Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mr. Throgmorton,
As mentioned in our previous business arrangement, you and your associates are permitted to exist purely because you do not hinder Ascalon. Over the past month, this has ceased to be the case and so I must reiterate the way things stand between us. Eliminate as many Skals as you like, I care not, nor do the fates of any Vulkod or foreign Ekon that preys upon English blood without the permission of Ascalon concern me. However, any attack on a member of Ascalon's ranks cannot be tolerated. Three members have barely escaped the abomination you call a member of your team with their lives, and a fourth was found dead shortly after his Turning. This harassment is intolerable. You will keep that self-loathing beast on a leash, or Ascalon will respond.

Lord Redgrave
Earl of Bristol
Ascalon Club Founder and Chairman

Lord Redgrave,
I am delighted and flattered beyond measure that you think a mere human such as myself could have any control over a nimrod's activities. However, I did speak to him about the whole matter upon receiving your letter, and I'm afraid his response was not encouraging. He keenly feels the gap in abilities between himself and your members, and the three that got away are a reminder that they have much more practice than he does. Yet I have never seen an individual so dedicated to self-improvement and I am certain that it's only a matter of time before "escaping with their lives" is no longer an option.

In regards to attacking your members, my associate pointed out that in each instance all he saw was a toff (his word) attacking a human. How was he to know it was Ascalon? I find I must agree with him. Have you considered giving your members something that would easily identify them as Ekons-that-shouldn't-be-killed before a fight begins? A pin, perhaps?

Respectfully yours,
Mr. Ichabod Throgmorton
Vampire Hunter and Consultant

Clarence hurried into the dining room where his friends were having breakfast, despite it being afternoon. This was what happened when one kept a more nocturnal schedule than the rest of society. "Ichabod! Have you seen the front page of the… oh, another letter?"

Ichabod made a considering sound as he drank his tea, the letter on the table in front of him. "Lord Redgrave didn't like the pin idea."

Louise tried not to choke on her toast as she laughed.

Clarence rolled his eyes, "Of course he didn't, but we have a bigger problem than Lord Redgrave's annoyance."

He set the newspaper on top of the letter. The headline read: NEW NOBLEMAN MURDER — LATEST IN TERRIBLE SPREE

Ichabod sighed.

Clarence leaned forward, emphasizing his point. "The press are painting him as a reverse Ripper."

Ichabod scoffed, "Poppycock, he's only killed two."

Clarence rubbed at his forehead in anticipation of the headache he knew would start. "Two nobles murdered and both drained of blood looks like the same person killed them, which is more than enough for the imagination of the press, even if they were on opposite ends of town."

"What do the police think?" Louise asked.

Clarence gestured to the paper, "There's an interview with a detective Albright who says they can't rule out the possibility that the second murder was the work of someone mimicking the first, especially since the second one happened just inside Whitechapel, and encourages anyone who knew the victims to please cooperate with police as they try to find the murderer."

Ichabod froze. "… You don't suppose—"

"That Lord Redgrave is going to tell them about us and paint us as insane?" Clarence crossed his arms, "Absolutely I do."

Ichabod sighed even heavier than before.

Louise slid the paper over to read it and poured herself some more tea. "I'll head upstairs in a few hours and give it a go," she said.

"Good luck," Ichabod grumbled.

Geoffrey McCullum opened the door to his attic room to find Louise waiting in front of it.

“Evening, McCullum,” she said.

“Teasdale…” he started to greet her and then rolled his eyes, “oh, fuck, another lecture from Throgmorton?”

“I didn't even say anything!” she protested.

“I can see it in your face.”

He started to walk past her and she stood in his way, “Look, it's not just Ichabod. We're all worried you're drawing too much attention to yourself.”

She shoved a newspaper at his chest. He glanced at it, puzzled at first, and scoffed as he realized the worry. “The police can't do anything to me.”

“They can make things bloody difficult!”

He groaned. Her hands were on her hips, which he had learned meant this was likely to be a shouting match by the time they were done. “They can't catch me! They don't know anything about leeches, I can vanish and escape, every time.”

“Oh and the humans you live and work with mean nothing, is that it?”

That drew him up short. “… They don't know we're a team—”

“You think Redgrave won't tell them?”

“We know his secret, he won't—”

Louise threw her hands up like she wanted to strangle him. “Ugh, men are all the same, pulse or not! Dare him enough times, and eventually he's going to do it and damn the consequences, just because he's annoyed!” She crossed her arms, a hand on her face as she took a breath, her pulse slowing again. “Look, just be smarter about it.” She looked at him and gestured as if this should be obvious. “Bloody brilliant hunter, make it less plain to see you’re killing toffs, yeah? Hide a body occasionally?”

That was a fucking pain in the ass, but he hadn’t seriously thought about Redgrave’s potential threat to his teammates until now. “Alright,” he grumbled. “I’ll try to be less obvious about it.”

“Thank you,” Louise breathed in relief. She started walking down the stairs. He followed.

“What did Redgrave think of the pin idea?”

She snorted, “Hated it. Ichabod saved the letter.”

McCullum chuckled.

Chapter Text

None of the humans on the team wanted to risk McCullum “returning to the scene of the crime” in Whitechapel, and so they swapped their usual patrol routes for the night. McCullum put up some small protest, but didn’t try very hard. Ichabod and Clarence would take Whitechapel, while Louise and McCullum went to the Docks. They would meet near the Pembroke before returning to the West End. They liked to keep an eye on Dr. Swansea.

Whitechapel was not a part of town either Ichabod or Clarence had spent much time in before becoming established vampire hunters, but they were learning their way around thanks to their patrols. McCullum usually took care of the area, but he periodically brought one of his human teammates along because he thought it was necessary for everyone on the team to have a basic familiarity with as much of London as possible if they were truly going to be effective.

There was a small crowd in one of the squares tonight, a harried middle aged man in worker's clothes handing out pamphlets and posters to the people gathered for distribution around the neighborhood.

"What’s going on?" Clarence asked Ichabod as they passed.

“I don't know…” Ichabod paused a moment, catching sight of someone, “but I know who to ask.”

Clarence followed as Ichabod headed straight for a man standing off to the side. He wore a long tie and glasses, a small notebook in his hand, and regarded the oncoming men with mild suspicion.

Ichabod either didn’t notice the suspicion, or didn’t care. “Good evening, Mr. Darby,” he greeted as if they were old acquaintances.

“Mr… Throgmorton, isn't it? Been a few weeks since I saw you last.”

“Alas, I do not often have reason to come to this part of town.” He turned to Clarence, “This is my associate, Mr. Crossley. Mr. Crossley, this is Mr. Clayton Darby, an excellent journalist, and one of the few willing to report the truth about what goes on in Whitechapel.”

Mr. Darby was bemused. “Does he always flatter people he's only met once or twice?”

Clarence shrugged. “If he approves of you, yes.”

“Well, that's reassuring, I suppose.”

Ichabod cleared his throat, “We were wondering what all the business is in the square tonight?”

“The man with the pamphlets and posters is Ben Palmer. He used to be a terrible drunk, until his son died. It lit a fire under him. He's been sober for a month, at least, and his efforts are starting to pay off.”

"Efforts?" Ichabod asked.

"Ben is convinced his son Albert died because Albert was trying to join the Wet Boot Boys. So, Ben started organizing people against the gangs. The pamphlets and posters are for a Citizen's Watch. People are interested. He's making a lot of them realize just how tired they are of being harassed by the Wet Boot Boys in particular."

Ichabod's brow rose. "The Wet Boot Boys won't take kindly to that."

Mr. Darby smirked, "No, they certainly won't— and that's the only reason Ben doesn't have even more support."

Clarence made an understanding sound, "Everyone's waiting to see what happens."

Mr. Darby nodded. "Exactly."

“I hope he’s successful,” Ichabod said, sincerely. “We must be on our way, thank you for the information, Mr. Darby.”

As they moved on, Clarence commented, “Do you think he has a chance?”

“Of standing up to the Wet Boot Boys?” Ichabod was skeptical, but thought about it. “He’ll need help…”

Further thought was cut off by a snarl down an alley.

The hunters looked at each other, dropped into a crouch, and carefully made their way through the dark.

McCullum didn't spend much time on the Docks. This was Throgmorton’s domain; the man knew it even better than McCullum did, not least of all due to his regular check-ins with the Night Shelter. Which, naturally, Teasdale insisted they perform tonight in Ichabod's absence.

The Night Shelter had grown over the past month, in terms of population and number of volunteers, though certainly not physical space. Still, it seemed the number of beds inside the warehouse hadn't increased much, suggesting that a portion of the people here at this hour would eventually go home once the night grew late enough. For all his reservations about Sean Hampton, Geoffrey McCullum was certain that the skal would never force someone to sleep on the floor where a bed or at least a pallet could be made.

So then why, McCullum wondered, were all these people here?

Hampton spotted them, directed the people he'd been speaking with to the food line, and hurried over to greet the hunters.

"Miss Teasdale… and Mr. McCullum, good evening." He didn't hide his surprise. "Switching up the patrols tonight?"

Louise nodded. "That’s right. Ichabod sends his best."

"Thank you, and the same to him."

Geoffrey had no desire for small talk. "I haven't been here recently, but it seems like this place is much busier than usual."

Hampton sighed. "Yes."

That was not the reaction Geoffrey had expected. "Isn't that a good thing? The reason you're here?"

"Of course it is. The Lord has seen fit to challenge me, and I shall meet the task and prove my devotion and desire to serve." Hampton's firm declaration faltered a little. "I simply didn't… anticipate the type of challenge, is all."

Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. "We're not just talking about feeding twice as many mouths, are we?" He took the awkward silence to be a yes. "They know what you are?"

Sean was now visibly uncomfortable. "Lottie does, but the others know only that I banished a demon from this place, I can heal an unusual amount of damage, and they never see me eat or drink. Many of them have come to the conclusion that this is evidence of my being a genuine, flesh and blood saint."

McCullum stared at the skal, vaguely horrified. Louise made a tiny sound like she was swallowing a laugh.

"It's not funny, Miss Teasedale," Sean scolded, "it's… well, a bit embarrassing."

"It's a little funny, Mr. Hampton," she smiled. "Hearing you deny you're a saint so much, now you can't really prove otherwise."

"I strive to keep my flock's focus on the Lord, where it should be. I can only pray it's enough."

McCullum scowled. "The only reason I'm leaving this alone is I'm almost certain you don't actually want a cult to follow you. Don't prove me wrong."

Hampton scoffed. "I know it's still hard for you to trust me, Mr. McCullum, but as God is my witness I promise that is the last thing I want."

"Might happen whether you want it or not," Louise muttered.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Sean sighed.

McCullum scoffed. "I can't wait to see how that works out. C'mon, Teasdale, let's move on."

Louise visibly considered protesting, and changed her mind. "Good night, Mr. Hampton. Good luck, we'll be by another night."

Mr. Hampton thanked them graciously, and they moved on.

"You're not going to start bothering him, are you?" Louise quietly asked.

McCullum rolled his eyes. "I already promised Throgmorton that as long as the skal doesn't hurt anyone, he's safe from me." He paused, then added, "I don't like the idea of him being mistaken for a saint."

"Who's mistaken?" Louise grinned. "Something about the Lord working in mysterious ways and all that rot. He's a good man, skal or not. Just like you're always doing what's right, even though nimrod's are apparently incorrigible asses."

"You're trying to make me angry."

"Yes." She was quiet a moment before speaking with more sincerity than he often saw from her, "I meant it though, part of it. He's a good person, McCullum. And you probably are at heart, too…" she smiled, "even if you are a stubborn arse."

Geoffrey was supremely uncomfortable. "I'd have had the hide of any recruit so bold a couple months ago."

"Lucky for me you're one of us now!" she quipped with exaggerated cheer.

Why in Hell had he agreed to join this team again? Not that he wanted to leave… he shoved that thought away. "I don't think—" he stopped, his senses… doing whatever the fuck they did. He still didn't know how to describe it. It was almost like everything went a little hazy, except for whoever had caught the attention of the piece of himself that was pure hunter and instinct. He focused, and could feel the heartbeat of an ekon two streets to the left.

Just like he could feel four humans moving in formation down the next alley to the right.

"Keep well hidden," he growled, and vanished into the shadows.

Louise swore and ducked into an alley, poking her head around the corner to watch what was going on.

There was a shout from nearby, and then the whoosh of an ekon— or in this case, nimrod— dashing down the street and taking to the rooftops. A Priwen squad chased after him, two wielding torches, one with a revolver and sword, and one larger man with a very big gun. Louise followed at a distance and watched them turn the corner two streets down.

"Stop, you!" was the shout, and then the fighting started.

Louise surged forward, and was stopped by McCullum's hand on her arm. "We're not getting involved in that," he ordered as he pulled her in the opposite direction.

"What… McCullum?" Louise was startled. "Then who's…?"

"They thought they were chasing after a leech, and they found one." After a moment, he added, "Hardly my fault a Priwen patrol found a fancy ekon in a dangerous part of town."

Louise tried to scowl, but couldn't stop her laugh.

Chapter Text

It was a modest house by West End standards, perfectly average and easy to overlook. The only hint of what it held was the small plaque by the door: Throgmorton, Teasdale, and Crossley— Professional Vampire Hunters. A smaller, cheaper though still professional, painted sign directly underneath read, "and Consultants."

No one was home, the windows all dark. That suited Inspector Charles Jerome Albright just fine. He was here to observe, not to interview. Not yet, at least. Neighborhood gossip suggested the "vampire hunters" were a bit touched, but harmless. This was likely true, but since the Yard had received a word of concern from an Earl of all things, Inspector Albright would perform his due diligence.

“They won’t be back until dawn,” a voice said behind him.

He turned and saw a man who appeared to be of some Asiatic descent. He was dressed as a businessman, and a successful one at that, a black mustache reaching down to his short black beard. “You know the residents of that house, sir?” Albright asked.

The man nodded. “Not well personally, but I have talked with them on occasion. I am Mr. Kimura, I live a few streets down.”

“Inspector Albright, Scotland Yard. Are you often out this late at night, sir?”

“Oh, yes. I have an interest in astronomy, you see. I enjoy coming out on any night that is clear, and see what I can. I had lost the habit somewhat, after a difficult experience a few months ago, but I can finally enjoy it again.” He gestured to the house, “I find it comforting to have such people in the area.”

“Such people… as vampire hunters?” Albright’s skepticism was obvious.

Mr. Kimura made an unsurprised sound. “I do not expect you to sympathize, but surely you can appreciate the benefit of having neighbors willing to patrol the streets, even in a ‘safe’ part of town?”

The irony with which Mr. Kimura said the word “safe” was not lost on Inspector Albright, but he chose not to pursue it. "Citizens concerned for the safety of their neighbors are well and good, but I don't condone anyone looking for trouble."

"Oh, I don't think I would describe our local hunters as such." Mr. Kimura smiled and gestured down the road, "Would you care for some tea? It is a chilled night, and you'll be back again to spy on my neighbors, I'm certain."

The seasons were getting colder, that was true, but Albright was more curious about his host's opinion on these so-called hunters than getting out of the cold. "Thank you, that's a kind offer."

"Of course." They started walking. "I hope you don't mind green tea. It's not what I usually drink, but Mr. Russell highly recommended it and I have to say I was quite impressed."

As Mr. Kimura described the eccentric gourmand shopkeep to the inspector, he glanced over his shoulder to see two figures darting from an alley and through the door of their headquarters. He turned back to the inspector with a smile, and asked him if he’d ever tried stargazing.

Geoffrey smelled Ichabod and Clarence's blood long before he got inside the house. He hurried Louise along, dashing through the door and directly into the kitchen where Clarence was cleaning up. "What happened?"

Clarence sighed. "Blinker skal."

McCullum scowled. "Seeing how calm you are, I assume your injuries aren't serious."

"We'll be fine, we patched each other up." Clarence pulled his shirt up just enough to show the bandage across his side. "Ichabod was hurt more by the brick wall the skal threw him into than the skal itself. Still got a good few gashes on his arms."

"Nonsense!" Ichabod shouted from the washroom. "I hit the bin full of rubbish well before hitting the brick wall."

"Hence the bath," Louise said as she joined McCullum and Clarence in the kitchen. She held up a pamphlet, "Why's there a stack of pamphlets for a Whitechapel citizen's watch by the door?"

Clarence sighed. Again. "They were by the bin Ichabod was thrown into. He thought it would be a good idea to drop them off at the Shelter."

"Why?"

"Because Mr. Palmer needs all the help he can get," Ichabod emerged from the washroom dressed in a fresh set of trousers and shirt, running a towel over his wet hair, "and Sean Hampton has been keeping the Wet Boot Boys at bay for years."

McCullum's scowl hadn't left his face, though now his brow rose in surprise. "Palmer's serious about that? And he has support?"

"Some of that support is clearly nothing more than lip service given where I found his pamphlets," Ichabod sounded honestly disgruntled about this, "but, yes. And I think it's an excellent notion."

McCullum smirked, "If the Wet Boot Boys don't kill him first. I don't think you should involve Hampton."

"Why not? Just a stack of pamphlets on a table—"

"He's got enough to worry about with his cult."

Ichabod's brow knitted, mouth opened, shut again, and then he looked at Louise.

Louise shrugged, "Folks think he's a saint, a real one. After the 'banishing a demon with a cross' event, and all that."

"Of course," Clarence groaned.

"He's not happy about it," Louise defended.

"No, I don't expect he would be," Clarence sighed, "but it's still a terrible situation."

"It doesn't have to be terrible," Ichabod huffed. "He's not going to take advantage of anyone, I'm certain his mission hasn't changed."

"It's not him I'm worried about, Ichabod, it's the people expecting miracles."

McCullum suddenly whooshed out the back door.

Everyone reached for a weapon. They waited in tense silence, listening for any sound that might indicate the direction of the potential danger.

Geoffrey came back inside, closing the door behind him. "All clear," he called. He was rather pleased to see everyone relax from their defensive stances. Training had paid off. "The house is being watched, but it's just a human. Probably a policeman undercover."

"Oh, he's back." Ichabod said.

Louise crossed her arms, "You sound far too cheerful for those words."

"There was a man watching the house when Clarence and I came back from fighting the blinker skal," Ichabod explained. "We hid in the alley, hoping he'd leave, but then Mr. Kimura appeared and distracted him so we slipped inside."

Louise made a surprised sound. "Helpful neighbors do exist."

Geoffrey sighed. "Alright. We'll have to thank Mr. Kimura later. We're tabling the 'supporting Palmer' discussion for now. When I ran the Guard, we always kept a distance from any official force to avoid complications, though given where most leeches do their hunting, that was usually damn easy. Now we've got one watching our headquarters, and I'm guessing it's because a certain Earl told him to." He put his hands on his hips and surveyed his team. "So what are we going to do about it?"

Everyone was silent… until Ichabod raised his hand, a smile on his face.

"We invite him to tea."

Chapter Text

Inspector Albright covered a yawn as he walked through the West End. He hadn't slept well after watching the so-called hunters' headquarters the night before. Mr. Kimura had been a pleasant host, even though the man had clearly been looking at stars for too long. He'd regaled Albright with a story of a kidnapping during the height of the pandemic, and while Albright could easily believe the abduction itself had happened, he found the details of the abductor to be too much. Supernatural speed, psychic manipulation of blood? The only reason Albright hadn't left right away was that Mr. Kimura freely admitted how insane it sounded and seemed to have a good sense of humor about it. Yet there was an intensity in the retelling that felt…

Albright shook his head and sighed. This whole vampire nonsense was ridiculous, but if a fanatic individual, or individuals, took it seriously then that might lead to violent behavior. The Earl of Bristol was convinced this was the case. Why the Earl cared in the first place was anyone’s guess, but Inspector Albright was not in a position to question his orders.

He could have asked for a constable to be posted in the area, but he doubted that so obvious a watchman would uncover anything…

“Good afternoon!”

Albright stopped and looked behind him. A man in a mended suit with a bowtie approached, carrying a basket with a loaf of bread, a tin of tea, and a small assortment of produce that was probably destined for a rubbish bin in the next few days. “Good afternoon,” Albright greeted.

The man passed by cheerfully with a quick step, directly towards the vampire hunter headquarters. Albright stared. Him? Really?

“You may as well come inside!” the man called back behind him, obviously directed at Albright. He stopped just outside the door, a smile on his face like he was telling the funniest joke in the world, “Far more comfortable than waiting outside all night, don’t you agree?” He went inside.

Albright frowned. Then he sighed. If he tried to watch the house again tonight, they’d know for sure that was his purpose. If he left, he might miss something important. So, he may as well turn this investigation from surveillance to a personal interview.

He knocked on the door.

A woman answered. “Oh, Ichabod said you were right behind him. Come on in, then.” She held the door open and gestured he should move quickly. He stepped inside, looking around as she locked the door behind him. “I’m Louise Teasdale, the men are in the kitchen. Have a seat, I’ll let them know you’re waiting on us.”

Us? Ah, this must be the woman he’d heard mentioned with a slightly raised brow by a few neighbors. An unmarried young woman sharing a house with two men, one of whom was legally married (and estranged from his wife) and the other a bachelor, was odd to say the least. Still, the plaque on the front said Throgmorton, Teasdale, and Crossley… this then, was Teasdale. The men she mentioned must be the other two.

He heard voices from the kitchen becoming clearer as they entered the simply furnished drawing room.

“I’m not arguing whether or not they’re fit for consumption, all I’m saying is that it would be nice to get a fresh head of lettuce once in a while, instead of soon-to-be-discarded root vegetables all the time, that’s all.”

“Older produce is cheaper produce, my friend— ah, our guest!”

The man he'd met on the street led the way, a frail nervous sort of fellow behind him. Though perhaps frail was the wrong word. There was a definite determination in the face and the way he carried himself, though the man's body itself seemed likely to topple in a strong wind.

"Ichabod Throgmorton," the first man said, a hand outstretched, "and my associate Clarence Crossley."

Albright shook hands with a nod at Mr. Crossley. "Charles Albright, Scotland Yard."

Miss Teasdale reappeared, tea tray in hand. She set it on the drawing room table and started to pour as Throgmorton and Crossley had a seat and gestured Albright should do the same.

"Er… thank you." He had been about to protest, with firm professionalism. How did he wind up in an armchair with a cup of tea?

"Now, about the whole vampire hunting thing," Mr. Throgmorton paused to sip his tea as Mr. Crossley nearly choked on his.

"Ichabod."

"Well that's why he's here! And I'm sure the good inspector has other things he would rather be doing than watching us run around all night, isn't that right, sir?"

"I won't deny it," Albright said, "though I'm surprised you're so forthright."

Mr. Throgmorton waved a hand and selected a biscuit, "The only people who don't think we're mad are the ones we've helped, or the ones who are desperate enough to come to us in the first place… and even most of those don't believe us until after the job is done." He paused to take a bite. "Mm, Louise, these are excellent. Better than mine."

"That's because you use too much sugar and not enough butter," Miss Teasdale said as she sipped her tea.

"But I like sweet."

"The butter is what holds it all together, gives it the right texture."

"Huh. Oh, pardon me Inspector, here, you must try one of these."

Mr. Crossley sighed loudly.

"Right," Mr. Throgmorton was suddenly all business, "I've gone off track. Inspector Albright, may I inquire as to the nature of whatever complaint or concern it was that brought you here?"

Albright answered carefully, "A concerned individual, with no small amount of influence, alerted my superiors to the existence of your… organization. Given the recent murders you've no doubt read about in the papers, this individual was concerned it might be the work of violent fanatics."

"And that those violent fanatics might be us," Crossley finished the thought.

Miss Teasdale made a derisive sound into her teacup.

"I'm afraid we'll have to disappoint the individual," Throgmorton chuckled. "Ask any question you like about our work."

"Actually, there were a few things I was curious about." He set his tea down and tried to regain some sense of professionalism. "Your location here in the West End, for example. I can't imagine vampire hunting is a steady business?"

"No, it certainly isn't. We had a case recently that paid very well, we'll stretch that as far as we can. And we've friends to call on in dire straits."

"What sort of case?"

"Oh I wouldn't want to betray our client's trust in our discretion, but I can tell you that we were hired to find a creature, ah, 'terrorizing the estate,' let's say."

Albright raised a skeptical brow. "And did you?"

"Of course. Though the Earl was rather dismayed at the end."

"Discretion," Crossley groaned, a hand over his face. Throgmorton looked chastened.

Earl? A picture of the situation started to paint itself in Albright's imagination. "Dismayed? Why?"

Teasdale spoke. "It didn't go how he'd expected."

They quite obviously could not have caught a vampire, as vampires did not exist, but they certainly could have caught a feral animal of some sort on the grounds and presented it as a job well done if the conditions weren't specific. Why an Earl would hire these people when a groundskeeper with a good rifle should have been able to do the job was the strange part. "What did he expect?"

"Oh, I wouldn't presume to assume," Throgmorton said solemnly.

"Then what did Miss Teasedale mean when she said it wasn't what he expected?"

She answered, "I was trying to be more tactful than saying he was right embarrassed."

"Payment is usually negotiated beforehand," Crossley suddenly added, "but in this case the client made us an offer up front."

"A big one," Teasdale added.

Throgmorton shrugged, "And who are we to refuse so generous a lord?"

Albright snorted. "I see. And how do clients normally hear about you?"

"Word of mouth, mostly, though we do have a few posters around the city."

"And you do more than hunt vampires, I presume?"

"That's our specialty. If we determine a vampire is not the cause of the problem, but we're still able to help, then we do so."

"Of course you do." Albright finished his tea. "Well. I'll be reassuring my superiors that your organization is no threat to the public, except perhaps to those gullible enough to believe supernatural creatures exist."

"And those of the public who are supernatural," Throgmorton said with a straight face.

"But only the immoral, bad vampires," Miss Teasdale added.

Albright had had enough. "I don't approve of your… line of work," he surveyed the group as he stood, "but at least you're straightforward about it, not some spiritualist taking advantage of the grieving. I would advise you not to accept payment up front from any client in the future, especially not powerful ones who might use their influence to voice their dissatisfaction."

For that was clearly what this was. The Earl of Bristol, having found himself duped through his own fault, was taking advantage of the sensationalist nature of the recent murders to have a little petty revenge.

Throgmorton and the others stood and saw him out. "Don't worry, Inspector," Throgmorton assured him, "we have no intention of ever working for any of the Earl's… sort, again."

“Good,” Albright nodded. “I mean this in the best way possible, but I hope not to meet you again. Good day.”

He walked down the street, intending to catch a cab back to the Yard and make his report that in his official opinion, Throgmorton, Teasdale, and Crossley: Vampire Hunters and Consultants, were of no threat to anyone.

Ichabod watched the inspector get into the cab and drive off. "Well done, everyone," he said to his friends. "That couldn't have gone better."

Clarence crossed his arms, "I don't believe for an instant this is going to deter Redgrave."

"Oh, probably not," Ichabod shrugged, "but if he questions the police too much, then he makes himself a nuisance."

"Do you think he cares?" Louise drawled.

Ichabod paused a moment, and then said, "I suppose we'll find out."

Chapter Text

Sean Hampton had experienced many trials through his life, but even in his darkest moments he had found strength in the Lord, and the Lord had rewarded him with His blessing. Now, it seemed, the Lord had seen fit to test his humility and patience. Either that, or this was a temptation from an entirely different source.

"I could help, Sean!" Lottie pleaded.

"No," Sean was firm. "I would not wish my condition on anyone." He sighed, softening. They were in his office, the door closed, but raised voices would carry and were unnecessary, besides. "Lottie, I am more grateful for your aid to my mission and your willingness to accept what I have become than words can express, truly. But what I am…" He hesitated. He had described to her what he had become, but he'd never mentioned how Dr. Reid kept him from losing himself. "There is a hunger, Lottie. It's quiet now, content with the occasional piece of dead flesh, but that was not always the case."

"But it is now! You overcame it. If I—"

"Oh, Lottie, do not ask for such!" He put his hand on her shoulder, the fingers thin and claw-like, skin stretched over bone after the flesh had been burned away. Lottie didn't so much as flinch. "If the Lord sees fit to test you, he will. I am not so prideful to assume I could change you into the same thing as I am. It could go horribly wrong. Please, do not ask me again."

A flash of stubbornness was on her face as he let his hand drop from her shoulder, but she sighed and nodded. "Alright, Sean, I won't."

"Thank you," he said as he silently thanked the Lord. "I truly am grateful for everything you've done, Lottie, I hope you know that."

She smiled a little. "I know. I just think about the monster that nearly destroyed it all and want to be able to do more."

"I understand." He led the way out, back to his flock, "But fortunately we won't be seeing any monsters like Clay Cox again."

She nodded once, expression serious. "That's good. But what if there are others?"

She walked away before Sean could respond.

The Shelter was busy, as it so often was these days. Sean's attention was soon consumed by feeding the hungry and giving council to any who asked. Lottie assisted with the meal and the cleaning afterward, shooing Sean away with a smile when the dishes were half done. "Go be with everyone, they're all here because of you, you know."

That was a fact that continued to embarrass him. His fame, small though it was, sat uncomfortably on his shoulders. Still, if he could be of help to people, then that is what he would do. So he left Lottie to finish on her own and attended the crowd.

It wasn't until much later that Sean realized Lottie was gone.

Lottie Paxton was not a timid woman. She tried her best to be kind, and she always tried to see the best in people and be understanding, just like Sean did. Kindness and timidity were not the same thing. She understood why Sean refused to make her like him. He was looking out for one of his flock. He would never force anyone to struggle more than they already did just trying to live in the world. Yet in doing so he made himself struggle, and Lottie knew in her bones that it wasn't right to let that pass. He’d let slip once that there were others like him out there. all she had to do was find one. She wasn't a fool, she knew it was dangerous enough with the human monsters lurking in the dark, let alone any immortal sorts, but she refused to let herself be helpless in the future.

A moan from the courtyard of an abandoned building distracted her. Whoever it was sounded sick, or mad; it was like nothing she'd ever heard before. She carefully crept closer, and saw a man in ragged clothes standing in a dark corner. She couldn’t get a good look at him yet, but when he reacted to a sound down the alley before appearing to notice her, she briefly wondered if he was blind.

He staggered out of the dark, face and hands covered in scars and sores, a growl from his throat like an animal before a soul splitting howl echoed through the night. Lottie screamed as she ran, the thing following the sound of her steps as it fast overtook her. She felt her breath knocked out of her as she was pushed to the ground… and another shape leaped through the dark, tumbling to the ground with her attacker.

Sean had found her. He shouted at the thing, pleading with it to come to its senses, he didn't want to have to hurt it, but nothing worked. The thing charged—

A gun fired, the shot striking it in the side. It staggered, turning to face its new attacker as another shot hit the shoulder, then the chest. The last shot struck it in the head, and it collapsed.

Sean hurried to her. "Are you all right?" She nodded and tried to sit up. "Easy, now, nice and slow, like," he said softly as he put a hand on her back to support her.

From the other side of the street came a middle aged man in worker's clothes with a gun in his hand, followed by a woman with a sunflower blossom pinned to the fur lapel of her long coat, a stack of flyers under her arm.

"Did you often have to shoot people more than once in the War, Mr. Palmer?" the woman asked with an arched brow.

"Sometimes," Mr. Palmer grumbled. "Not sure that's a 'person' though, not a sane one anyway. Looks like one of those crazy sods that were around at the worst of the flu." He came closer to Sean and Lottie. "You alright, miss?"

"I think so," Lottie said as Sean helped her to her feet. "Thank you."

"We shouldn't linger," Sean warned, "it may only be stunned."

Mr. Palmer was incredulous. "After four bullets??"

"Let's not argue," said the woman, "it wouldn't do to have a chat next to a corpse in the first place."

They all followed Sean's lead as he took them back in the direction of the Night Shelter, stopping only when he was certain they were beyond the range of any skals that may have been attracted by the fight.

He turned to Mr. Palmer, "Thank you again for your help."

Palmer put away his gun with a nod. "You're lucky I was on this side of town. I'm Ben Palmer, I live up in Whitechapel. This is Loretta Swanborough—"

"Purveyor of the Swanborough Cordial, an all-purpose remedy that will revolutionize medicine," the woman was suddenly right beside him, a hand outstretched and a professional smile on her face.

Palmer rolled his eyes.

Lottie, still a bit shaken and now rather confused, shook hands. "I'm Lottie Paxton. And this is Mr. Sean Hampton."

"Hampton?" Palmer echoed, a bit surprised.

Sean nodded. "What brings you so far from Whitechapel, Mr. Palmer?"

Ms. Swanborough flourished a flyer at him, "You do, Mr. Hampton. We're here to ask for the support of the Sad Saint of the East End in eliminating the Wet Boot Boys. Their terror can continue no longer."

Lottie thought she said it all perfectly seriously, but still sounded like she was selling something. The flyer was a call to arms in bold lettering:

Our Friends. Our Children.
Enough is Enough.
Stand Up To the Wet Boot Boys.

"I'm here," Mr. Palmer stepped forward with an annoyed glance at Ms. Swanborough, "because someone's got to start standing up to the Wet Boot Boys, and you're the only person in the city the gangs don't touch. She's here to advertise her product."

Ms. Swanborough tsked, "Come now, Mr. Palmer. I may be a businesswoman, but that business is people's welfare, and the ~Swanborogh Cordial~" she produced a small bottle from an inner coat pocket, "is just the strength your budding revolution needs." She said this as she turned slightly to ensure Sean and Lottie would have a clear view of the ornately written label on the bottle.

"Why do you let her follow you?" Sean asked.

Palmer snorted, amused. "Because the damn woman's good at talking to people!"

Ms. Swanborough put away the bottle, matter-of-fact once again, "He's threatened to throw me into the Thames twice already, but he's not the sort to do physical harm to a lady, not while sober that is, and that's what it would take to discourage me."

Lottie and Sean shared a look. These two were a bit odd.

"Well," Sean said, "I need to see Lottie safely back to the Night Shelter. You're welcome to come along."

"We would be delighted," Ms. Swanborough answered before Mr. Palmer had a chance. He grunted in agreement anyway.

As they walked, Palmer asked, "I'm down here to ask if you'd allow some flyers hung at your Shelter."

"That would be dangerously close to Edwina Cox's shop," Sean said. "I don't want to invite violence. The Shelter has remained a neutral ground precisely by my staying neutral."

"Hmph. The violence may not be happening on your doorstep, but it's happening, no matter how neutral you want to be."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Sean asked with a sad smile. "But what would it do to all the people who come to me because they need a safe space, if that space is no longer safe for them?" He shook his head. "I won't advertise your cause, Mr. Palmer, but I also can't stop you from talking to people. I hope your efforts succeed, I truly do. But someone has to make sure there's a place for the ones fighting to retreat to."

Palmer huffed and muttered under his breath, “Wish the rest of the country felt that way about its soldiers.” He shook his head and said, “Alright, Mr. Hampton, I won’t cause trouble for you. I appreciate you letting me talk to folks.”

“It seems the least I can do for how you helped Lottie and I,” Sean said graciously.

Lottie nodded her agreement, and paused a moment to glance behind them. She could have sworn she saw someone… but the street was empty. Perhaps she was seeing things after her shock.

Joe Peterson wasn’t proud of being muscle for the Wet Boot Boys, but the job kept a roof over him and his son’s head and he never slacked when a job needed doing. He forced himself not to think about it any further than that. When Ben Palmer cleaned up after his son was killed, he’d admired the man a bit. Worthless crazy drunk like that, pulling his life together? It made Joe think that maybe someday he might find a legitimate job… but Palmer had been a soldier. Joe’s reputation was something else entirely.

So here he was, trailing Palmer through the streets, all the way down to the Docks, just because an old drunk who was never there for his kid suddenly wanted revenge on the people that offed him. Except the Wet Boot Boys hadn’t done it, or if a member had then it hadn’t been official business. Not that anyone could ever know that. Denying it would dent the reputation of the gang. Instead, they were going to let Palmer try his best to take them down, and then smear the cobbles with him.

Or that was the plan… until he started walking next to the Sad Saint.

Joe hurried down an alley to stay out of sight and made his way to the boss’s shop.

Chapter Text

“I think it’s absolutely wonderful what you're doing in Whitechapel,” Ichabod shook Ben Palmer’s hand. They had just been formally introduced by Sean after Mr. Palmer and Ms. Swanborough escorted Sean and Lottie back to the Shelter.

"Er, thank you," Palmer said, clearly unaccustomed to praise. "Hardly anything yet."

"It's a start," Ichabod corrected with vigor, "and that's more than anyone has ever done."

“Bit surprised by the lady though,” Louise said.

Palmer shrugged, “I know she’s in it for the business opportunity, but I’ll take the help I can get.”

Ichabod made a considering sound. “Is that so? Excuse me for a moment.” He turned and headed straight toward her.

“What’s he up to?” Ben asked Louise.

Louise shrugged. “Honestly, half the time I don’t even know until he’s already done it.”

Ichabod sauntered up to Miss Swanborough and offered his friendliest “Good evening!”

“Good evening,” she said in turn.

“Ichabod Throgmorton, at your service.”

They shook hands. “Loretta Swanborough. I understand you fancy yourself a vampire hunter, Mr. Throgmorton?”

“I don't fancy myself one, Miss Swanborough, it is my profession.”

She seemed impressed, though he had an odd feeling it was for the wrong reasons. “I see. Well said. Then your work is the cause of that scar on your face?”

He nodded, “I was fighting a monster hellbent on devouring the people here.”

That gave her the briefest of pause. “And you won.”

He laughed, “Goodness, no, I was thrown across the yard into a stack of crates before the fiend started toying with me. I'd be dead if Mr. Hampton hadn't appeared wielding a cross.”

It took barely a moment for her to recover, “Ah. Yes, a few of the people here have mentioned that.”

Though as yet he wasn’t certain of her intentions, he had to admire her professionality. “And why are you here, Miss Swanborough?”

She arched an eyebrow. “You don't believe I'm here to help?”

“On the contrary, I believe you are, but why? Mr. Palmer maintains your motivation is to spread interest in your product, but I should think there would be less potentially dangerous methods to do that than allying with a man whose ultimate goal is to destroy the Wet Boot Boys.”

She considered him carefully for a moment. "Mm. I'll tell you something I once told a fellow medical colleague who asked about the effectiveness of my remedy. I sell hope, Mr. Throgmorton. When the flu was at its worst, Whitechapel was willing to pay anything for a glimpse of it, and my brother and I obliged. Now that the disease seems to be lessening in its severity, the people don't need a cure for their illnesses as much as they need hope that their lives might become a little less terrible."

That was an interesting response. "Surely Mr. Palmer can provide that without you?"

She scoffed, "Have you seen his marketing? He scowls and organizes his mission, I smile and coax people to meetings."

"Where you sell your goods," Ichabod pointed out.

"And why not get something in return?" she challenged.

Why not indeed? He folded his arms and pondered the woman in front of him. Something didn't make sense, and once it finally occurred to him what it was he smiled, inordinately pleased with himself. "This is a terrible sales strategy. You aren't really doing this for publicity for your own product, you actually want to support him. Selling your own goods is a front for your honest support!"

She was visibly flustered, hands on her hips and fidgeting, which only made him smile more. "I can't just stop working now, can I? I have responsibilities of my own, Mr. Throgmorton."

"I'll take five."

She stopped fidgeting and blinked. "How many?"

"Five bottles, please."

She recovered miraculously, "Of course! You're a gentleman who understands the value of being prepared. Let me bag them up for you."

He handed her the money and she handed him the paper bag. She held onto it just long enough to meet his eyes. "Thank you," she said.

Ichabod nodded, his smile a little softer. He kept his voice low. "Your secret's safe with me."

The tiniest smile crossed her face and the businesswoman was back in force as she stood straight and hurried him along. "Thank you for your business, sir, and be sure to tell your friends about the marvels of the Swanborough Cordial."

Ichabod laughed, he couldn't help it. "I'll do that!"

He even convinced Louise to begrudgingly buy one.

Edwina Cox was a ruthless businesswoman and the living embodiment of “might makes right.” With her husband gone, truly dead and gone this time, she’d taken control of the Wet Boot Boys without any questions asked and ran the gang with a cold efficiency. She wouldn’t tolerate any disruption to her business.

Ben Palmer fancied himself a disruption to her business.

He was all talk, upset over the death of his brat, but people were starting to show up at his little street corner gatherings. Whitechapel was starting to pay attention to him. No one else in London did, and the ones who did listen in Whitechapel hadn’t done anything other than agree with him. One or two had tried to put on a brave face when collection time came, but everyone still paid their dues. Palmer could talk all he wanted, but the Boys ruled with fear and force, and none of London’s poor could stand up to that. They’d make an example of Palmer soon enough.

There was only one person on the Docks that might be able to rally people together, who could organize support for the ones whose homes would be razed if they defied the Boys, who could patch up the wounded. One person had a chance of taking the Wet Boot Boys down, and he was a bloody pacifist. Unless you threatened his tiny patch of territory, that is.

Which was why Edwina took the news that Hampton and Palmer had been seen together a little less than gracefully.

“He fucking WHAT.”

Joe Peterson was over a head taller than Edwina and built like a prize fighter, but he still flinched. “They were talking, I think Palmer got him out of a fight, heard gunshots before seeing them come out onto the street together. I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying or else I’d be spotted. Saw the Swanborough lady show Hampton a flyer, then they started walking together.”

Edwina scowled, “We can’t take the chance of Hampton supporting him. That sort of backing would give Palmer’s crusade legitimacy.”

Joe's eyes widened. "You want to take out the Saint?" He didn't spend much time on this side of town, but even he knew that was a dangerous idea.

Edwina rolled her eyes, "And give another gang a reason to come after us? Hampton's territory is neutral ground, we make a move and it signals we're expanding, and that starts a war we're not ready for." She shook her head, annoyed, "We need someone who's not connected to all this that's willing to end the ugly bastard."

Joe knew he was far from a beauty himself, but he had to admit that he'd noticed Hampton's appearance, even from a distance. One hand seemed different from the other, scars on his face, thin as a skeleton. “Bit ghoulish, yeah,” he idly muttered.

Edwina snorted. “Maybe he is. That’d be right ironic.”

“Ma’am?”

She waved him away, “Psh, never mind. You reported as you should, Joe, good work. Now get back to Whitechapel so I can think. I still expect the payments you would have collected today if you hadn’t been following Palmer, understand?”

“Yes’m,” Joe said, and made his way out. Payments, he grumbled a little to himself. He was tired of bullying people for money. He was good at it, but he’d actually enjoyed following Palmer today. Gathering information had felt a bit more worthwhile, like he was useful for something other than just intimidating people. It wasn’t something his son would ever be proud of, but he’d given up on that. He’d even briefly considered trying to find that group that claimed to fight vampires, just to see if they were real or loons or both…

… Wait a tick.

Joe turned on his heel and went straight back to the boss.

Edwina wasn't pleased. "I told you to get back to Whitechapel!"

"I know ma'am but I had an idea about what you said, Hampton being ghoulish? Well, put me in mind of a pamphlet I've got at home, picked it up when the flu started to get real bad, folks acting crazy."

"Get to the point."

"Right, well. Didn't pay much heed to it then but…" he hesitated a moment, realizing how insane this sounded. "There's this group that hunts vampires. I know it sounds crazy, but I was thinking we could find 'em—"

"—And set them on Hampton, regardless of whether or not he actually is one." Edwina finished the thought, surprisingly unbothered by the idea. "What are they called?"

"The Guard of Priwen."

Chapter Text

Ichabod Throgmorton was not scared of Geoffrey McCullum. He perhaps would have been, back when the Nimrod had been human, ironically enough. Now, however, he'd worked with the man too often to see him as a threat to his own person. And yet only a fool would look at McCullum's face from where he sat on the stairs inside their headquarters without a moment of… pause.

"What's this I hear about The Saint supporting Palmer? Palmer expanding to the Docks?"

Ichabod cleared his throat and brushed past, literally stepping over him, "Mr. Hampton doesn't support him, he's simply not stopping him from talking to people."

McCullum dashed in smoke and shadow to block Ichabod's way, glowering. "Whitechapel is taking Palmer seriously. The Docks are taking Palmer seriously. And the Wet Boot Boys have a new target to aim at."

"The Shelter is neutral!" Ichabod protested. "No gang will attack, not even the Wet Boot Boys. It would be a bad sign to all the other gangs."

McCullum was still frowning.

Ichabod rolled his eyes, "Whatever idea you have about Mr. Palmer's cause somehow contributing to Sean's growing following is unfounded."

McCullum raised a single eyebrow. "You don't think drawing more attention to the skal who does charity work for other skals might not have some sort of backlash? You can't think of a single organization that might not appreciate a skal being a pillar of a community?"

Ichabod scoffed, "I suspect the activities of a shelter for the poor and in need is somewhat below Lord Redgrave's consideration."

McCullum leaned in. “A shelter for the poor and in need, that an ever present thorn in his side regularly attends.”

“... he wouldn’t,” Ichabod quietly protested, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

McCullum straightened, eyebrow raised.

“Damn it all!” Ichabod shouted to the ceiling. “But it would be so… so petty!” He took a deep breath and sighed, continuing to his room as McCullum, having made his point, let him pass. “I still think there’s an excellent chance Ascalon won’t do anything against Sean, especially since it would upset Old Bridget. Lord Redgrave might be an ekon and she a skal, but he hasn’t done anything to eliminate what must be an eternal reminder of his shame in centuries. That means he either holds some strange respect or guilt for his wife, or he’s afraid of her.”

McCullum was not convinced. “Maybe. All the same, I’ll take a look tomorrow night, see if I spot any ekons spying on our friendly and irritatingly influential skal.”

Ichabod smiled, “Thank you, McCullum. I appreciate that, and Sean will be glad to know you’re worried about him.”

McCullum scoffed, “I’m not wor—” but the door was closed. McCullum rolled his eyes and went up to his attic room.

McCullum arrived at the Shelter just past sundown and settled into a shadowed corner where he could stay out of the way but still “keep an eye on” the slowly growing crowd unnoticed, even if he wouldn’t be using his eyes as much as his other senses. His hope was that if there was an ekon skulking around, he’d find it. There was a chance that if Ascalon ever decided to remove Hampton then they would just send someone to do it instead of scouting first, but scouting the location is what Geoffrey would do and so he prepared for it.

After a few hours, Geoffrey needed to move. He didn’t need to breathe, though he could force his lungs to perform the motion, and though he could get hungry he was fairly certain he couldn’t die of starvation… but he could still get stiff muscles from standing in one spot for too long. Leech anatomy was fucking ridiculous. Made no sense. Crossley would probably say something about nimrod physiology and wonder if ekons had the same problem and so on.

McCullum shook his head and stepped out of his corner. He’d say hello to Hampton, let him know his concerns. He was sure the skal knew he was here by now anyway and would likely appreciate an explanation. The good news was that tonight, so far, there was no sign of any ekon in the vicinity. Unfortunately, there had been lots of gossiping about Palmer’s army. They called it a citizen watch, but an army was what it was going to become, and that was going to be a fucking mess.

McCullum spotted Hampton at the end of the serving line and tried to walk around it to get to him. Why couldn’t Throgmorton ever consider the impact of his well-meaning actions? He just gallivanted off and never considered there would be consequences. He took a job from Redgrave after all. Then again, if he hadn’t, McCullum never would have met him and…

… and a man sitting on a crate with a bowl of soup looked right at Geoffrey McCullum, spoon halfway to his mouth, and froze. Even worse, Geoffrey recognized him.

“Shit,” Geoffrey sighed.

The Guard of Priwen rookie, or so he’d been when McCullum was still in charge, slowly stood up, put down his bowl, and walked out the gate. Geoffrey hurried after, just in time to see the lad bolt down the street once he was clear. Shit. Well-meaning actions and consequences and all that bollocks, he grumbled to himself as he chased after him. He focused, tracking the heartbeat clearly and easily overtook the young man in an alley. The man screamed "Leech!" and pulled a large knife, which Geoffrey secured to the wall with shadows, along with the rest of the man.

"Morris, wasn't it? Make Cadet yet?"

The younger man was startled. "Two weeks—" he stopped and scowled.

McCullum grunted, "Don't bother screaming, your backup squad is already on the way. Just tell me this; were you there to spy, or just getting a free meal?"

"... both."

McCullum was alarmed. "What do you mean both?"

"Rumors of the Saint being a skal for a while and—"

"I don't mean that, why isn't the Guard feeding you?"

Morris was confused, to say the least. "They do, just had a hard time of it this past month is all."

"I thought O'Shea would be better at allocating resources than that."

Morris shook his head, "O'Shea's gone, beast under a bridge got him. We thought he was gonna pull through, but infection set in."

"Then who's in charge?"

"Browning."

McCullum's brow shot up. "Browning?! What about Sterling?"

"Sterling doesn't want it."

"Doesn't want it??” McCullum didn’t even try not to shout. “He's the best one for it!!"

Morris shrugged, as much as he could under the shadows.

McCullum sighed, exasperated. "Damn fool. Alright, your friends are here. Don't try to chase me, don't cause trouble for the Saint, not that I think you'll listen to a leech, but it's worth warning you."

He pulled the shadows around himself and vanished as three Guards rounded the corner.

Browning, he cursed to himself from a balcony two buildings away. Plenty of drive, sure, and zero foresight to use it. He’d run the Guard into the ground… and a piece of him that sounded an awful lot like Teasedale wondered why he was upset about that.

The Guard had been everything to him. He didn’t like knowing they could be ruined by poor management of all things. Even if they did think he deserved to die. Sometimes, he agreed with them.

Sometimes?

When had that happened?

Moping up here wasn’t going to get anything done, either for Hampton, his team, or the Guard. He dashed down and got to work. He had a lot to prepare for.

Chapter Text

McCullum was worried about the Guard, both the status of the organization and what they might do under their new management, and Ichabod had offered his support because of course he had. That left Louise and Clarence to cover McCullum's usual patrol of Whitechapel.

“Why are we doing this, again?” Clarence asked.

“Because Ichabod is helping McCullum confront his old family, who want to kill him,” Louise said.

Clarence was quiet for a bit. “Probably for the best we aren’t there.”

Louise almost laughed. “Why, you think we have some sort of history with family trouble?”

Clarence almost smiled.

They walked for a little while in silence, listening for any sounds of skal activity. If they encountered an ekon, they likely couldn’t defeat it on their own, but there was plenty they could do to escape.

“I hate patrolling without either of them,” Clarence muttered. He hurriedly added, “Not that I don’t want to be here with you, Louise, I know you’re perfectly capable—”

“They both have a way of making things feel safer, I agree.”

Clarence looked relieved. “Good.”

“We’ll be fine, Clarence.”

“Of course we will.”

“... you could at least try to sound like you mean it.”

Clarence blushed. “It’s hard. Still. I know it shouldn’t be by now.”

Louise stopped walking, a hand on his arm. “It’s hard for as long as it’s hard. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s probably best if this never gets easy.”

Clarence took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You and Ichabod always seem so eager to face danger head on, though.”

“So are you,” Louise said. “You just do it from a sensible distance. You’ve never hesitated to help any of us, Clarence, and you’ve been the sole reason we’ve survived many fights. Don’t go doubting yourself now, just because neither charismatic leader is here.”

Clarence blinked in surprise. “Thank you.”

Louise nodded and they started walking again. Whitechapel wasn't their usual haunt, but they'd become more familiar with it since Ichabod had taken an interest in Mr. Palmer.

There was another Watch rally going on tonight, a small gathering of people in the usual place, Miss Swanborough greeting everyone with a smile and passing out hot drinks while Mr. Palmer talked about the importance of organization and standing together. Apparently an older man by the name of Mr. Petrescu had agreed to let them use his home as a meeting place next time, instead of always meeting outside where they were increasingly a potential target for passing violence.

Louise tapped Clarence’s shoulder and gestured toward a familiar man in a bowler standing off to the side, near the reporter Mr. Darby’s usual post. They shared a look, and walked right up to him.

“Good evening, Inspector Albright,” Clarence greeted.

“Ah, Mr… Crossley, wasn’t it? And Miss Teasdale?”

“Inspector,” Louise nodded. “Here for the rally?”

Albright smiled a little. “Here to see if it stays a rally, or if it’s just another source of violence in the district.”

Louise made an impressed sound. “I have to say, I can’t remember the last time the police were concerned about the violence in Whitechapel.”

Clarence sighed.

“Oh, you’re right,” Louise amended, “there's always interest when the police are the ones suffering the violence, isn't there?”

About three steps away, Mr. Darby coughed, covering a smile.

Inspector Albright didn't react how they expected. “I know there are a lot of problems with the police force, and our methods of dispensing justice. I’m not here on official business, Miss Teasdale. I’m here because citizens are standing up for themselves, which is admirable. They’re also setting themselves up for failure, which is not.”

He gestured to the rally, “Mr. Palmer, 34 years old, male, alcoholic veteran suffering from psychological trauma since he returned home from the front, as any conversation with anyone who knows him will tell you. Had a remarkable turnaround after the murder of his son by, he believes, the Wet Boot Boys, and has made it his personal mission to see the gang rendered impotent if not destroyed. It’s an inspiring story, and he has the determination to see his plans come to fruition.” He turned back to Clarence and Louise. “The problem is that he doesn’t have the resources, and he knows it.” He said over his shoulder, “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Darby?”

Clayton Darby frowned, stopped writing in his notebook, and stepped over to join them. “It seems that way, yes. Everyone’s eager to be safe. Whether or not they think the Citizen’s Watch can provide that, is… mixed.”

Clarence sighed again, heavier than before. “So they need regular patrols of individuals trained not only in self defense, but in how to prevent an attack from happening in the first place.”

Albright nodded, “Which is not a resource that exists.”

“Oh, it does,” Clarence grumbled.

Albright shook his head, “I'd never be able to convince my superiors to support—”

“Not you,” Clarence somehow groaned and sighed at the same time.

Louise grinned ear to ear. “That is an Ichabod level insane idea.”

“I know,” Clarence groaned again and started walking. Louise quickly said goodbye to the other two very confused men, “There's an organization who's good at all that, they just usually aren't looking for humans.” She smiled and hurried after Clarence, calling back to them as she went, “Don't think too hard about it, we're crazy but harmless so on and so on!”

Albright turned to Darby. “What was that about?”

Darby shrugged and went back to taking notes. “Inspector, I don't know that lot well, but one thing I have learned is that it's best to take Miss Teasdale's advice… and maybe keep one eye open for whatever's going to happen.”

“You think it's dangerous?”

Mr. Darby chuckled, “Not in the least. I just don't want to miss it.”

McCullum stood on the balcony of an abandoned building near the Docks and listened to heartbeats. Six of them, specifically. Two gunners, two enforcers, and an exterminator followed behind an executioner with fire bolts for his crossbow. Sterling always did prefer flame to “that chemical shite.” He was also better with a crossbow than McCullum had ever achieved, though McCullum would never admit that to his face. They were headed toward the Shelter. Time to get this over with.

McCullum whooshed to the ground, landing right in front of them. "Evening, boys."

All of them jumped and fanned out, though it spoke well of their training that no one fired right away, all eyes on Sterling’s raised hand.

“Good to see you, Sterling,” McCullum said to the man in front. Had he always looked so haggard?

“McCullum,” Sterling said. The man’s hair had gone grey under his cap, lines on his square face deeper than McCullum remembered. His hands were still solid as stone, though.

“I see you've some new members,” McCullum nodded toward one of the gunners. He didn’t recognize her, which meant she’d moved up through the ranks quick. “Any good?”

“Decent batch.”

McCullum nodded once. “Good to hear. This party all for me? Or are you after the Saint, too?”

“We're not taking him out yet, but we'll be keeping an eye on him.”

McCullum chuckled, “Me too.”

The new gunner whispered to the enforcer standing closest to her, “What the hell's happening?”

“Shut up and pay attention,” the enforcer hissed back.

“Did you ever figure it out?” Sterling suddenly asked. “What turned you?”

McCullum was surprised. “Yeah. King Arthur was a leech.”

Sterling blinked once. “I told you to leave that mystical shite alone—”

McCullum rolled his eyes, embarrassed of all things, “You were right and I'm paying for it, aren't I?” He collected himself. “Now, don't be stupid tonight. You hunt leeches in your way, I hunt them in mine… and you can't beat me, Sterling.”

Sterling was expressionless, his voice flat. “We've got orders to try.”

McCullum scoffed. “Orders from Browning? Sending you out here to die while he hides at headquarters? You could do better.”

“He's the one who stepped up.”

“You could do better, you idiot. You know you could.”

Sterling shook his head. “Did you ever get tired, McCullum? I don't mean just like you need a decent night's sleep, I mean down to your bones. Drained, like. For days, weeks.” At McCullum’s silence, he smirked. “Nah, I suppose you didn't. Too much fire in you.”

McCullum couldn’t believe it. “You're quitting.”

Sterling shook his head again, “Can't, not with all I've seen. But I don't have it in me to lead. The newest recruits, they're losing focus. Most of 'em have seen enough to know the threat's out there, but they just want to defend themselves and any family they have left, they're not hunters. And the older members are torn down the middle between never wanting to see you again and hunting you down because it's what you would have wanted.”

“… not long ago, yeah, it was.”

Sterling cocked his head. “Coming to peace with it?”

“I'll never be at peace with it. But I can use it.”

He could hear the heartbeats of more humans behind him, hiding all through the alleys. He was surrounded. He'd hoped to avoid a massacre, and that chance just became much thinner. Still, the chance was there.

“We're fighting the same fight, Sterling.”

The older man actually seemed regretful. “Priwen will never side with a leech, you know that. Kendall Stone wrote it himself.”

McCullum sighed. “I know.”

The shadows darkened, coalescing as the Guard of Priwen took aim… and Ichabod Throgmorton ran into the street.

“A question!”

One of the enforcers actually jumped. Sterling shifted focus when he saw McCullum’s shadows subside, a fraction. Ichabod talked fast.

“What is the Guard of Priwen's current policy regarding humans in the line of fire? For example, if I were to stand directly in front of Mr. McCullum,” which he did, “would you still try to shoot him? Set him on fire? Chemical smokes and other distasteful effects?”

“Yes,” Sterling said.

Ichabod sounded shocked. “Really?? You'd extend that same policy to Mr. Hampton, then, killing dozens of civilians to get to a single skal who hasn't killed anyone.”

“They wouldn't try to stop us.”

“Ha! Of course they would! Haven't you heard? He's a saint.” Ichabod gestured broadly to his audience, “Your own members attend his meals, and you know damned well that if you eliminated him, you would be destroying a vital community service, so you send people to watch and wait and pray he never hurts anyone. As for Mr. McCullum, the only creatures he has any interest in killing are vampires that make no attempt to curb their impulses. He can't even stand the taste of human blood! Makes for a damn difficult time feeding him if he's ever injured, let me tell you.”

“Gone off track, Ichabod,” Geoffrey growled.

“My Point!” Ichabod finally reached it with a hand in the air like some sort of magician, “Is that if you want to kill him, you'll have to kill me as well… and an entire shelter full of people.”

Wait, what?

The humans he'd sensed behind him moved forward, a ragtag bunch of individuals completely unarmed, all led by a mousy woman with dark hair he'd always seen helping serve food in a soup line.

“We're not letting you hurt Mr. Hampton,” said Lottie Paxton, “or any of our guardian angels.”

Their what. “This was not the plan,” McCullum hissed to Ichabod.

“I improved it,” Ichabod whispered back.

“Improved???”

Ichabod ignored him, speaking to the somewhat bemused Sterling. “Have you ever considered that instead of skulking about looking for vampires, you could be actually helping people?”

Sterling glowered.

“I don’t mean that you aren’t helping people now, of course!” Ichabod hurried. “Slaying vampires that would try to eat people does indeed count as helping them, but as you just said, most people would rather be taught to defend themselves and try to carry on with their lives. What if you helped more with the last part, rather than solely focusing on the first?” At the lack of response, Ichabod shrugged. “Think about it. At any rate, you won’t be harming Mr. McCullum tonight, or Mr. Hampton ever, unless you’re willing to kill, injure, maim, et cetera, a few dozen civilians in the process.”

Sterling said over his shoulder, “Non-fatal shot.”

The gunner shot Ichabod in the leg without hesitation.

Or she would have, if McCullum hadn't taken the bullet. McCullum held in the urge to bear his fangs. The crowd gasped and cried out in surprise, the reality of what they were risking sinking in, many people taking a step or three back.

But no one ran.

Sterling sighed. “Ah, bollocks. Ain’t like you to hide behind others, McCullum.”

“Hiding?!” McCullum shouted, offended. “Do I look like I’m hiding?”

Sterling… smiled? It was gone in a flash as he turned to his crew. “Retreat. I’m not in the habit of shooting at civilians and I don’t intend to start now.”

Not all of them were happy with the decision, but the Guard of Priwen, miraculously, walked away.

“Mr. McCullum?” Lottie asked, “Are you alright?”

He nodded, “Fine.” He glared at Ichabod.

“Thank you everyone for your help,” Ichabod addressed the crowd. “Back to the Shelter, now, quickly, before they change their mind or something equally unpleasant comes by.” As the crowd dispersed, he said to McCullum, “Thank you for not letting me be shot.”

Geoffrey sighed heavily. “Ichabod. Do not. Ever. ‘Improve’ one of our plans without telling me first. Understood?”

Ichabod, perhaps sensing how close his colleague was to either being angry or depressed he wasn’t sure which, simply nodded. “Understood.” He stood there a moment, watching him. “That must have been unpleasant.”

“Pfft, been shot before.”

Ichabod arched an eyebrow. “That’s not what I meant.”

Geoffrey shook his head. “Went better than I thought.” It had been incredibly unpleasant when he was in the moment, but Lottie Paxton’s voice kept running through the back of his head. All those people… He collected himself, banished the foolishness and focused. “Let’s get back to Hampton, let him know the situation with the Guard. Then we need to reconvene with Crossley and Teasdale.”

“Of course,” Ichabod said. He followed without a word until they reached the Shelter.

Chapter Text

The next day, Ichabod called a kitchen meeting of his colleagues. McCullum leaned against a counter while the three humans cleaned up after their early evening meal, waiting for what new madness Throgmorton had come up with this time. He suppressed a yawn, wondered why the hell something dead would need to yawn, and decided not to think about it too much.

Sean Hampton’s reaction to the previous night's events had been predictable, lots of grateful words, anxiousness over his flock’s safety, enough humility to drown a monk, so on. He did raise his voice at Lottie, though, that had been a surprise. “I don't want you putting yourself in danger for my sake”, “you don't get to make that decision for me,” “if anything ever happened to you,” McCullum had physically hauled Throgmorton across the room to let them sort it out. Which they seemed to, and it was unnerving how everyone else in the Shelter acted like this was a cute spat instead of a flesh-eating creature begging a woman to use common sense… but Geoffrey had given up understanding anything about Hampton's followers. Hell, they even thought Geoffrey himself was something worth dying over, which defeated the purpose of being a fucking guardian angel, so they were clearly insane.

Anyway. Focus.

“Clarence and Louise mentioned an amazing idea to me after our return last night,” Ichabod began as he dried dishes. “They ran into Inspector Albright in Whitechapel watching one of Mr. Palmer's rallies, and he made an excellent point that the Watch doesn't have the resources it needs to succeed, chief of which are regular patrols of individuals trained not only in self defense, but in how to prevent an attack from happening in the first place.”

“Albright thinks such a thing doesn't exist,” Louise handed Ichabod another plate, “but Clarence knew he was wrong.”

“Please don't mention my role in this,” Clarence sighed as he put the dry dishes away.

“We're not starting a self-defense class,” McCullum said.

“No, you're right of course,” Ichabod said. “The Guard of Priwen should be the ones to teach vampire defense.”

The room was silent but for the clink of dishes.

“Clarence and I actually think it's a good idea,” Louise said.

“Which I am horribly uncomfortable with,” Clarence added.

Ichabod grinned. “Ha! You see? Can't be that bad of an idea.”

McCullum was quiet. “How do you plan on convincing them to do such a thing.”

“Well, we'd probably have to stage a coup.”

He moved next to him, suddenly only inches away, trying not to growl and failing. “Ichabod. I am this close to forgetting I don't eat humans.”

Ichabod looked at him with only half the alarm he should have, before sighing and setting down the dish towel. “I'm sorry, McCullum, truly. I shouldn't be so glib about this, especially after last night.”

McCullum took a step back with a nod of acknowledgement, upset he'd let himself get so… upset. Maybe he was more rattled than he thought.

Ichabod continued his thought. “But, well, the Guard needs a change of direction. It can't survive in its current state. There's a growing number of people who could benefit from not only the “how to fight vampires” training, but also how to defend oneself from an attack, period. The Citizen’s Watch needs resources, and defense.”

McCullum picked up the dish towel and dried the frying pan Louise had just washed. “What stops the Citizen's Watch from becoming just another gang?”

Ichabod shrugged as he put the pan away. “The same thing that kept the Guard of Priwen from being a mass of self righteous thugs without direction. Leadership. Ben Palmer can do it for now, but one day he won't be around or maybe he'll lose control. But the possibility of the right thing going wrong doesn't mean you shouldn't even try the right thing. Right?”

Clarence leaned over to Louise and murmured, “I think that actually made sense.”

Louise nodded. “Terrifying.”

“Oh, enough you two,” Ichabod fondly scolded.

“Back to my question,” McCullum cut in. “How do you convince the Guard to… change direction?”

“Well… I'm working on that. Without a coup, so we're clear. Though that would certainly help.”

Clarence sighed, “We almost need something horrible to happen to convince them training folks is a good thing.”

“They’d just recruit them,” said McCullum. “If something's that dangerous, then it needs to be fought, no time to train civilians.”

“Well, it's a good thing Lottie and I've already got it sorted,” said Louise.

All three men turned to look at her.

“Got what sorted?” Ichabod asked.

“Women’s classes,” she explained, “for defending oneself. Hampton won't tell her nothing, she figures you men’ll be useless, so she asked me to teach her and some of the regulars at the shelter a few things. I said we should send word to Miss Swanborough, and she said she'd be bringing some from the Watch. Gonna use our training ground out back, starting tomorrow night. Figure it's a start, at least until we figure out how to approach the Guard.”

Ichabod was alarmed. “And you're telling us now??”

“Oh, like you don't regularly spring plans on us last second, Ichabod.”

“At least she told us twenty-four hours in advance,” Clarence said. “And it's a good idea.”

Louise grinned, “Thanks, Clarence!”

Ichabod looked at McCullum with an exasperated gesture toward his teammates, “What are we supposed to do with them?”

McCullum raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“Don't try to shirk responsibility Mr. ‘Follow what I say or you'll be dead,’” Ichabod teased.

McCullum scoffed, “That's exactly what would have happened if I hadn't trained you lot up, ‘Mr.’ Throgmorton. Crossley’s right, Teasdale’s idea is a good one, and I think you're just jealous it's not one of your fucking ridiculous schemes.” He tossed the dishtowel he was still holding at Ichabod’s face as he walked out, “Though I'd probably be dead without those, so.”

Ichabod caught the towel with a stunned expression. “Was that a thank you?!?” he called after him.

“I'm on patrol,” Geoffrey called back without stopping, “don't die while I'm gone.”

The regular meeting of the Ascalon Club was more subdued than usual, but all members present pretended not to notice. The thing that had harassed them, that Nimrod in league with humans of all things, had lessened its direct attacks. There had, however, been a few instances of a Priwen patrol encountering promising potential recruits and a full member in compromising situations. Part of Lord Redgrave’s address to the club earlier in the night had been to remind everyone that members were expected to act with dignity and discretion in all things, including meals. There was some talk about simply killing the Nimrod, to which Redgrave suggested that any who possessed the skill to do so, or knowledge of someone with such, to step forward. None had.

The unspoken acknowledgement was that they didn't know how powerful the damned thing was, and everyone remembered the members who had been killed by Jonathan Reid, a foe they had severely underestimated. No one was going to make that mistake again, and no one was going to volunteer to test the Nimrod's mettle. They were proud men, but not suicidal. Business had continued to more mundane concerns, such as the Irish declaring independence.

Now as they milled about and socialized, glasses in hand, Redgrave stood slightly apart and let his gaze drift around the room. These were the true power of the land, working in the shadows, pulling the strings of wealth and social influence built up across generations of humans. It was humiliating and infuriating to think it might be threatened by a batch of children in the grand scheme of the centuries, upstarts with no sense of where their place should be in the world.

An aide approached. “You have a visitor, sir.”

Lord Redgrave nearly reprimanded the man for the interruption, but paused when he saw his expression. He was being controlled. A powerful visitor, then.

“Very well.” Redgrave followed the aide out into the foyer.

The Ekon waiting for him was tall, a long face with a wide mouth that alternated between a stern, proper frown, and a knowing, mocking smirk. The man didn’t seem to have any other facial expressions, or if he did, he didn’t show them to others. He was powerful and he knew it. He was also, Redgrave knew for a fact, a depraved sadist. Even worse, the man was French.

“It is customary to ask a host's permission before arrival, Blackwood.”

Jacob Blackwood’s response was flippant, “If one cares for the host’s opinion.”

Redgrave restrained his irritation. “Why have you lingered in London?”

“I was enjoying myself,” Blackwood said as if it should be obvious. “So much chaos for a time, such a prime feeding ground. Even as the streets calmed, I found ways to be entertained.”

“And what brings you away from your… entertainments.”

Blackwood chuckled, “The British nobility are so good at showing such disdain with polite questions. This must come from centuries of repressed—”

“Spare me your pithiness and get to the point, Blackwood,” Lord Redgrave rolled his eyes.

“It has come to my attention that you have a, shall we say, pest problem?”

Lord Redgrave glowered. “And the point?”

Blackwood’s smirk widened. “It has also come to my attention that one of these pests was responsible for ruining my fun.”

“Really? I may have to revise my opinion of them. I might even give them a medal.” He was, he was surprised to find, only half joking.

Blackwood acted put-upon. “You wound me, Lord Redgrave.”

Redgrave scoffed, “You are tolerated on English soil, Blackwood, but make no mistake, you are uninvited.”

“Am I not permitted to visit the country of my birth?”

That was what irritated Redgrave most. “You haven't set foot in England in two centuries. You have rejected your heritage and have made yourself quite at home in France, which is where you should stay.”

“If only we could bar each other from our borders the same as humans bar us from their doors,” Blackwood chuckled. “Regardless, you have a problem, I want to fix it. Tell me where I can find these so-called hunters, and I will do so. I won't even demand a favor in return, as this is mutually beneficial. You get rid of a pest, I am entertained one last time in London before returning to France.”

Redgrave was silent for a long moment. “Very well. I'll give you the address.”

Blackwood gave a mock bow, "That is most gracious of you, Lord Redgrave.”

Redgrave rolled his eyes again and led the irritant back to his office. “Are you familiar with the group?”

“What is there to know? You are pestered by three or four humans who spend their nights tracking Skals, claim the title ‘hunters,’ and they have successfully harassed some of your members.” Blackwood sneered. “I'm surprised you've let them continue.”

“They keep the Skal population down, and quite honestly I have more important things to deal with.”

“Ah, yes, your hatred for those things is legendary. And yet you do not object to me eliminating the cat keeping the rats at bay?”

“The ‘cat’ has become more of a nuisance than it's worth,” Redgrave grumbled and kept his face carefully neutral as he handed the address to Blackwood. “And of course, there's the rumors of the Nimrod.”

Blackwood laughed. “Oh, very good. I may be the one to owe you a favor after this.” The gentility faded as the smile grew, until it was all teeth in a monstrous revelation of the devil under the facade, the bloodlust visible for all to see. “It's going to be such fun.”

Lord Redgrave merely nodded and watched Blackwood leave. He could hardly believe his luck. A powerful Ekon, more than a match for the Nimrod, and yet utterly expendable? And if he was wrong and the Nimrod were to defeat him, unlikely though it was, well.

Lord Redgrave permitted himself a small smirk. “I look forward to seeing how the Nimrod factors into your ‘fun,’” he mused.

Chapter Text

Ichabod, Louise, and Clarence were exhausted. It felt like they couldn't walk down a single alley without being attacked by a skal or beast tonight. Something had the supernatural of London on edge and extremely aggressive, though at least they hadn't found any civilians in danger.

Which, it occurred to Clarence, was strange. Why would they have encountered so many more skals and such tonight, but not seen a single one attacking someone? Statistically, they should have at least seen one of London's many homeless running away. It was almost as if their band of hunters were being targeted.

Obviously.

But who would have the power to do such a thing? Redgrave possibly, they didn't actually know anything about the ancient ekon’s abilities, but such a tactic felt beneath the proud earl.

He'd never stoop to ‘sullying’ his mind with influencing a skal.

Then who? Some mysterious ekon capable of mesmerization from a great distance? Why would one so powerful bother with them? They hadn't encountered anything like that… except for the creature controlling Carina Billow. He never did figure out who that had been.

What an incredible coincidence.

Clarence froze.

That thought hadn't come from him.

You're the one who ruined my fun, the voice in his head chuckled, and now I can ruin yours. How delightful.

Clarence opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. His heart felt it would burst from his chest as it raced, his gaze on his friends entering the house ahead of him as his legs pulled him around to the back of the house. There was no gate here, he was being separated from them, thank God… and then he felt an overwhelming urge to climb.

That was impossible. He wasn't in shape to hoist himself up and over a fence taller than himself, designed to keep people from seeing their training ground. But he tried. He leaped and grabbed and scrambled and struggled, making a fool of himself in what obviously would never work until finally the urge vanished and he could take a moment to gasp for breath.

“Who are you?” he moaned.

Does that really matter?

“You… I had to have seen you. That's necessary for your mesmerization to take hold, I have to see you.”

What makes you think you didn't?

A brief memory, a figure in a long coat in the dark, a hungry smile on a pale face, the call of his friends pulling him away. He'd forgotten as soon as he'd seen the ekon. He was made to forget.

I don't appreciate it when someone else breaks one of my toys.

He was running. He needed to run, needed to hurry, back to the front of the house as fast as he could. Gun in his hand, he had to hurry, up the steps —

Something pushed him aside as it passed him, figure in front of him, aim, fire…

McCullum swore loudly as the phosphorus bullet hit his shoulder.

“McCullum,” Clarence managed through gritted teeth, trying to let go of his weapon, fighting the urge to fight, fighting the fear to flee.

“I won't let you hurt my team,” McCullum growled, and Clarence knew he wasn't really talking to him.

Then Clarence wasn't there anymore.

Except, he was there. He was just… aside. Watching himself do things, say things, that he wasn't a part of. Memories surfaced of the battlefield, watching helplessly, horrified of the monsters in the dark.

Ekon, he thought. The officer had been an ekon, using the death of war to disguise his meals. Skals were the other creatures, of course, drawn out of the dark by the abundance of dead.

Wait. He knew things now. He was the team’s scholar. He was absolutely terrified, but what else was new? Louise said he was the sole reason his team had survived many fights and she was right! He wasn't firing from a distance, or safe in his study, but he could still fight.

He just had to figure out how.

“You must be the Nimrod,” the thing that wasn't Clarence said.

Ichabod and Louise had opened the door shortly after hearing the gunshot, but McCullum blocked the doorway.

“And you must have a death wish.” McCullum tried to remain calm, but had to admit he had no fucking clue what to do in this situation.

“Heh, I'm fascinated to see how you would find me.”

“It has to have a line of sight to Clarence,” Ichabod muttered quietly, the words a rapid whisper as he worked it through, “eh, maybe not need, but hardly seems to have a point if you can't enjoy the show.”

Seven locations immediately came to mind, with three more beyond that we're less likely but possible depending on how powerful this damn thing was and how much of a show it wanted.

The world faded to grey as McCullum let his senses take over. Heartbeats through the West End echoed softly, humans in their homes all around them as he focused to find the one unnatural presence, a heart that didn't beat...

McCullum’s voice was soft and harsh to Ichabod before he dashed into the fading dark. “Improvise.”

Improvise.

The creature that had taken hold of Clarence was momentarily surprised by McCullum’s sudden departure. “Is he actually trying to hunt me?” It chuckled, “Well, he's ambitious at least.”

“He is,” Ichabod cleared his throat. “Could I know the name of the sadistic immortal who has seen fit to torture my friend?”

It looked at him blankly for a moment, and made a sound of surprise. “He won't let me shoot you.” It smiled, wider than Clarence ever did. “What a novel experience. Futile, he's going to exhaust himself, but I am so rarely surprised by humans.”

“I'll take that as a ‘no.’ Well, at least I've determined that you're either very old or very old fashioned.”

It cocked its head at him. “And what makes you think that?”

“I'm not the one you should have been focusing on.”

Louise tackled Clarence’s body to the ground, holding him down while Ichabod pried the gun from his hand.

“Rope, Ichabod!” Louise shouted.

“Right!” Ichabod dashed into the house.

“A year ago you'd have been a fragile toothpick,” Louise grumbled as Clarence tried to throw her off. She managed to stay atop him, restricting his limbs, an arm under his head when it looked like he was going to bash it against the street.

Ichabod emerged from the house, rope in hand, just in time to see Clarence bite Louise’s arm.

It was a testament to their nightly activities that Louise shouted in pain but resisted the urge to pull away. Ichabod quickly secured Clarence's hands and feet before holding his nose closed. When Clarence opened his mouth for breath, Louise moved her arm and Ichabod shoved his handkerchief in Clarence's mouth.

“Let’s get him inside.”

Ichabod hoisted him over his shoulder while Louise kept him from falling off in his thrashing. They deposited him in the kitchen and tied him to a chair. Clarence spat out the handkerchief and screamed in frustration.

“Why is he still struggling?” Louise asked.

“He must still be mesmerized,” Ichabod swore. “Apparently a sufficiently powerful ekon can plant an order of behavior and walk away, or be forcefully separated, and the order remains.”

Louise huffed angrily and turned to Clarence. “Clarence! What are you trying to do?”

Clarence spoke through gritted teeth, “Fight…”

“Fight the ekon or fight us?”

“...both…”

Louise and Ichabod both sighed. “McCullum’s on his way,” Ichabod said. “He'll find the damned beast and put an end to this.”

“There's not much longer til sun up,” Louise said. “Either McCullum finds this thing or the sun runs him off. Either way, hang in there, Clarence. Not long now.”

Ichabod nodded encouragingly and hoped Louise was right.

Chapter Text

Dawn brought a terrifying calm.

Clarence slumped in the chair, silent and perfectly still apart from his chest heaving for breath. He'd struggled against the ropes binding him all night, though his tormenter hadn't spoken through him again. As the first trace of light colored the horizon, the struggle suddenly stopped.

“That,” Clarence gasped, “was fucking awful.”

Ichabod and Louise breathed sighs of relief.

“Welcome back,” said Ichabod.

“Who do we have to kill?” asked Louise.

Clarence shook his head. “I don't have a name. I think… I think I know what he looks like. He didn't want me to, but I got a glimpse when he was gloating.”

“That's a start,” said Ichabod. “Louise, would you please take down Clarence's description of the vile creature while it's still fresh in his mind? I'll get those ropes off him.”

The description wasn't much, but it was something. Height, hair, eyes, sharp features, wide mouth. At least they'd probably know him if they saw him, which was unfortunately the hard part.

The front door slammed. The three humans hurried out of the kitchen to see McCullum striding up the stairs.

“I found him, but I lost him,” McCullum growled without looking at them. “Slippery fucking leech.”

“You couldn't track him?” Ichabod asked, stunned.

“It's a mistake to fight a leech in his own lair.”

Ichabod scoffed, “For a human perhaps, but if you had the chance—”

McCullum spun around with a snarl, fangs bared. “I didn't!!” He dashed to the attic in a whoosh of smoke.

“Christ Almighty, Ichabod,” Louise sighed.

He spun to face her, baffled. “What?”

“There was smoke coming off him.” Louise shook her head, “Sure, he gave that line about leech lairs, probably something Priwen trained, but the man was burning. He called off the hunt because if he kept going he'd kill himself, and he's ashamed about it.”

Ichabod’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh, no, I didn't mean…”

“Apologize when he wakes up tonight. We need you to come up with a plan in the meantime.”

Ichabod blinked. “Me?”

Louise smiled. “It's what you do best. I can't wait to hear what massively unlikely scenario that somehow ends up working you’ll whip up this time.”

Ichabod gave a self deprecating chuckle. “Ah. Well. I'm not as confident in my abilities this time.”

Nevertheless, he began to pace the room. After a moment, he said, “If McCullum couldn't find the vampire, then it must be very powerful.”

Louise grunted an assent. “Redgrave wouldn't sully his image with doing the dirty work himself, so it's someone else.”

Ichabod nodded, “Given the reluctance of Ascalon to deal with our nimrod directly, it may even be someone outside the organization.”

“A powerful ekon that isn't Ascalon?” Clarence asked, skeptical.

Ichabod shrugged. “A foreign agent perhaps? Or a recluse that doesn't care for Ascalon’s political machinations?”

“A recluse that enjoys playing with humans like gruesome dolls?” Louise asked. “No offense, Clarence.”

He shrugged. “None taken. Accurate description.”

Ichabod paced in silence. Louise and Clarence waited.

“Clarence, we can't let you be part of the plans,” Ichabod suddenly stopped, turning to his friend. “As soon as night falls, the damned creature will know everything.”

“We can't leave him alone, either,” Louise protested. “Daylight or not, we don't know enough about this thing and what it can do.”

Ichabod smiled. “We aren't going to leave him alone.”

Geoffrey woke with a thrash of his arms as he stood from his cot in the attic. He was in a foul mood. From the sliver of light that made it through a crack in the planks boarding his window, the sun hadn't completely sunk below the horizon yet. He had a bit of time before London's Ekons would wake.

The house was quiet this evening, no sound of dishes being cleaned or idle chatter as the rest of the team waited for McCullum to wake. A small pit of dread settled in McCullum’s gut as he dashed downstairs, silently fuming over last night’s failure. Had he gotten cocky? Had he let his successes cloud his judgment, had he unintentionally announced his presence somehow? The bastard had ran, kept him running but his lead was too great and the sun was too high and now Crossley was…

There was a note on the kitchen door.

“Gone to see Sean. Happy hunting!”

Geoffrey almost laughed in relief. Clarence was as safe as he could be, he supposed. He had a head start on the leech this time. He wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.

Sean Hampton frowned. He’d woken up to find Clarence Crossley sitting in his basement accompanied by Ichabod, who had given a quick version of recent events. It was a disturbing thought. Thus far, there hadn’t been any sign of possession, but that could change at any moment.

“I hate to suggest it,” Sean sighed, “but I think the wisest thing might be to leave him locked up down here, restrained so as to keep from harming himself. We don’t know how powerful the ekon is or how far his influence extends.”

The humans sighed. “Probably for the best,” Ichabod grabbed a length of rope. Clarence laid down with a groan and let him bind his legs and arms.

“The sooner McCullum finds this thing, the better,” Clarence grumbled.

“Well,” Sean smiled, “at least you’ve little to worry on that score. If there’s a hunter in London who can find anyone fool enough to harm his friends, it’s Geoffrey McCullum.”

Sean went up the stairs to see to his flock. Ichabod sat down to keep watch.

“Sorry about this, Clarence,” he said.

He shrugged. “It's not your fault. We've never dealt with something as powerful. Though Louise is going to kill you for making her stay behind.”

Ichabod sighed. “It's the first night of her women's self defense class. If that were to be postponed at the last minute, anyone who planned to attend might not come back. It's important work that needs to start on the right foot.”

Clarence smiled. “I know, and so does she. She's still going to be… cross…” His smile turned to a pained grimace as his arms jerked behind him. “Oh, no.”

“Is he back?”

Clarence nodded, his body moving in a vain effort to free itself from the ropes, “He's trying to get in again.”

A new voice spoke from the door to the sewers. “An Ekon’s ability to control others is dependent upon the weakness of the self.” Both Clarence and Ichabod looked up in surprise to see Old Bridget standing there. “You permit yourself to be swayed.”

“I'm not permitting anything!!!” Clarence protested.

Old Bridget shook her head. “You permit the possibility to exist. You must be confident in your security. He will likely kill you before that can happen, as soon as he senses you trying.”

Clarence rolled his eyes, “Oh, brilliant, thank you.”

Old Bridget smiled, sort of. “You do not smell of fear as strongly as you did. That is a start.”

“Can you do anything to help him?” Ichabod asked.

The ancient skal nodded once. “Skals cannot influence the mind as Ekons can. I cannot drive him out, but I can guide you through the night. Clarence. You must accept the urges.”

His eyes went wide. “What?!”

“Accept that they are there. Acknowledge them. They exist, they are in you, whether you want them or not. And then you must put them away in a little corner. That is their place. They will protest. The screams will be overwhelming, but they stay. And when they become too much and escape, then you accept they have done so, and put them back into their place. You cannot control them, but that does not mean that they must control you.”

“You just said he'd be killed if he fought back,” Ichabod demanded.

“He is not fighting. He is redirecting.” Old Bridget cocked her head, regarding Ichabod with something similar to amusement. “Much like what you do when facing a foe you cannot beat.” As he started to protest, she drew her finger down her cheek, mirroring the scar on his face. “Sometimes you must fight in desperation, because it is the only way to save those you love. We have not reached that point for Clarence, yet.”

“And McCullum will find the monster responsible before we ever reach that point,” Ichabod said with perfect certainty.

Old Bridget was doubtful. “The last Nimrod in this country was before my time, if it truly existed. Your friend is formidable, but he is still young. There are creatures in the world that are far older and far cleverer than he imagines. It remains to be seen whether or not this is one of them.”