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Chapter Text

Margaret looked up at the sign, looked around the street nervously as if to make sure she wasn't being followed, and then stepped into the building.

The interior of the building was much warmer than the streets, and it felt like that safest place she could be right now.

"Good morning!" She was greeted by a chipper blonde woman sitting at the front desk, whose blue eyes lit up as Margaret approached, "What can I do for you?"

"I... I heard about the organisation's services through the newspaper," Margaret spoke in a shaky voice, "I was hoping you could assist me with an... umm... abnormal occurrence."

"Oh, of course, that is what we are here to do!" The woman gave her a warm smile, "You would want to talk to Mr. Harker, then. Go on through that door, he should be free at the moment."

Margaret nodded, repaying the woman's smile, and went to the door she had been pointed to. On the door was a plaque that read:

J. Harker

- Manager -

Margaret lifted a shaking hand and knocked on the door. Would he believe what she had to say? Or would he just laugh at her like everyone else.

"Come in!" A man's voice answered the timid rap her fingers made on the wood.

She opened the door to find a spacious, well lit personal office, with a large bookshelf, a beautifully upholstered sofa by the window and large oak desk.

At this desk sat a man who Margaret presumed was Mr J. Harker- a pleasant faced young man with a glimmer in his eyes that instantly put her at ease. He had been writing in a small, leather-bound book, but he put it aside as Margaret walked in.

"Good morning," He spoke warmly, like he was a friend, not the manager of a business, "Please have a seat. Yes, on the sofa. Make yourself comfortable."

Margaret sat down on the sofa, fiddling with the stitching on her dress. She was almost ready to say 'Nevermind!' and walk out and never come back. But then Mr. Harker spoke again.

"How may I help you?"

And Margaret felt deep down that he may actually help her.

"Mr. Harker- I- as you can see by my dress, I am recently widowed. My husband died a little less than a month ago."

"Oh, I am sorry." She looked up to see that Mr. Harker's face was displaying a genuinely caring expression, and she felt inclined to go on.

"Well... Here's the thing, Mr. Harker- he did not stay dead."

"I see." Mr. Harker showed no signs of mocking her, in fact, his face was completely serious.

"On the Sunday night after he was buried I woke up to his voice. And he was angry. He was screaming, and wailing, and I heard his footsteps stomping around, and things got knocked over- but I never saw him." Margaret lifted a handkerchief to her face as tears welled up in her eyes, "But, he was there, Mr. Harker. My Tom was there, even though I couldn't see him, and he comes back every night at midnight and... and I am frightened out of my wits by him, Mr. Harker."

Mr. Harker stood up from his desk, nodding.

"Listen, Mrs..."

"White. Margaret White."

"Mrs. White, would you believe me if I told you that I believed you?"

"No." Margaret shook her head tearfully.

"Well I do. And I am going to make sure that you are helped. You came to the right place."

Mr. Harker strode across the room and opened the door.

"Lucy!" He called to the receptionist, "Call the others. Tell them we have a job to do."

"Mrs. White, allow me to introduce you to the rest of my team."

A few minutes later Margaret sat Mr. Harker at table with four others. She had expected a larger group, but she seemed to be in a room with the only people in the building, other than the receptionist, who was not in attendance.

"First, my lovely wife, Wilhelmina- we all call her Mina, though," Mr. Harker smiled fondly at the only woman at the table, a sharp-eyed brunette who had a typewriter in front of her, "She does our administrative work- keeping our records, organising our information, remembering who we are holding grudges against at any given time- she does it all. She also is an exceptional information gatherer, and quite the detective. She is one of the most vital members of our team, and the most wonderful woman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."

"He's not too bad himself." A faint pink appeared on Mina's cheeks as Mr. Harker finished introducing her.

"Darling, this is a professional environment," Mr. Harker said, blushing profusely, "We cannot just pay each other compliments, we have business to discuss. Anyhow, next we have Dr. John Seward," He nodded to a thin man with glasses, who appeared to have been deep in thought before he'd heard his name and sat bolt upright, "He is a psychologist, but has quite a lot of knowledge in many other areas. He is our brain for all matters of science- whether it is mental, physical, or supernatural. We would be completely lost without him."

Dr. Seward muttered something unintelligible.

"He is also far too modest," Mr. Harker smiled, "Next-"

"Quincey Morris!" The next man at the table cut over Mr. Harker in a very loud Southern American accent. He was quite burly, and dressed rather informally compared to the rest of the group- in fact, he was dressed just like the depictions of cowboys Margaret had seen in books about the American West. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am," He continued, a broad smile on his face, "As for what I do: I hit things."

"Yes, this is Quincey," Mr. Harker nodded, "He is from Texas, and, as he put it, he hits things. Put more delicately: he solves the problems that have to be physically fought. And he can be a gentleman when he wants to be. Speaking of gentlemen- the final member of our little team: Arthur Holmwood," Mr. Harker directed Margaret's attention to a rather handsome young gentleman with dark eyes and curly hair, "Mr. Holmwood, or Lord Godalming, if we are being formal, is both our treasurer and where we get our funds from. This whole agency could not exist without him."

"Lovely to meet you." Arthur smiled and nodded politely at her.

"And I," Mr. Harker said, "I am Jonathan Harker, the manager of our little group. If I have learned one thing from my time working them, it is that they are some of the most incredibly talented people out there, and they will be able to help you."

"Thankyou, Mr. Harker." Margaret must have found his enthusiasm contagious, because she began to feel hopeful.

"Call me Jonathan, please."

"Thankyou... Jonathan."

"So," Mina leaned forward slightly in her seat, "What are we dealing with?"

"What sounds like a standard malevolent spirit," Jonathan said, "Mrs. White, he was your husband, correct? According to her he haunts their house each night at midnight, doing all the normal things- shrieking, stomping, knocking objects around- do I have that all correct, Mrs. White?"

"Y-yes. That's right." Margaret was unsure how to feel- they weren't just taking her claims seriously, they were talking about them as if they were everyday occurrences!

"Was your husband violent before his death?" Quincey asked.

"No. Tom was such a sweet man- truly I cannot remember a time when he was ever properly angry. That's why it scares me so much now."

"In that case, he most likely wants something," John said, "Good tempered men are seldom restless unless they have a reason to be, in both life and death."

"So if we find out what he desires and give it to him, then his soul will be put to rest." Arthur concluded.

"Would you mind if we visited your house tonight, Mrs. White?" Jonathan asked, "We can organise you an alternative lodging for the night if you do not wish to be there, or in case things... get out of hand."

"That sounds like it is for the best." Margaret fidgeted with the black lace cuff on her sleeve.

"I am a little confused," She said, after a brief pause, "Everyone else laughed at me or thought I was mad- but you are all taking me seriously. You have not questioned my story once, and you seem to already know what is going on-"

"Why, of course we do, Mrs. White," Jonathan placed a calming hand on Margaret's shoulder, "Helping with supernatural problems- that is what S.T.A.K.E. is all about!"

Chapter Text

"Are you going somewhere?"

Arthur, who had been pacing back and forth in the lobby, stopped in his tracks and turned to face the bright-eyed receptionist.

"Yes," He answered, "We got a job out in Brentwood. And apparently I am the only one who wants to catch the train on time."

"What are you going to be doing in Brentwood that would require you to dress like that?"

"Oh, just business- why, do I look like a fool?" Arthur tugged at his coat, adjusting it, suddenly feeling very self-conscious, "I thought it was fine, but if I look completely ridiculous-"

"Oh, no, you look fine!" She assured him, "Like a highly distinguished gentleman."

"Oh," Arthur felt his face get warm at her compliment, "Thankyou, Lucy."

"Where is everyone?" Mina strode into the lobby, "We need to leave-"

"I AM SO SORRY, I LOST TRACK OF THE TIME!" Jonathan stumbled out of his office in the middle of putting his left shoe on and straightening his tie with the hand he was also using to hold his briefcase, "I looked away from the clock for what felt like a minute and-"

"Oh Jonathan." Mina sighed and went to help her husband, steadying him and adjusting his tie with the tenderness of a woman who was utterly enamoured with the man she had chosen to marry.

"Y'all ready to go?" Quincey entered the lobby, not from another room or the staircase, but from outside.

"We are still waiting on John- have you been out there this whole time?" Arthur asked.

"I've been ready since three."

The sound of a door being thrown open echoed down the stairwell, and John ran onto the landing a few moments later, his glasses resting on his disarrayed hair.

"Has anyone seen my-"

"Did you look on your head?" Lucy asked without even glancing at him.

John reached for his head and touched his glasses.

"Well," He smiled, pulling them down in front of his eyes with his right hand and smoothing out his hair with his left, "What do you know?"

Finally, waved off by Lucy, the S.T.A.K.E. agents left the London Headquarters. It was late in the afternoon, and unusually cold for a July night, and each of them shivered a little- both from the chill in the air, and from the apprehension. No matter how many ghosts one dealt with, preparing to face the spirit of a dead man always triggered a natural fear that each and every human had, whether they liked to admit it or not.

"It is such a lovely night!" Jonathan smiled brightly, at the same time gripping Mina's hand with cold, steely fingers, while she did the same to him, "A little cold, yes, but clear. I hope the weather is the same out in Brentwood!"

Lightning lit up the sky, and thunder answered less than two seconds after.

"Well, on the bright side," Jonathan forced a smile as himself and his colleagues stood under the veranda of the Brentwood & Warley railway station, watching rain bucket down from the stormy clouds that blotted out the evening sky, "It could always get worse-"

"Stop." John said before Jonathan could go any further.

"So are we gonna walk, or...?" Quincey questioned nobody in particular.

"Hold on." Arthur pulled a cheque book from his pocket and began filling out a page.

"You there!" He called over the storm to a man offloading sacks from a large covered wagon, "Myself and my companions need transportation to-"

"I don't know who you think you are, sir," the man cut over Arthur, "But I'm not running no cab service- ooh!"

His eyes lit up as Arthur held the cheque in front of his eyes.

"I'll, uh, I'll see what I can do, sir!"

After a bumpy wagon ride that still left them rather damp, the S.T.A.K.E. agents arrived at their destination- a small house on the outskirts of the town. It was beautiful- or would have been, if the weather was nicer. The garden was full of flowers- roses, sweet peas, petunias, foxgloves- that crept onto the path and came up the house's walls. The house itself was two stories tall, but not very wide, with red brick walls and white trim around the windows.

Jonathan smiled at it, then at his wife.

"We'll have a place like this someday." He whispered to her.

"One haunted by an angry ghost?" Mina whispered back, giggling.

Jonathan laughed to, as John pulled a key from his coat- a perculiar key, lacking most of its teeth except a single one on the very end. He slid it into the front door's keyhole, and, after a bit of fiddling, the lock clicked. The door creaked open, and the team all looked into a dark, narrow hallway.

Quincey stepped inside first, looking around warily. The house was cold and dark, but was otherwise like a normal house- clean, orderly, and, though spooky, safe.

"I reckon we're safe for the minute." He said.

The others filed in, looking around the shadowy hall with wide eyes.

"Mrs. White said the ghost only appears at midnight," Mina said, "So we have six hours before-"

A few rooms away, a clock chimed seven times.

"Five hours." John stated.

They continued through the house, checking through all the rooms as they went.

Mina opened a door and found a study in complete disarray- books pulled off shelves and scattered on the floor, ink splashed on the rug, stationary scattered across the room.

"Look at this." She said, and the others all crowded around her, looking in at the mess.

"I wonder how many other rooms are like this." Arthur said, and they went on.

The other rooms downstairs were alright, but upstairs they found the master bedroom in a chaotic state. The bed was unmade, and the curtains at the window torn. A whole dresser had been overturned, and the large mirror on it was shattered on the floor. The shards of glass on the floor reflected the faces of the S.T.A.K.E. agents- all grim and silent.

Wordlessly they returned downstairs, and settled in the parlour, waiting for midnight to strike.

"Well, we have to hope that Mr. White will be kinder to us than he is to his furniture." Arthur spoke finally, breaking the silence.

"Mrs. White told us he was quite kind." Jonathan said.

"But you know how they are once they're dead," John replied, "Confused. They only know one thing- whatever is keeping them from rest- and they will be violent without discernment."

"So how do you intend to talk to him?" Mina raised an eyebrow.

John didn't reply.

"Oh, brilliant plan!" Mina said sarcastically, "Best plan I have ever heard!"

"Mina-" John sighed heavily.

"You are going to attempt to interact with a violent spirit without any plan whatsoever?!" She demanded.

"Hey, let's not fight, now." Quincey tried to calm her down.

"I have a plan," John said, "I will observe, and then I will act. How can I be expected to approach an issue I have not encountered yet?"

"But what if you have to act before you can observe?" Mina questioned.

"Then your quick thinking will be quite useful to me, Mina."

The hours slowly went by, and the S.T.A.K.E. agents mostly kept to the parlour, engaging in idle conversation, occasionally debating each other's methods, and keeping careful count of each time the clock chimed.

As they counted twelve chimes, they fell silent, waiting with bated breath.

It seemed, for a moment, like nothing would happen.

And then the wailing started. 

Chapter Text

It was a terrifying sound to hear- an enraged scream that echoed through the house, followed by loud, resounding sobs.

The team ran to the study just in time to see a book get flung off the shelf and into the wall by some unseen force. At that moment each and every one of them felt a shiver run up their spines, and a nauseating chill wash over them.

"YOU!" A masculine voice with no visible owner screeched, "INTRUDERS! WHAT ARE YOU HERE FOR?!"

"Well, actually, that is exactly what we have come to ask you-" John began, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.

"LIARS!"

Everyone ducked as a paperweight went sailing over their heads.

"Ahem, as I was saying," John stood back up, straightening his glasses, "We just want to talk."

"YOU LIAR! YOU LIED LIKE HIM!"

"Him?" Mina raised an eyebrow.

"I can assure you that we are quite honest," Jonathan smiled pleasantly, "Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I am Jonathan Harker-"

"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN WHO YOU ARE, JACKSON HARLEY-"

"Well that was not even close." Jonathan muttered in an injured tone.

"-I DON'T GIVE A DAMN WHO ANY OF YOU ARE, I WANT YOU LOT OF MURDERERS OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

"Murderers?!" Quincey's eyes widened.

"That's quite a serious allegation." Jonathan murmured.

"I am sorry, do you know who you just called a murderer-!" Arthur began.

"Perhaps this is not the time to flaunt titles, Art," John cut him off, "Sir, if you do not mind me asking: were you perhaps... murdered? Because if so, we can help. If you would tell us...?"

A stillness fell over the room. Mina pulled a notebook and a lead pencil from her bag and began jotting down notes feverishly.

"I do not know what that psychopath put in my drink that night at the pub," the ghost seemed to have calmed down very quickly, "But it made me feel dizzy and ill. He offered to walk me home, and, wanting to get home to my wife and avoid spending the night in a ditch, I took him up on his offer. I had to lean on him to walk, and eventually I collapsed and vomited. I lay in the dirt of the road and my own sick, and I saw him standing over me... holding a knife. That is all I remember of him."

"Can you describe him?" Mina asked.

"Tall. Strong. Wild eyes. I cannot remember much of the details."

"It is something to work with," Mina said, "I can take this to the police. If there have been other murders of a nature similar to yours, they will be able to find whoever killed you eventually."

"Thankyou, Miss...?" 

"Mrs.- Mrs. Mina Harker." Mina was unsure whether to offer her hand or not, and simply gave a small bow instead.

"Thankyou, Mrs. Harker."

"Well, someone has changed their attitude." Jonathan muttered, and his wife laid a hand on his arm with a small smile.

"Please, Mr. White- Thomas- if I may call you that," John stepped forward, "You did not deserve your death, but you do deserve your rest. Please, be at ease knowing that whoever killed you will taste justice."

"That sounds nice," The spirit of Thomas White sounded weary, but like he was smiling for the first time in ages, "That sounds very nice. Oh, before I go- if you see my wife... tell her I love her."

The house went quiet, except for the breathing of the five people left in the doorway of the study and the ticking of the clock.

"He seemed nice," Quincey broke the silence, his voice a little shakier than normal, "Real shame he had to die."

"If I have anything to do with it, nobody is going to fall victim to whoever killed him again," Mina snapped her notebook closed, "I am off to the police station in the morning. Hopefully, that will be the last we hear of this."

"Good Lord," Superintendent Robert Dawson of the London Metropolitan Police said in exasperation as the door to his office opened, "It's you again."

"Lovely to see you too, Superintendent," Mina gave him a pleasant smile, "I am here to report a murder."

"Sure you are, Mrs. Harker," Dawson rubbed his temples, "Well, let us here it, then."

"A couple of weeks ago a man named Thomas White was found dead on the side of the road in Brentwood, Essex. And before you say that it's outside your area of jurisdiction, I went to the Essex Constabulary and they refused to believe what I told them."

"I wonder why." Dawson gave her an overly-accentuated eyeroll.

"But I managed to secure a copy of the police record from the night they found his body," Mina slid a slip of paper across the desk towards the Superintendent, "Though you may not have the constitution for it." A smirk played on her lips.

Dawson begrudgingly picked up the paper and read it.

At 4:10 a.m. 05/07/1893, Mr. Thomas Edward White was found dead on the side of the road. Cause of death unknown, but suspected to be a sort of attack from an animal. His torso and abdomen had received multiple lacerations, and on closer inspection it was discovered that both his heart and stomach had removed from his body. The missing organs are yet to be found. Coroner reported that he had been intoxicated and drugged with an unidentified substance at the time of his death.

"It says that he was attacked by an animal," Dawson pinched the bridge of his nose, "But you have an alternate account, Mrs. Harker?"

"Indeed I do," Mina said, "Last night myself and my colleagues met with his ghost- do not give me that look, Superintendent Dawson- and he told us his version of the story. He was drugged by a strange man that he described as 'tall, strong and wild-eyed', who attacked him with a knife when he was alone and unable to run. Clearly the man slashed him with the knife, cut out his heart and stomach-"

"And then ran off, somehow able to avoid suspicion when he would have been covered with blood and carrying human organs?" Dawson raised an eyebrow cynically, "Have some sense, Mrs. Harker. I know that you are an intelligent woman, but you seem so incapable of acting like one."

Mina stood up, her mouth tight.

"I know you do not believe in ghosts, Superintendent," She said haughtily, "But you do believe in murderers. Keep the report for future reference. When more cases like Thomas White's start coming up, I will be back to say 'I told you so'. Good day." She turned and marched out of the office, head held high.

"So, that is that, then," Margaret White said flatly, "He is gone."

Jonathan reached across his desk and took her hand in his.

"I prefer to think of it like he is at peace," He said, "But yes. He is gone from this world."

Tears welled up in Margaret's eyes, and she broke down sobbing right there in Jonathan's office.

"He should not have died like he did," She wept as Jonathan gently rubbed her hand with his thumb, in repetitive, back-and-forth stroking motions, "You do not have to tell me what happened to him, I saw it for myself. His... his skin was all shredded to ribbons, and his insides were all spilled out..."

"Mrs. White," Jonathan spoke calmingly as she was overcome with shaky, paralysing tears, "He is alright now. He does not feel any pain, I am sure of it."

Margaret was silent for a while.

"I have no idea what I am going to do now," She finally whimpered, "Tom and I were everything to each other. How can I even start to move on?"

"I think..." Jonathan took a deep breath and let it out, trying to think of some groundbreaking advice, though none ever came to his mind, "I think if anything were to happen to Mina, I would be heartbroken. I would want to die too. But, I would live. It would be one foot in front of the other for a long time, but I would live."

Margaret's chin trembled as she looked a Jonathan's hands cupping hers, applying a warm, comforting pressure to her own thin, cold fingers.

"You are a good man, Jonathan Harker," She said quietly, "May nothing ever ruin your happiness."

Chapter Text

"A letter from Wales, Mr. Harker." Lucy entered Jonathan's office with a chipper smile, holding an envelope addressed to S.T.A.K.E. out for her manager.

"Thankyou, Lucy. And please, call me Jonathan."

"Not when I work for you, Mr. Harker!" She smiled over her shoulder at him as she exited the office.

Jonathan chuckled and reached for his letter opener... which wasn't there. The little ornate knife usually sat in it's own spot on his desk, but it was absent.

"Oh," Jonathan held his outstretched hand there for a moment, "I must have... misplaced it. But where...?"

He scanned his desk, but he saw nothing of it, he began picking up papers and books in hopes of finding it hidden underneath them to no avail, and eventually got down on the floor to make sure it hadn't fallen. As Jonathan searched under his desk it began to seem hopeless. The letter opener was nowhere to be found.

"Jonathan?"

He jumped, hitting his head on his desk.

"Ack!" Jonathan got out from underneath the desk, rubbing his head, "Yes, Quincey?"

Quincey stood in the doorway, his brow slightly furrowed.

"I came to ask if you- are you looking for something?" He noticed Jonathan still glancing around the room.

"Yes, I am," Jonathan said, "A silver letter opener, with an ornate handle. It is usually always on my desk, I cannot think where it might have gotten to."

"I can't say I've seen anything with that description," Quincey rubbed his chin, "Funny that it's happened to both of us though."

"You are missing something too?"

"That's what I came to ask you about. I lost a small pistol of mine. Not very powerful, but good for stealth. It seems to have just vanished on me."

"Hmm..." Jonathan glanced around the room once more, "Sorry, Quincey, I cannot help you there. Well, they must turn up at some point."

Jonathan picked the letter up from his desk, and tore the envelope open.

"Is that a new job?" Quincey asked.

"It certainly looks like it. You can read it too, if you like, it is addressed to the organisation."

Quincey walked into the office to look over Jonathan's shoulder as he read aloud:

"To whom it may concern, 

We require your assistance with a strange occurrence within our family. Our young son has developed a condition that seems to be some kind of dark magic."

"Oh no." Quincey murmured.

"We first went to a priest to purge the beast from our midst, but he was unable to do anything for him. However, he did recommend that we contact your organisation immediately with the details of our son's affliction.

Until a few days ago, our son was a completely healthy boy of five years..." Jonathan winced, "This is going to be a difficult one."

"Poor kid," Quincey said, "So young."

"He suddenly became pale and sickly on the 30th of July. At first we were not too alarmed, as it only seemed that he was overtired, perhaps with a slight cold coming on, but when night fell we found that we were mistaken. As soon as the last daylight disappeared, our son transformed into a horrifying beast. This monster tried to attack us, and we only just managed to lock it up for the whole night. At sunrise our son returned to himself, but every night since he still transforms back into a beast. Luckily for his own innocence, he seems not to remember a thing about his transformations."

"Oh, good." Quincey relaxed a little.

"We request your help in ending whatever curse has befallen our son, sincerely, Alan and Gwyneth Owen." Jonathan sighed, refolding the letter, "This is not going to be pleasant."

"At least the kid will not be able to remember it." Quincey said.

"The boy may be fine, but the parents?" Jonathan sighed again, "They will be beside themselves. And emotions aside, handling a child in such a situation... Well, you know how it is, Quincey."

"There must be some way we can make it easier," Quincey put a hand on Jonathan's slumped shoulders, "Think about it. Surely we have ways to make the little one more comfortable while we remove the curse from him."

"'Relaxation' and 'exorcism' are not words that are commonly associated with each other," Jonathan frowned, "Especially not with a child as young as five involved. None of us have proven ourselves particularly adept with the skills needed to comfort children over our careers. Charisma and compassion are all very good when dealing with adults, but children need... joy, and tenderness and..."

"Lighthearted fun? Enthusiasm? The ability to make you feel so much better about everything?"

"Exactly, Quincey," Jonathan nodded, "But we are so short of that here..."

There was a knock on the office door, and Lucy entered a moment later with a small stack of books held in the crook of her left arm.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Harker, but Dr. Seward told me to give these to Quincey." She held out the books with a bright smile.

"Thankyou, Lucy." Quincey took the books from her with a delighted grin and a warm, affectionate light in his eyes.

"So, you call him by his first name, but not me?" Jonathan folded his arms with a good-natured smirk, one eyebrow raised.

"It's different, Mr. Harker, and you know it," Lucy retorted with a mirthful light in her eyes, "Well, my business here is done, I shall leave you to yours."

As the door closed behind Lucy, Quincey inhaled deeply like he had just remembered how to breathe.

"Ain't she just perfect?" He spoke in a dreamy tone, hugging the books to his chest, "I could be worried and stressed about something and then she walks into the room and nothing feels bad anymore. In fact, I'd say my life got ten times better after I met her."

Jonathan barely heard him.

"Say, Quincey," His eyes brightened, and he straightened up, "I have an idea."

"Absolutely not." Mina said.

"But-" Jonathan began.

"The last time we brought Lucy along on a job she almost got her head cut off, I am not going to let us risk that again!"

"Well I think that it is a good idea," Arthur said, "If everything goes smoothly there will be no reason for her to get harmed."

"And what if it does not?" John inquired, "What will become of her then?"

"Then we make sure she stays out of harm's way," Quincey said, "I am capable enough of protecting her from any beast."

"And we can make sure to avoid guillotines this time," Jonathan looked imploringly at his wife, "She will be fine, Mina, trust me."

Mina raised an eyebrow.

"If you would rather she did not come then you get to look after the possibly very confused and frightened child." Jonathan said.

Mina sighed.

"Fine," She said begrudgingly, "But if she is even a little bit hurt-"

"If there is so much as a scratch on her skin I give you full permission to never let me here the end of it."

Chapter Text

“Oh my, this place is so lovely!” Lucy smiled, looking up at the green branches that interlaced over the avenue, “But what kind of business are you planning to conduct in a place like this? There is hardly anything but sheep here.”

“Business that is not yours, Lucy.” Mina said sharply.

Lucy looked more than a little taken aback.

“You have been in such a disagreeable mood all day, you know that?” Lucy folded her arms, “I cannot imagine why you have chosen to be so nasty all of a sudden. And if I am to be brought along to the Welsh countryside with only a half-hour’s notice I should like to be told why!”

“Lucy is right, Mina,” John said, and turned to the pleased young lady at his side, “We are to be visiting a family with a young boy of just five. He is the reason for our visit, but we feared he would find our work quite upsetting, and, er, we thought you would be the sort of positive influence that he would like to have by him.”

“Thankyou, John,” Lucy shot Mina an annoyed look, “I cannot see one reason why you would want to keep something like that from me.” She said.

Mina sighed.

“Alright, sorry, Lucy,” She apologised, “You are not to blame for anything that I may be feeling right now. I should not have taken it out on you.”

“Here we are!” Jonathan announced, either completely oblivious of his wife glaring daggers at the back of his head or just ignoring it, “Ah, how charming!”

The cottage that came into view as they walked round a bend in the road was very pretty- small, with bright, whitewashed walls and thatched roof. Sitting amongst trees with their boughs weighed down with fruit, garden beds full of beetroots, lettuces, beans, courgettes and all other summer vegetables, and fields of black sheep, it seemed to be such a peaceful, wholesome place… but of course, Jonathan reflected, he would not be here if it was.

The door was answered by a young, but careworn woman. She wore a beige pinafore over a faded blue linen dress, and her hair was in a loose plait that let light, messy ripples fall into her face.

“Hello-” She began to say.

“Mrs. Owen?” Jonathan extended his hand, “My name is Jonathan Harker, from the London S.T.A.K.E. Headquarters. This is my team-”

“Oh, thank God you are here,” The woman exhaled and leaned against the doorframe, rubbing her tired eyes, “I have been so worried… Please, come inside. Apologies for the mess.”

They entered the house, which would have been a cozy abode for a small family, but became rather cramped with six additional adults. The house was in a state of disarray, and Mrs. Owen tried to pick it up a little as she brought them inside, but it was not a normal household untidiness that made the cottage so disorderly.

The furniture looked like it had been clawed at by some kind of large animal, there was a hole in the wall here and another there, the glass in that picture frame was shattered, etc.

Nobody pointed out these things, and Mrs. Owen did not bring them up.

“Wait here,” She directed them to a small parlour, and made sure that they were settled, “I shall fetch my husband.”

She hurried off, and the S.T.A.K.E. team were left by themselves.

They waited silently. The only sounds breaking the silence were the slight rustlings of their clothes when they shifted around and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

Soon Mrs. Owen returned with man by her side and a child clinging to her skirts.

The man looked like he hadn’t been sleeping or eating well for at least a few days. He seemed like he could look quite handsome if he was well kept, but he was badly shaven, and his hair was unbrushed.

The child was a little too pale, with his cheeks a little too rosy. He looked tired and worn out, and he acted like he was, because, as Mrs. Owen spoke to him softly in Welsh and tried to place him outside the living room he clung to her dress and cried like a boy half his age.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Owen apologised to her visitors, sounding utterly exhausted, “He is very tired, and-”

“M’not tired!” The boy squalled.

Mrs. Owen spoke to him gently, but firmly, in Welsh, putting him outside the door and trying to close it as he screamed like she was murdering him.

Lucy stood up.

“Can he not stay?” She implored, clasping her hands, “He seems to just want to be with you.”

“We would prefer not to discuss the issue with him present.” Mr. Owen told her.

“Well then...” Lucy said, “What if I play with him while you talk? You will not want me here anyway, I’ve not much to contribute.”

Mrs. Owen looked between Lucy and her son.

“How would you like that?” She asked the boy.

He just nodded sullenly.

“Alright!” Lucy beamed, “What do you want to play then?”

The boy stood there in pensive silence for a moment, then smiled, ran to Lucy, grabbed her hand and ran back out of the room, pulling her along with him.

“Oop- right, well I will see you later!” She said to the rest of the S.T.A.K.E. team as she did her best to keep up with the child.

“You better not be taking the nice lady out to play in the mud!” Mrs. Owen warned her son before closing the door.

“She works with us. Mud is the least of her concerns.” Mina said flatly.

“How much does she know?” Mr. Owen asked, “Forgive me for asking, but she seems to not know exactly what you are here for. At least, she seems much less... grim than the rest- er, most of you.” His eyes fell on Jonathan, who, unlike the others, had a bright smile, sparkling eyes and an aura of cheeriness.

“Oh, sir, rest assured, I am very concerned for the well-being of your son,” Jonathan said, “And I am fully in the know. Lucy, however... we’re not necessarily keeping our line of work a secret from her, she just...”

“She never manages to find out.” Arthur filled in.

“It’s kinda impressive, honestly.” Quincey said.

“Right, well...” Mr. Owen found an open seat and sat down, “We are beating around the bush. Our son is sick. We were told you were the people that could make him better. Is this true, or are we wasting time?”

“It depends,” Mina said, “You will have to give us the exact details of your son’s affliction before we can tell you for sure.”

“Well,” Mrs. Owen twisted the fabric of her skirts in her fingers, “Ceri has been transforming for a week. He becomes like a… a wolf, a bear and a bull all at once. He always changes between the last and first lights of each day. Whatever he becomes, it charges around blindly, killing everything in sight. We have been… locking him in the barn every night,” She admitted, “Which may be why he is becoming so clingy. But- but he is fine, really!”

“Do you have any idea why your son could be transforming like this?” John asked.

“Nothing that we know of,” Mr. Owen said, “He was playing in the field while I was feeding and tending to the sheep when he suddenly started seeming a little sickly, the day that it all started, but there was nothing abnormal there.”

“Do you have an idea of what this is, John?” Arthur asked.

“It sounds like a garden-variety curse. But we need to know the source is if we are to lift it.”

“Has your son got a tendency to talk with strangers?” Mina asked, “It is possible that he ran afoul of a local magician or witch.”

When she saw the alarm on Mr. and Mrs. Owen’s faces she smiled.

“Worry not, that is the best-case scenario,” She said calmly, “We know most of the occultists in England, and they know us. If one did curse your son, we can ask them to lift the spell and they will do so.”

“I do not think there are many strangers out here for him to talk to,” Mrs. Owen said, “If there was someone practicing… the occult in these parts, we will have heard about it by now.”

The S.T.A.K.E. team sat in silence for a few moments, pondering the options.

“He was uninjured when this all started, correct?” John asked.

“Completely.”

“There could be something in that field that cursed him,” Jonathan said, “Perhaps something like an… artifact?”

“What’s your name?” The boy asked as he led Lucy out into the paddocks behind the house.

“Lucy Westenra,” She answered, “What is yours?”

“Ceri.” He answered laconically.

Lucy smiled and nodded as a flock of black sheep came gambolling up to them. She was scared for a short moment, but they were all very tame and quite small that she forgot her fear almost immediately.

“What dear sheep!” She exclaimed as a one nosed at her dress, not caring that the ‘dear sheep’ would absolutely ruin the fabric if it continued doing that.

“They make good meat,” Ceri said cheerfully, “Mama makes the most amazing pies with them.”

“Oh.” Lucy said.

She walked on in silence after that.

“Where are we going?” She asked eventually.

“To play.” Ceri’s answer gave nothing away.

Eventually he came to a stop by a little stream that bubbled it’s way through the field. Its banks were muddy, but Ceri didn’t seem to mind- he sat down in the dirt and blissfully began making mud pies.

Lucy, however, stepped back, wrinkling her nose a little. She decided she would supervise rather than join in on this messy activity.

Ceri soon noticed her hesitation.

“You can join in, if you want.” He offered.

“No thankyou.”

Ceri pursed his lips.

“Do you want to do something else?” He stood up, hands all muddy, “Do you want to dig for treasure?”

“I- did you say treasure?” Lucy decided not to decline and instead responded to the boy with excitement.

“Mm-hm!” Ceri nodded, “There’s things buried out here. Most of the time it’s just animal bones and rubbish, but sometimes I find something really nice! Like I found this...”

He stuck a (still muddy) hand in his pocket and held out what Lucy first thought was a gold coin. However, when she looked closer at it, she saw that it was a small ornate medallion.

“Oh, how lovely!” Lucy smiled, “Do... do your parents know you have that?”

“I showed them. But they were too busy to really look at it and just told me it was nice.”

The boy suddenly looked so lonely. Well, of course he would be, if he lived out here with only his parents and the sheep that he knew were going to end up on his plate one day. Lucy’s heart panged at the thought.

“Well, I think it is one of the most beautiful and precious things I have ever seen,” She crouched down until she was looking Ceri directly in the eyes, “I think it is wonderful.”

Ceri smiled, his eyes lighting up.

“You keep it, then.” He put the medallion in Lucy’s hand.

“Oh, certainly not! It is your treasure!”

“I will not use it- but you can wear it like a necklace or bracelet,” Ceri insisted, “And then you can look at it every day, and you will remember me every time you see it!”

“Well... thankyou.” Lucy smiled as she accepted the medallion- and as she did, a sudden pain began throbbing in her head.

Chapter Text

“Mhff!” Lucy rubbed her temples, murmuring in discomfort.

Ceri looked at her in surprise.

“Are you-”

“I am alright, I think,” Lucy said, bringing herself to smile, “Just a headache. But… I might go back inside now.”

Ceri looked disappointed, but didn’t argue as Lucy straightened up and slipped the medallion into the pocket she’d sewn into her dress when she had started working as a receptionist for S.T.A.K.E. It had been so useful for keeping all sorts of things on her- spare nibs, notes, money- and now this very special treasure of hers.

Ceri got up, did his best to get the mud off his hands, and led Lucy back to the house. As they came up to the cottage they were met by Mr. and Mrs. Owen along with the rest of the S.T.A.K.E. agents.

“Ceri!” Mrs. Owen went to her son, “Why are you so dirty? I told you not to play in the mud!”

“Lucy, are you well?” Mina whispered as her friend walked to her side, “You look a little pale.”

“Just a headache,” Lucy smiled despite the throbbing in her head, “How’s business?”

“We are getting somewhere,” Mina replied, “At least, we think we are.”

“Wonderful,” Lucy said, “Mr. Owen, sir?” She caught the attention of the master of the house as he walked past her to his wife and son, “Do you mind if I go back inside? I’ve a slight headache, and the light bother my eyes-”

“Of course, go ahead,” Mr. Owen smiled kindly at her, “You may lie down in the lounge, if you wish. Come find us if you need anything.”

Lucy thanked him and retreated inside.

Mr. Owen went to his son as his wife finished scolding him, and crouched down so he was at eye level with the boy.

“Ceri, have you picked up anything strange lately?” He asked.

The boy shook his head.

“I would have told you if I saw anything strange.” He said.

“I’m sure you would have,” Mr. Owen said, “Do you have anything in your pockets, my boy?”

Ceri had nothing in his pockets but a handkerchief and- to Mrs. Owens exasperation- some dirt.

“We have reached a dead end, unfortunately,” John said, as they all went back inside, “Do not worry, we will do everything within our power to lift this curse. Do you mind if we stay until nightfall to see the transformation? It may give us an insight.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Owen said, “If you think it will help.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Mrs. Owen got Jonathan’s attention as she spread flour on the kitchen table and placed down a soft ball of bread dough, ready for kneading, “What is it like, doing your job?”

Jonathan looked up from the small book he was writing in.

“Wonderful,” He said, “It is… unpleasant some of the time, but I would not trade my work for anything. I work with the best team of men and women I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, and they make it all so worthwhile.”

“That’s very sweet,” Mrs. Owen got to work on the dough, rhythmically stretching and folding it over and over, “Is it just the six or you, or are there others?”

“In the British headquarters, yes, it’s just us,” Jonathan explained, “But S.T.A.K.E. has bases across Europe- in France, the Netherlands, Romania, Russia, Switzerland- And there are plans to set up a headquarters in the mediterranean soon.”

“Is it just the six of you for the entirety of the Isles?!”

“We are more than capable. And we can get help from the other branches if we need it.”

“I see,” Mrs. Owen said, sprinkling more flour over the dough as it began to stick to the table, “Did you always intend to go into your line of work? I cannot imagine that it is something that you prepare for in school.”

“Ha! No, I never intended for it,” Jonathan smiled, “I was studying to be a solicitor before I got hired. I enjoyed law, but it would have been rather dull compared to this, I think.”

“There is really no need to help me, sir,” Mr. Owen insisted, “You are doing enough for us as it is.”

“I don’t mind!” Quincey grinned, following the shepherd out into the paddocks, “I was raised doing this kind of work- though that was on a cattle ranch in Texas- but trust me, it would be my pleasure to help you out with anything I can.”

Mr. Owen didn’t argue further. He was tired and over-done and, well, if this tall, strong man with a strange accent was willing to help him out, he wasn’t about to push him away.

“Alright,” Mr. Owen said, “Follow me, then.”

As Quincey followed the shepherd away from the house, he saw John and Arthur come out the back, pipes in hand.

“Hey, Jack, Art!” He waved to them, “I’m off to help around the farm! If I’m wanted for something come looking out here! Or maybe don’t, I have no idea how big this place is!”

He got a nod of acknowledgment from Arthur and continued on his way.

“I hope Lucy is alright,” John said as he filled his pipe, “Mina said she found her asleep, sitting up in one of the armchairs. Maybe she has something coming on- she did say she had a headache.”

“Hmm,” Arthur lit his pipe and stuck it in his mouth, sucking in a breath of the tobacco smoke, “You know, John, Lucy is such a lovely lady. The kind of woman a man could be blessed to call his love.”

“Yes,” John felt his cheeks flush, unsure of where this was going, “She… certainly is very sweet.”

“Not just sweet,” Arthur looked up dreamily at the sky, “She is a lot more than sweet, don’t you think, John?”

“Well yes, she is lovely in so many ways.” John had thought himself well-versed in the intricacies of the human mind, his own especially, and he kept careful check of what he shared about himself with others, but somehow Arthur seemed to be reading him like he was nothing more than a page in a book.

“She is beautiful, inside and out,” Arthur said, a smile playing on his lips, “Kind. Genuine. And her eyes, have you ever looked properly at her eyes, John? I have- she was sitting across from me on the train, and I got to see them, like pools of fresh, bright water glistening in some leafy forest somewhere.”

“Oh, really.” John began to think that maybe Arthur was not talking about him. He felt his heart begin to slow to a dreadful, monotonous pounding, somehow ever worse than the fast-paced fluttering it had been doing before.

“And now I really do not know what colour to call them,” Arthur went on, but John barely heard him, “Before now I would have said blue, but they are really too green to be considered green, but not green enough to- Are you alright?”

“Oh, uh, me? I…” John found himself stuttering.

“You are very flushed all of a sudden,” Arthur observed, “Is something wrong with the smoke?”

“Er, I think,” John looked down at the pipe in his hand and realised he hadn’t even lit it, “No, it’s alright, I just…” He went on to ramble something about it being very hot and how he had really chosen the worst coat for this kind of weather and that he just needed some air and maybe it would do him good to take a turn around the garden and no, he should like to do so without Arthur.

Once he was alone in amongst a cluster of fruit trees, he was able to breathe and collect his thoughts.

So, Arthur was in love with Lucy, it appeared. John could not blame him, because- well, who would not fall for her? This just posed a problem because…

John could not even think it now. It was funny how suddenly he could not bear to acknowledge how he felt.

A couple of months ago he had walked home, looked himself in the mirror and given himself a talking to.

“You love her, John Seward,” He had said to his reflection, “So stop trying to deny it.”

Now he paced back and forth, his usually collected mind whirling.

“Any girl that Arthur wants he can have,” he whispered to himself, choking back tears, “Why did it have to be Lucy?”

But wait- Lucy might not want Arthur. Lucy might want him instead.

John doubted it.

But there was hope.