chest. It wasn’t Geoffrey she had seen. Still, it wasn’t like he had any other lead to follow. “Thank you, Charlotte.” He was about to leave her, when he added, “I’m sorry, about your mother.” He remembered the panic in her eyes last time he had seen her, and he couldn’t help thinking it was his fault she was gone.

But Charlotte ignored it. She flicked the cigarette to the pavement and where it had already drowned in a shallow puddle, she stamped out the stub beneath her heel. “I’ll see you later,” she said casually. “Have a good day, Doctor Reid.” She walked past him and disappeared into the fog.