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Ichabod Throgmorton, vampire hunter extraordinaire and warden of the East End, is an independent force. A one-man watchgroup. He is the defender of the people, doing the work no other man would dare. Some may say the thuggish Guard of Priwen hold that role, but Ichabod knows better. In his line of work, one needs to be discreet to learn and spread knowledge of their foe. When these ‘guards’ rap on doors at ungodly hours, are they warning the people? Or are they merely identifying which houses are willing to pay for their safety? And where were these men when poor Jack Gillingham was murdered? Or the poor sap who was thrown off the Night Shelter roof? No, this Guard of Priwen may know the vampire threat exists, but they are no more serious hunters than they seem to think of the ‘foolhardy’ Mr. Throgmorton.

So why, then, does Ichabod find himself on this particular evening just beyond the Night Shelter’s walls, straining his ears to catch the barks of some freshly-stationed Priwen recruits? Their methods are crude and their knowledge certainly incomplete; regardless, even the common man can be crucial eyes and ears for a lone hunter. Yes, his personal interactions with members of the guard tend to end in mockery. But he can work around it. Questions and answers about vampires move between guardsmen like the flu. This holds doubly so for the young ones - poor lads just learning about the true horrors this world holds and hungering for the keys to their protection.

Or, sadly often, war-hungry young men who feel the need to prove themselves brave in the face of a fantastically strong opponent. Just boys, really. So it goes.

The gist of it all is this: Ichabod is leaning calmly beside a gate just outside the Night Shelter, and he is doing so because tonight’s Priwen patrol seems to have fresh faces. He watches a pudgy, befreckled young thing with a torch scurry to keep step with a tousled brunet. Down the way stands a chaplain Ichabod does recognize. He’s likely their mentor on this route, though the cleric seems more interested in his cigarette. He takes long, lazy draws as the rookies pace ahead.

“-and ‘e tells me he saw one, he did! All big-like with fur and claws, like a werewolf! All snarling and ugly, says he barely got out alive, ‘e did.”

“And you believed him? Good lord, Murphy, I knew you were gullible, but werewolves? Green’s just messing with you.”

“I’m not saying it was one! Just that there’s more out there than just these grimy old leeches. We’re here to fight vampires, Harris. An’ Green’s got no reason to make fairy stories!”

As the two argue about what creatures did and did not lurk in the dark, Ichabod leafs idly through his notebook. This wasn’t the first he’d heard tales of more canine creatures, nor of ‘leeches’ who moved faster than the eye, nor of patrols wiped out without so much as sighting their aggressor. How anyone would have tales of the latter Ichabod isn’t quite sure. Still, he doesn’t doubt the possibility. The vampire plague is a deadly one. Before he can think further, he’s pulled from his thoughts quite rudely by a rumor he hasn’t heard before.

“An’ they’re letting it live! A leech in an ‘ospital, Harris!”

Ichabod’s breath hitches. He inches nearer the iron slats, doing his best to stay quiet and out of sight.

“Oi, if that were true, McCullum would know and deal with it, Murphy. And how would you know? You’re as fresh as I am. Stop using rumors to pretend you aren’t before you get in trouble.”

“This one isn’t a rumor! Saw it meself, almost didn’t come in for me next patrol I tell ya! But I knew I had ta. ‘eard one o’ those plague-like leechies screechin’ nearly out me front door… And McCullum does know!”

“Quit making tales to make yourself look better, Murphy. I’ve half a mind to report you.”

“Then go over there and see for yerself!” A frustrated huff suggests the gunner will do no such thing. “I saw the toff walk right in the front! Didn’t follow, ya know, what with us being told not to go in there and allat. An’ right after, McCullum walked out, grumblin and such. Asked if he’d seen something. ‘e told me to mind mine, then said something about a Brotherhood. I saw the leech out front the next night, talkin like it was a doctor! Something in’t right about the Pemb-”

He’s cut off by a clap to the back of his head, and some grumbling just quiet enough to be indecipherable. Seems the Chaplain’s finally finished his smoke and is ready to move on. He shepards his company along their usual route. With them gone, the vampire hunter takes a minute to stew in his thoughts. Surely if there were one of those vermin in a hospital, they would be noticed. Ichabod’s seen vampires before… a vampire. She was clearly no human.

He notes down the unfamiliar vampire variants the recruits had spoken of - if ridiculous, he can only hope that he can use the more horrifying eyewitness reports to inspire some civilians to stay indoors. The rest, he’s not quite sure about. With a sigh, he adds one more note:

Chapter Text

The walk to the Pembroke is a fraught one, and almost makes Ichabod abandon his objective altogether. Even without considering the vampire threat, navigation through London has been made significantly more difficult with the quarantine. Otherwise, the trek up and through the West End would be a breeze. Though, the screams and snarls from the bridge north of the Night Shelter were ones he was happy to keep a wide berth from. He’s a vampire hunter, yes, but he’s seen the way Priwen look after a nasty bout, and they have guns.

He’ll just have to go the long way, sweeping around past the Turquoise Turtle. He’d been there some nights ago, investigating a murder undoubtedly committed by a vampire. Finding the same boat-for-hire he used then to cross to Lime House Dock was more tedious than difficult, and the smile Tom Watts gave him as he passed by helped to pull his thoughts away from the grisly murders of recent. Unfortunately, this was the simple part.

The Priwen patrols down at the docks tend to expect Ichabod around. They keep their distance and chuckle amongst themselves when they see him pass by, but only the fresh-faced ones have ever accosted him. Even they tend to leave him be after introductions. As he nears Poplar Faubourg, however, the patrols begin to get much less friendly. Around every corner were shouts to turn back or inquisitive torches shoved in his face. Ichabod nearly got stuck with a crossbow bolt when he startled one patrolwoman - it whizzed by his shoulder and stuck in the wall of a condemned building. She got scolded for her itchy trigger finger, but in a way that let on that this wasn’t the first time it had happened. How anyone gets around this city at night is beyond him.

Ichabod knows he’s finally reached the hospital when the smell of sickness gets even stronger. His efforts to keep his breaths through his mouth are thankfully enough to keep him from puking. He makes sure to collect himself before approaching, not particularly wanting to be seen as a patient. Once he’s straightened out, he spies an older woman scurrying out of a nearby tent.

He must not look as healthy as intended, for the poor nurse’s face falls the second she locks eyes with him.

“Sir, can I help you? As you can see, we have no beds free, but if you need immediate assistance then I or a doctor could look at you out here.”

“Ah, thank you ma’am, but I’m feeling quite well tonight. I happen to be here in search of a doctor. That is, a particular doctor. Or a patient. Oh, never mind.” His floundering earns him a glare, likely some suspicion. So much for discreet, and already! “May I ask, have you seen anything suspicious or unusual around the hospital in recent times?”

The question earns him narrowed eyes and a scan from head to toe, but Ichabod holds strong under the scrutiny. “No, I don’t believe so, sir. Now, if you’re sure you’re alright, I must attend to my patients.”

As the nurse heads off, Ichabod makes a show of moving on as well. If he is to gather information without revealing his true purpose here (which he ought to do if there truly is a vampire hiding among the populace - the element of surprise is a valuable asset), he must take a subtler approach. Before he has much time to question what his next move should be, the vampire hunter is gifted the answer in the form of what seems to be a makeshift morgue tucked behind the north side of the hospital. A doctor sits in a tent beside the bodies, possibly watching over them.

As he begins to approach, Ichabod’s feet freeze in place as a shiver runs through him. He was ready to approach a man in a dark corner behind a hospital suspected to be harboring a vampire. What a fool he is! The man’s skin is dark - nothing like the deathly pale he had seen those years ago - but he will admit he’s not seen a darker man turned bloodsucker. The morgue is a convenient place for such vermin, and at the distance he would have to be to see fangs or claws-

“You may approach, sir. These bodies are simply flesh now, there is nothing to fear. Is there someone you’re looking for, or perhaps something?”

The interruption to his thoughts nearly makes Ichabod jump, but he keeps his composure. The mortician makes no movements to approach, nor does Ichabod see a hint of fang or malice as he speaks, so the hunter takes a few cautious steps forward. “Actually, there is. See, I am Ichabod Throgmorton, vamp- …Warden of the East End.” He’s not normally shy to state his mission, but this is an undercover operation! Best not to instantly be deemed mad by someone willing to talk. “I’ve come here about a man who frequents this establishment. A well-to-do type with pale skin, only comes out under the cover of night?”

The doctor chuckles, sending an uncomfortable bristle down Ichabod’s spine. If there is truly a vampire on these grounds, the staff are either blind to it or unbothered. “You would be surprised, sir, how busy this city is once the sun has set. I am Rakesh Chadana, and I like to stay here, for the dead are quiet. Still, I get visitors of all sorts. That description could fit many of them.”

“...I’m sure.” He wants to ask why a morgue would get frequent guests, but deems it a question for another time. “Is there anyone… noteworthy? Any suspicious activity or staff of note?”
The man lays his hands on his hips and looks up in thought. “Suspicious activity, sir? Not that I have seen - the dead don’t do much. As far as staff, there are again a number of our doctors who meet your description. Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“A few- why yes, actually, there is. Could you give me the names of your doctors who work the night shift here?” He’s halfway through pulling out his notebook when he spies Chadana’s eyebrows raised, and realizes he needs reasoning. “As a guardian myself, it is crucial to know which names can be relied upon these days.”

The excuse seems enough to put his companion at ease. After a short “Of course, sir,” some scribbling, and a pleasant goodbye, Ichabod retreats to the riverside with a list of names. It’s shorter than he’d expected, especially with how crowded the hospital is. No wonder the nurse looked so unhappy at another possible flu patient.There’s a Dr. Swansea, a Dr. Tippets, a Dr. Ackroyd, a Dr. Strickland, and…

A Dr. Reid.

Chapter Text

If Ichabod were present enough to notice, he might be thankful for how much clearer the return from the Pembroke is. As it is, however, he has nothing but worries. He had known, of course, that the good Dr. Reid traveled for his rounds on the docks. He had always guessed that he came down from the West End. But no, the doctor works at the Pembroke - the one hospital (good lord, hopefully the only one) in London possibly housing a vampire. The more thought he puts to the prospect, the more concerning it becomes. Reid had put up posters for him, he’d heard more of the hunter’s experiences with vampires than any other man, and he’d been more willing to believe him about them than even Priwen, at least regarding personal encounters. If there is such an evil creature visiting the Pembroke, it must be hiding its true nature immaculately. Dr. Reid would notice otherwise.

The more hopeful thought Ichabod decides to settle on as he reaches the Night Shelter is this: the vampire must have been a visitor - not a doctor as the rookie had suggested - and it has simply evaded Dr. Reid by appearing while the latter was out doing his rounds. The thought is comforting, albeit puzzling. Surely a body drained of all its blood would count as suspicious to the man watching over the morgue, but Dr. Chadana hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort.

With a sigh, Ichabod pulls out his notebook and the list of doctors on staff. Just in case, he figures, he should keep the unfamiliar names in mind. He knows of Dr. Tippets, who used to care for the people of the docks. He was surely not a vampire when he announced his move away, and even if the creature can hide amongst humans, there would have to be some sort of change a comrade would have seen in him had he transformed.

Dr. Swansea, meanwhile, is noted as the hospital administrator. While perhaps naive, the hunter can’t bring himself to believe a creature so evil could run a hospital, especially one with such fine doctors as Tippets and Reid, without being discovered. Not to mention the strange agreement Priwen appears to have. Even if recruits kept their distance, the minute their leader stepped foot on the grounds he surely would have revealed the beast’s true nature, were it the administrator.

Perhaps Ichabod ought to return to the hospital another night and speak with the remaining doctors. The thought puts a bitter taste in his mouth. If any word gets out that he, a known vampire hunter, had been wandering around the Pembroke tonight, its vampiric visitor could easily find the route he had taken and wait for him. He is not what Priwen fancies themselves. He knows he does not do well with direct confrontation.

The answer only comes to him after his usual patrol, again alongside a warm cup of his carefully-rationed tea and some quiet contemplation. There is a clear advantage Ichabod has - an inside contact! Dr. Reid comes by for his rounds often enough, Ichabod will simply warn him at their next encounter. Train him perhaps, if he is willing. Considering Reid had braved the scrutiny of Priwen patrols for him to hang posters, a word of caution and a stake is small repayment. Ichabod snorts a laugh as he imagines it: a simple doctor and a wiley vampire hunter, working together to save a hospital from the creatures of the night. Now that’s quite the story, indeed.

There’s a comfort in the air the next night. With the sky still red with the last drops of sun, the Night Shelter is in a quiet state; between the majority of its inhabitants settling in to sleep and its nocturnal caretakers just waking, there is a peace and innocence to the place. It brings the uneasy hunter some hope. Hope that he may see the good Dr. Reid tonight, hope that his warnings are heeded, and perhaps even hope that the Priwen rookie was wrong. Yes, it’s a peaceful night, Ichabod thinks.

It’s just his luck, then, that as the last of the sunlight finally falls behind the horizon, he reaches a familiar gate at a rather convenient time.

“Me sister, she had a bit ov a cough you see, n’ I told her not ta go to the Pembroke because of that leech doctor, but she wouldn’t listen! Our own ma went leech, ‘arris, an’ she still doesn’t believe in the devils!”

“With you telling your tall tales, I’m not sure I’d believe you if you told me the sky was blue.”

“Ya’ve seen him though, ‘aven’t ya? Half the guard ‘as by now, the toff basterd’s spotted ‘round half of London each night!”

“There’s no proof that’s the same leech and not you just spreading your mania throughout the guard.”

Somewhat begrudgingly, Ichabod sits down by the gate and takes out his notebook once again. His pants may get soiled, but it appears these two like to talk. With near confirmation that this ‘leech doctor’ character isn’t simply the imaginations of one man, he needs more information. He’s got his list of Pembroke doctors narrowed to two - only a few descriptors should be enough to give to Dr. Reid.

“At this point yer meanin’ to be dense.” A grumble, met with a scoff.

“Posh bastard’ describes most doctors, Murphy, you know that well as I do. And most leeches. ‘Least the ones that blend in.”

“Fancy blue jacket, grown-out army hair, fights other leeches wit’ naught more than a bone saw then runs off? How many London vermin fight with a bone saw? I’m tellin’ ya…”

The voices grow distant, as though the men are retreating down a tunnel. The rest of the world then follows, until Ichabod is sitting in a void.

Blue jacket, army hair, posh doctor at the Pembroke. Travels across London at night blending in with humans to all but a trained eye.

Someone who would travel all the way from the Pembroke to the docks, perhaps.

Someone who would believe in vampires.

The guardian shakes himself from his stupor and forces himself up on lead-heavy legs. He feels suddenly nauseous, but his mind can’t quite put the suspicion to words. The characteristics themselves are not nearly unusual; too many men these days are growing out army cuts, and too few doctors are arising from poorer parts of the city. How reliable are these guards anyway? How would they be better at spotting a creature that hides amongst men?

Surely, Ichabod would have noticed. That’s what he tells himself as he dusts off his slacks and starts back towards the Night Shelter, abandoning the remainder of his nightly patrol. Besides, no vampire would willingly put up anti-vampire information!

Alas, not even dinner and a good day’s sleep can take the thought from the hunter's mind. He awakes the next evening with the same strange unease, but more able to gather his thoughts. The Guard seem to be on to something, and however improbable it is, Ichabod has only one lead to follow at the moment.

He will meet the remaining Pembroke doctors himself, and if neither fits his description, he will observe Dr. Reid. Investigate his nocturnal activities. Just in case.

Chapter Text

Ichabod is somewhat ashamed of his relief at finding the last of the Pembroke nightshift doctors to be a youthful man dressed in a navy suit under his whitecoat. He is perhaps more ashamed of the myriad emotions which strike him when a nurse informs him that Dr. Strickland has been working full nights within hospital walls since the Spanish influenza reached London. What he is left with, however, is a stubborn resolution. He is Ichabod Throgmorton, vampire hunter extraordinaire, and no matter how dubious or bleak, he will follow his remaining lead.

If Jonathan Reid is indeed a vampire, the world will know.

Of course, the whole notion still seems a bit ridiculous to Ichabod, despite the sinking feeling in his gut. His body seems prepared for the worst outcome, but his rational mind maintains that he’ll simply follow the good doctor for a while, confirm his innocence, and secure his source inside the hospital.

His gut wins control when an all-too-sudden voice sends Ichabod leaping nearly half a metre off the ground.

“Mr. Throgmorton, what are you doing here?” The calm timbre came from over the man’s shoulder, though he hadn’t heard any approach. He defies the urge to take a defensive stance as he whips around, opting instead to straighten the disturbed flaps of his coat.

“Dr. Reid!” Once he’s steeled himself to meet the doctor’s gaze, as amiable as ever, all the sudden tension leaves and Ichabod finds himself feeling rather silly.

“I apologize for startling you, are you quite alright? You are far from the docks tonight.” Reid seems even more thrown-off than Ichabod. It’s disarming, even prompting a short chuckle.

“Do not worry about me, Dr. Reid. You know my business, I can take care of myself well enough. I am… on an extended patrol tonight. What with the flu epidemic, the ill and those working all hours to care for them need someone to protect them!”

“And you are patrolling within hospital walls? That seems a good way to fall ill yourself.”

“I like to know who I am watching over - I don’t often come to this part of London.” It’s a weak explanation, he knows, but Ichabod figures he’ll tell the full truth once he has enough information.

Enough information for what, though? Does he truly doubt the humanity of the man before him?

As though sensing his companion’s trepidation, Dr. Reid looks Ichabod over as if he were another patient. The care is unnecessary, but not unappreciated.

“I assure you, Doctor, I have not yet caught anything. I keep myself in good condition, lest I am unable to hold strong against the vampire threat.”

“...Yes, of course. Well I assure you that those in this hospital are quite well-protected. You should give the sick some space, Mr. Throgmorton, and return to your rounds, as I must to mine. Good night, and good hunting.”

The doctor’s words echo in Ichabod’s mind as his steps do the same off the hospital tile. ‘Well-protected,’ Reid had said, and the hunter hadn’t even thought to say anything. And it’s not because he agreed.

The only thing keeping him from heeding Reid’s advice and retiring this goose chase is that realization. He couldn’t bring himself to share his concerns, a warning of danger. Reid knows his business, there’s no reason not to share his information unless… He doesn’t fully trust the man.

When did Ichabod come to believe the words of Priwen so readily? Enough to distrust those of a doctor? The guilt stings.

Despite all he’s opened up to said doctor, Ichabod reminds himself how little he truly knows of the man. That thought, the memories of cold bodies drained dry, and visions of a terrifying creature’s frightened eyes steel Ichabod’s will as he turns to follow behind his unlikely lead.

It’s a miracle Ichbod caught sight of the doctor before he vanished into the night. Reid moves quickly and with purpose, just the fluttering of coattails betraying him as more than a shadow as he rounds the hospital’s iron gate and heads north. Reid’s impressive stamina leaves his pursuer panting for breath at whatever corners he can afford to, before anxiously running past London’s nighttime screeches and moans as to not lose his quarry.

The first time he nearly fails his mission, Ichabod follows through a gate nearly on Reid’s heels and is met with the sight of a Priwen patrol, sans the doctor. He only gives himself a moment to be impressed by whatever maneuvering completely bypassed the rowdy lot. Then, deciding he didn’t much care to figure out how to do the same, he simply sets off running. It’s exhilarating, ignoring the confused shouts of “it’s not safe sir!” and “are you stupid?” as he follows the only clear path forward. He can’t even bring himself to care when a startled recruit nearly sticks him with a bolt. Adrenaline drives him like a predator, tunneled towards a flutter of leftward movement.

Just around the next corner, knees hit dirty stone. His legs give out in relief at the sight of a familiar back; Reid’s just walking now, at a casual stroll as though he hadn’t just masterfully outmaneuvered two armed militia patrols. Ichabod doesn’t want to think too hard about the implications. Clearly the doctor has some strategy to skirt around Priwen, but can he be blamed? He has to travel the city efficiently to make his nightly rounds, and being stopped at every gate by brutes would make that much more difficult for anyone.

Thankful for the opportunity to do so, the winded hunter hangs back as far as he can and watches the doctor go to work. He’s not been through this part of town in some time, but the scenery is familiar. Bodies of the dead and the ill lie along condemned buildings. A drunkard stumbles about loudly rifling through the trash while Dr. Reid tends to a boy who Ichabod’s pretty sure is a Wet Boot. London will be London, he supposes.

As they move further into its heart, Ichabod finds Whitechapel to be surprisingly vibrant under the moon. Bustling in a way much more comforting to Ichabod than the Docks. The latter is empty save for the barks of Priwen and howls of foul creatures; the warmth of life is sequestered in safehouses such as the Night Shelter and the Turquoise Turtle. Whitechapel, run-down and grey as it is, feels bustling with hope. Ichabod follows his lead past a woman aiding the downtrodden, some peculiarly eager salespeople, a frighteningly exuberant priest… Even the more unusual specimens—a poet in a graveyard and a man doing naught but casting wistful glances towards a woman of the night—feel so full of life compared to those Ichabod passes on his usual patrols.

Ichabod gets lost in a sort of whimsy winding through Whitechapel’s nightlife. He does his best to remember his duty and stay unseen, but keen eyes have him offering hushed apologies and dashing away from conversation once or twice (no, he does not want a cordial, nor the truth of the imminent Armageddon, thank you very much). Their attentiveness is inconvenient now, he thinks, but will help these people mightily should they ever encounter a vampire. Perhaps he should ask Dr. Reid to help him hang fliers through Whitechapel next.

Speaking of Dr. Reid, there’s no warning when—after a surprisingly short and one-sided conversation with a florist—he’s off again. Without a moment to consider, Ichabod’s running through the back streets of London once again, ignoring the hollers of Priwen. It’s exhausting, but he’s giggling like a madman with the thrill of it all. It’s intoxicating: chasing the faint clicks of heels until he can catch the next glimpse of coattails, nearly running into walls rounding dark corners, letting the moans and groans of a cold night fly by... He feels like a boy again.

Until the illusion is shattered by the sound of splintering bone.

Chapter Text

Ichabod, in the reverie of his chase, had run right past the first body. He’d landed right atop the second, and when he’s finally able to tear his eyes from what he shudders to think was once a man, it is all he can do to watch as the third poor sap is discarded onto the street, shape near unrecognizable as human. The corpses are nowhere near as distressing, however, as the vile beast responsible for them.

The creature only just fits under the bridge it’s chosen to hunt beneath. Fur matted like a lion’s mane halos piercing golden eyes. It’s crazed, staring unfocused into the distance as though lost in the bliss of its carnage. Knifelike claws raise in sickening triumph, glimmering with the same thick blood which coats its daggered teeth. The smell of it, the blood, is so thick in the air it’s suffocating. Rising bile threatens to betray the position Ichabod’s treacherous feet refuse to move him from.

Ichabod Throgmorton is a vampire hunter. This unholy beast is not a vampire.

Though perhaps that does not excuse him freezing up like this. He’s certain the brute has not yet seen him, but he cannot say the same for the man he had followed. He tries to call out to the doctor, but his throat is tight and unwilling, barely able to gasp for the blood-soaked air. Damn it all, he’s supposed to be a guardian. He’d been too late to save those littering the ground, but his quarry is alive still. The healer stands tall before the towering beast, sparing but a glance towards the third body he cannot save. Dr. Reid…

Pulls a scythe from his jacket.

The bulky thing looks so absurd wielded by the good doctor that it’s laughable. Any humor is quickly snuffed, however, by a deafening roar. In an instant, the monster is upon its unlikely adversary with bared fangs. There’s nothing to do but watch as those terrible talons whistle through the air and collide with cold metal.

Either the beast’s deceptively weak, or Dr. Reid served as more than a field medic. It must be both and more, for the doctor simply absorbs the blow and weaves it right back, pushing the beast back to its haunches. It sits there a moment as though stunned, unable to retaliate as steel meets flesh. The blow is calculated, aimed for the wrist and colliding with enough force and precision that it navigates through bone to pierce the thick muscle of the arm.

Only a keening bellow drowns out the tear of muscle and sinew as the doctor puts his whole weight on the far end of the handle. The creature jerks back, taking a second to cradle its split arm before it is once more upon its opponent.

The two settle into an almost choreographed rhythm: a furious strike, sidestepped gracefully and returned in kind. The doctor is patient. He weakens his adversary’s defenses and throws it off-balance when it manages a blow. There’s not a hit that the man’s not ready for it seems. It’s beautiful.

Ichabod is stunned, frozen until the very last blow - a swift thing, the toe of the scythe burying deep into the monster’s throat. And after the whole ordeal, the only break in Reid’s composure is a flinch at the thick, rotten blood fountaining over his coat. The smell - God, the smell. It snaps the onlooker out of his awe, and he scrambles back behind the nearest corner and takes full, needy breaths. He’s uncertain for how long he’s been holding them back.

That was… incredible. Somewhere, he feels there should be guilt for not helping a civilian. Clearly, though, the situation was under control. Just what that means-

Old iron squeals on its hinges, rudely reminding Ichabod of his purpose out here. He peeks around just in time to watch the gate ahead swing closed. Contemplation will come later, he supposes. He rises to his tired feet once more.

Perhaps it is a mercy when, after just a quick walk (and wasn’t that a gift in itself) south, the doctor vanished behind the ragtag quarantine wall into the West End. Of course a doctor would have free movement about the city at a time like this. Ichabod, however, is not afforded such luxury. Nor is he going to bribe or beg the men at the gate, not tonight. A simple ask for entry, a simple refusal, and Ichabod (gladly) turns homeward.

Never before has Ichabod Thromorton been so cavalier with his rations, but if there was ever a time which called for proper cups of tea, it has been these last few nights. The sky was still plenty dark upon his return to the docks, and after the encounter with that hideous beast, Ichabod was glad he had time for a patrol. He had considered stopping into the Night Shelter to warn good Sean Hampton about the horrors he had seen, but thought better of it as he locked eyes with one of the Ms. Paxtons, the angry one. The Sad Saint has too much on his hands to shoulder the unseen dangers of the night. He’s told the man about vampires before, but past that, perhaps keeping quiet is within the purview of his protection.

He sinks into his thinking chair with a long sigh. He’d spent so much of his night chasing - what? A wild goose, perhaps. A hope in his heart that Priwen were wrong, but a feeling in his core that they knew something real. Why not trust the Doctor, why not warn him?

There were things that had happened tonight which Ichabod could not explain. The doctor’s ability to flow through the shadows of London to get past Priwen was one thing, but that almost made sense. It was clear the man had many patients. Ichabod knew of just as many people getting medicine from the good doctor on the docks as he had seen being tended to in Whitechapel. Dr. Reid needs to be fast if he is to care for all of them within even a week.

The fight, now that was something else. Ichabod had assumed Reid had seen war; he is certainly of age, and has the weariness of a man returned from the front. The proudly-proclaimed vampire hunter may not have many companions, but he’s seen it. That beast though… Reid had faced it head-on and unflinching, like he’s done this before. He is a doctor, for God’s sake! What had he seen, what had he done on the continent?

And what of Priwen’s, what of his suspicions? The man is a force to be reckoned with. Surely, though, were he a vampire, the fight would have gone differently. Less careful patience, more claws and teeth.

Ichabod had tracked the vampire - the poor soul - he once met. He’d followed her awhile before he had her cornered. He saw her melt into shadow, cross distances impossible for man in the blink of an eye. And when he looked into her eyes, for all the sadness he saw in them, they were clearly inhuman. Wrong. He did not see that in Reid. More than that, he saw kindness and humanity. In his actions, in his words, and in his eyes.

So why, why is there still the itch in his brain that there’s something more to the man?

It takes some time to come to the conclusion that there is no conclusion yet to come to. With his tea long cold and the sun well past the horizon, Ichabod Thogmorton settles into bed with hope he’ll figure something out in his dreams. And if not, he can always follow the good doctor again tomorrow. Or, rather, tonight.

Chapter Text

The sunset over London is bittersweet these days. For many, it means another day lived. A reprise to their home and loved ones. For others, it signals another cold to find shelter through. For Ichabod Throgmorton, it’s a foul omen; once the sun is below the horizon, this city is no longer in the domain of man.

Ichabod should be the bastion against such a world, he should laugh in the face of this ominous dusk.

But the chance encounter a few nights ago with that hulking monster had shaken him. The night after, he’d taken the time to look through his notes and line up the creature with accounts he’d heard from the Priwen rookies about “werewolves” and similar hideous beasts. Never before has he put much stock in the brutish men, but if there are things like that out there? Maybe their guns and torches are necessary.

Of course, Ichabod is no coward. He will continue his crusade against vampires and whatever else is out there, and he will do so without weaponry by spreading word and warning. He is still plenty more capable of investigating suspicious deaths than Priwen.

Investigations, incidentally, are something he has been avoiding. It’s not that the man lacks motivation or confidence. Or, unfortunately, suspicion. He just needed some respite. No true rest for the weary though—he kept up his usual patrol, just without venturing out into new parts of London for a while.

Alas, there is still suspected to be vampire loose in a hospital (Dr. Reid or otherwise), and Ichabod has been avoiding this reality far too long. He has a lead, no matter how tenuous, so he must follow it.

After spending most of the arduous trek to the Pembroke attempting to plan his newest excuse for showing back up there, whatever Ichabod had come up with is booted from his mind by the incensed barks of Priwen guardsmen. He’s equally relieved and concerned when he realizes the shouts are directed away from him—he had enough fun running from these rogues the other night. Too bad for the poor sod whose turn it is to dash away from cries of “leech!”

His bemusement swaps to horror when not one but two shots are fired after the retreating figure. He’s unsure which surprises him more—the bullet or blazing crossbow bolt - but surely neither is excusable.

Before he can realize what he’s doing, he’s running up to the guard and hurdling himself into the crossbowman before he can let loose another arrow. This is met with shouts, confusion, and a sharp pain in his shoulder. He doesn’t have the time to determine the cause of the latter before he’s grabbed by his lapels and dragged up to eye a red-faced guardswoman.

“Oi, whaddya think yer doin ya pillock?” She punctuates her rhetorical question with a curt shake. “Fancy types like you never stop to think about anything do ya? What, saw a scrap and wanted ta finally feel alive? Goin about throwin yerself at fire, daft fucker?”

The scolding stings a bit, as do the patch of hand where flames licked his skin and the shoulder that’s now leaking blood all over his nice jacket. Regardless, he does his best to brush away both the words and the ash. He quickly brushes himself down once the churlish woman releases him.

“I am very sorry ma’am, but you see, that is my ‘leech’ to chase.”

And with that, he is once again running as fast as his legs can carry him after the shadow of Jonathan Reid.

Despite his rather bold proclamation, Ichabod was not entirely sure that it was Dr. Reid he had spotted until he finally caught up to him.

It was a simpler task than expected - the chase through the ravaged streets was unnerving, but thankfully safe (though the battered guardsmen stalking around shattered carts and barrels suggest that was a recent development). When the West End quarantine limits came into view, so did the expectation of another frustrating and early end to the night’s investigation. That was, however, until he noticed this was an unmanned checkpoint. Nobody should be able to come in or out without having somebody to present a pass to… And yet, the man he’d been chasing is gone, and there is no other avenue which could have been taken.

With no other options, Ichabod hesitantly tried the door. It provided no resistance. A worrying hazard in terms of contagion, though not wholly surprising—he wouldn’t put it past Priwen or any other gangs to force entry into the West End. Surely they aren’t conventionally welcome here.

It is here, upon streets Ichabod had never dared venture into, that he finally gets to catch his breath. Ever the good doctor, it’s unsurprising Reid has patients on both sides of the quarantine wall. He can be seen clearly now, handing a vial to a mousy little fellow. His handsome suit hangs a bit loose on him, as though he hasn’t been eating his usual fill, and his finely-cut hair has been mussed around the edges. It’s clearly a good thing this fellow is seeing a physician.

Ichabod’s musings are interrupted as he hears an unexpected word from the frazzled lad: “vampires.” Heaven forbid the man is distracted from his mission for even a minute. He inches nearer to the pair until he’s practically crouched behind an old newsstand praying the men are too deep in conversation to notice his shameless eavesdropping.

“Clarence, I hear you, and you know I believe you, but do you not think you are drawing undue attention to yourself going about your nights in this fashion?”

“You didn’t see what I saw in France, Johnny. You didn’t hear him struggling. I know what I have done to my reputation, to Venus… But if I can save just one person from that fate, it will have been worth it.”

“But what of yourself, my friend? If vampires truly are all around us, will they not hear your proselytizing? In warning others, are you not putting yourself at risk, out here at all hours? Why not do this during daylight hours, or study those papers-”

The shorter man—Clarence—shakes his head almost frantically. “Venus burned those papers, Jonathan. You may say you believe me, but I thought you’d understand. You risk yourself taking the night shift, walking all the way to Pembroke at all hours… I can’t leave this be, friend, and you can’t make me.”

Apparently the doctor does understand, for the sigh he lets go is nothing more than defeated. “Well then, old chap, at least be sure to get yourself some rest. The medicine should help some… but you know the source of your migraines. Just be careful, Clarence.

“Goodbye, Johnny.”

Time seemed to slow after the sobering conversation. It was one Ichabod feels he mustn't have heard - the two men are clearly close, and words left unsaid are still almost oppressive in the air. Perhaps this is what he gets for listening to private talk.

Still, he’s glad he did. What are the odds of finding another man out to warn London of the vampire threat? Ichabod plucks a flier—distributed by one mister C. Crossey—from the top of the rubbish bin he’s still eye-level with, and reads with something like pride:

“WEST ENDERS MUST UNITE!

Don’t let them fool you.

Don’t let them control you.

They are amongst us.

They lust after your soul.

VAMPIRES ARE REAL!

DEFEND YOUR COMMUNITY!”

Perhaps this Mr. Crossley is someone worth talking to. He wonders how he hadn’t heard of the man before now. Not that he frequents the West End, nor that he expects a West Ender to be found by the docks, especially one as skittish as Crossley seems. Surely, though, Dr. Reid could have introduced the two, or even mentioned their common goal!

It’s clear now that the Priwen rookies were indeed talking about Reid—that the members of the group see him as a vampire. Ichabod still isn’t convinced of their theory, but when he thinks about it, he finds he’s lost trust in the man. The doctor spoke with Crossley unlike how he spoke with Ichabod; he was straightforward about vampires, and spoke as though he was entirely convinced of their presence. The familiar lilt of amusement in his voice was gone. The one time he’d seen this side of the doctor he was being called a fraud.

Being told, confidently, that he had never faced a vampire. That he wouldn’t stand a chance.

As though Reid knew better than him. As though he knew better than Mr. Crossley.

Yes, Dr. Reid is helping the vampire hunters of London, but he is also hiding something from them. Something Ichabod Throgmorton will get to the bottom of.

Chapter Text

After leaving Mr. Crossley, the night takes on a clinical rhythm. The characters in the West End are a curious lot; really only one—a Mr. Calhoun—holds the aloof and haughty air of a rich man. The rest are shockingly more inscrutable than the down-to-earth denizens of Whitechapel or the fraught and destitute of the docks. Many don’t appear to be quite there, mentally. Even more unsettling are those who seem to know too much.

Despite Ichabod’s best efforts to stay discreet, he gets thrown suspicious glares by a young suffragette and, naturally, every Priwen guard he passes by. Even worse, he’s questioned by a man outside Temple Church! The turnabout is striking. He’s unused to being on the receiving end of an investigation. It’s not hard to give him quick, polite answers and run along, but he does feel a bit bad doing so. Oh well, yet another reason to return another night.

It’s rather relieving when he gets to follow Reid past another unexpectedly unlocked gate and into Whitechapel. It’s familiar territory in a way, much more reminiscent of home. He recognizes a handful of the patients the doctor checks in on in this district and notes some new faces. Among them is a young boy who invites his physician inside his home, leaving Ichabod feeling a bit ridiculous as he’s left outside, pacing about on wet stone.

After two long nights of trailing the man, all he can say with certainty is that Jonathan Reid is an odd duck. Giving out tonics free of charge to the poor and the rich alike, running across half of London at an astounding pace and braving horrid creatures to do so… Something hopeful blooms in Ichabod’s chest - the man could almost be a second Saint for his dear city. What a fool Ichabod was, to send himself on a wild goose chase on the words of some boisterous Priwen rookie.

However, Reid does clearly know something of vampires and other night beasts. Ichabod would have assumed a connection with Priwen, but Priwen thinks him a vampire. They obviously haven’t followed him as stubbornly as Ichabod has, or they would’ve seen the man struggling with the savage beast by the bridge. A vampire would have no need to fight such a creature, especially not with steel.

If Reid hadn’t sourced his knowledge from Priwen, then how is he so seemingly well-versed on London’s vermin? And why hadn’t he spoken candidly with a fellow vampire hunter?

Deep in a rabbit hole of thoughts, Ichabod nearly missed his target moving on. It’s a shame; he’d meant to meet the doctor at the door and finally strike up conversation about all this. He doesn’t dare do so now, though, as Reid’s got the stride of a man on a mission.

The doctor sweeps past the church, rounds a corner, and vanishes. It’s nothing unreasonable until Ichabod turns the corner after him and is greeted by the absence of both a path forward and a fancy doctor. There’s plenty of street forward and the churchyard to the left, but Reid had surely turned right and out of view. Right, a direction which boasts nothing but closed shops and a shut iron gate.

A shut iron gate under a conspicuous balcony. A conspicuous balcony upon which stands a conspicuous figure.

Dr. Reid appears captivated by whatever is behind that damned iron gate, but frankly Ichabod couldn’t care less. The hunter is much more interested in how the blazes that man got up where he is. There’s no ladder, no ivy, no trellis. He couldn’t have possibly gone through the building that quickly, and the man would have to be an impressive athlete to have lept for the ledge and pulled himself up.

It’s all Ichabod can do to stand there, mouth agape. Then, incredibly, things get worse when the dear doctor turns from whatever had caught his sights and walks off the balcony edge. Not an ounce of composure is lost between leisurely step from the edge and soft, nonplussed impact with the ground.

Miraculously, Reid pays his shadow no mind as he turns back to greet the figures emerging from behind that awful gate. The presence of the odd pair—Ichabod recognizes the reporter and the object of his admiration from his last outing in this district—only begins to explain the least pressing question on the hunter’s mind.

Unfortunately, the two foremost questions here may answer each other. What Reid has done is not normal. Not human. If the descent wasn’t, the ascent might not have been either.

Ichabod scans the area for any bystanders, desperate for some contrary evidence. This part of Whitechapel is densely populated, with the church and late-night shops and whatnot. Still, the only people near enough to notice a proper 6-foot-something man impossibly scaling a crummy balcony are now talking to the man as though they didn’t notice his blatant eavesdropping.

Despite common belief, Ichabod Throgmorton is no fool. There is no human method to instantly and silently reach that perch. Nor could most creatures past a cat simply walk off of it without breaking an ankle upon landing.

Or perhaps this revelation merely proves his foolishness.

It’s merely salt in the wound when the creature turns to him and the first thing Ichabod sees in its surprised smile is sharp fangs.

“Mr. Throgmorton, whatever are you doing in Whitechapel tonight?”

Fight or flight instinct be damned, Ichabod can find it in him to do neither. He’s pretty sure he gives an appropriate answer. He can’t quite hear himself.

“Are you injured, Ichabod?” Everything sounds like he’s underwater. “You seem pale. Please, let me help you.”

He follows the doctor’s steely gaze... Oh yes, his shoulder. Perhaps he should have just retired for the night after such an injury.

Shifting focus to his pain—to the feeling of dried and forgotten blood under his jacket—yanks Ichabod back to reality just enough to respond.

“Actually, Dr. Reid, I was just returning home from an investigation in this area. Thank you for your concern, but I simply need some rest.” He’s not sure he’s all that convincing, but there is no attempt made to stop him when he turns to leave.

That’s twice now that he’s let a vampire go. Perhaps Ichabod had ought to change his title.

Chapter Text

It is far past his usual waking hour when Ichabod grows too restless to remain in bed. He hadn’t particularly wanted to go anywhere tonight. Regardless, his traitorous legs know exactly where he does not want to be, and bring him there before he could really think about it.

Never before has he been on Night Shelter grounds so reluctantly. Alas, this is his home. His ward. There will be no more dallying in this investigation, not like there was with Dr. Reid.

He forgoes his usual attempts to appease Ms. Giselle Paxton at the door and merely presses forward with a firm nod of greeting. She responds with a sneer, but does not press him. The rush of courage gained from this interaction quickly falters at the door to the abode of the Sad Saint. Ichabod hates how common knots in his stomach have been recently—his typical bravado may be exaggerated, but very rarely is it a lie. Almost never does he forgo it completely, as he does tonight.

He still hasn’t gathered the strength to knock when a familiar voice invites him in. He does, however, enter.

The point of no return is crossed when he meets those yellow eyes. Perhaps it was crossed the night he decided to observe Dr. Reid, or even the moment he thought it wise to eavesdrop on Priwen Rookies. He’s almost surprised he sees it after all he’s done to (perhaps willingly) overlook the Saint’s peeling skin and unnatural pallor. Despite himself, he isn’t surprised when the first words he hears from Sean Hampton are the same quiet greeting as always. He can’t bring himself to answer. It is Sean who finally breaks the long silence.

“Ah. So you truly did not know. Until now, it seems.”

“You are a vampire.”

The Sad Saint stands, but he does not approach. Instead, he turns to his altar and lights its candles. It’s a familiar motion, one he’s seen the saint do plenty before difficult conversations. Somehow, it feels no different this time.

“I don’t know what you have seen, Ichabod, but rest assured this is still the safe haven it has always been. This—what I am—is a blessing from the Lord. To be able to serve Him and His children through these terrible times and for ever after.”

“You are a vampire!”

That earns him a quiet sigh. “I am a skal, technically.”

“And you can wear the rosary?”

The man (the skal) turns back to face him, but doesn't make a move. Doesn’t lunge, or run, just stares with those bright eyes and a small smile. Is Ichabod Throgmorton truly so poor a vampire hunter?

“You are not the first to ask how I am unaffected by the cross. I know not what rules bind my vampiric cousins, but I am a man of faith, Ichabod. I am a skal by the will of God, He will not forsake me for it.”

There’s nothing but peace on Sean’s face when he talks about being a vampire. About being an undead creature. He speaks as though it’s a blessing! It’s… unsettling, to be sure, but also very familiar.

“You always put others before yourself, don’t you.” It’s not a question—Ichabod already knows the answer, as well as the one the Sad Saint will give him.

“I am not a saint, Mr. Throgmorton, but I am the Lord’s humble servant. I will continue to help people in need, one and all, as far as I can.”

The two settle into an uncomfortable silence. With the candles lit, Ichabod watches Sean kneel and pray, as he’s seen many times before. Just like with Dr. Reid, it all seems so eerily human. It was the same way with the demon, the poor woman he had tracked all those years ago. She had killed, Ichabod knew that—that was why he’d pursued her in the first place. But when he had finally found her in that run-down flat, all he could see in her eyes was sadness. The same human suffering he sees every day around the docks.

“So, have you come to do your duty, vampire hunter?”

The second he’s left his own thoughts enough to process Sean’s words, Ichabod flings himself back, throwing his arms up in surrender.

“I- Do I need to?” And that seems to throw Sean as off-balance as Ichabod feels.

“You are a vampire hunter, are you not?”

“Well… Are you going to drink my blood?” The chuckle the saint gives out at that is startling, but the implied negation is enough for the hunter to feel comfortable dropping his defensive stance.

“I am no ekon, Icabod. I am a skal.” When his only response is a raised brow, he clarifies: “We skals sustain ourselves on flesh, not blood. My hunger has been sated, and before that, my sacrament was the flesh of the dead.” Ichabod does his best not to picture this, but can imagine he’s getting a bit green at the thought.

“So you are no longer, I mean, you don’t have to eat? At all?” All he gets is an affirmative nod, so he pushes. “How?”

“That is a rather awkward question, and one that is not wholly for me to answer. I am sorry I can give no more than my word. Please, I am here only to help my flock, Ichabod. I will not stop you if you deem me a danger, but I fear they will stray without me.”

This whole situation has been sickening from the start, but somehow this was what truly broke Ichabod’s composure. The mere thought of the Sad Saint taken away from his flock, from the poor people of the docks, is abhorrent. Moreso the thought that he could be the one to do it!

“I couldn’t do that, Sean. Not to you, nor to the people who depend on you.”

“Even though I am a vampire?”

“It would mark the third time I have let a vampire go.”

“Out of how many encounters?” There’s a glint in Sean’s eye at that, like he thinks he knows the answer, so all Ichabod gives him is a slight frown. “It seems, dear Ichabod, that you are much more than a hunter. Or, perhaps, you never were one to begin with.”

“My claims may be exaggerated, but I am no liar.”

“And I did not mean to accuse you of being one.” The skal steps forward and places a cold hand on Ichabod’s arm, and it’s all the man can do to not flinch it off. The rotted flesh is a reminder that Ichabod cannot do the single thing he’s set his life to. What a pitiful man he is.

But when he looks up to Sean’s golden eyes he sees pride, not pity.

“I know you see yourself as a protector, Ichabod, and I believe that is what you are. It is a holy ambition.”

“But I couldn’t protect you! And now what? I just let the vulnerable of the East End seek shelter with a skal? The ill and frail of London seek healing from a vampire?” The only thing keeping Ichabod’s knees from giving out is his quickly-shattering pride.

“A skal who is the same man he was before God changed him, and the most powerful and kind vampire in London.”

Now isn’t that reassuring. Pride can only withstand so much, but Ichabod Throgmorton at least has the wherewithal to pull out a seat before collapsing. His next words are quiet.

“Is that true?”

“If you refer to who I think, then yes. Or at least, those who know more than I believe so.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

Sean lets out a soft chuckle, and once again turns to his altar. “Dr. Reid has helped me and the people at this shelter more than any of us know. I may have my disagreements with the man, and I pray he finds his faith, but I would easily trust any of my flock in his hands.” Ichabod watches the wisps of smoke from the now-snuffed candles intently, as though they could prove Sean’s words true. When they spell nothing, he hangs his head in his hands.

It’s muddy, how long he’s sat like that. He’s thinking, but the words of his thoughts seem to leave as soon as they arrive and he’s brought no nearer to any destination. He’s only torn out of this void by a familiar cold pressure, this time on his shoulder.

“You are welcome to stay here as long as you must, Ichabod, but I must tend to my flock now. You may ask Lottie if you need anything. But please, do not mention my condition. To them, my illness is purely cosmetic.”

“I- Thank you, Sean.”

Ichabod stares up at the rickety old ceiling. He waits until he hears the door softly shutting before letting himself shudder. How the Sad Saint was so calm about all of this is far beyond him, and he doesn’t even want to consider what was said about Dr. Reid. Sean naming him made it that much more real. Not to mention… other concerns.

There is a finality in all of this. No matter what, he walks out of this a changed man; how could he possibly maintain his brash optimism and gusto when he’s going to betray the very dedication which fueled them?

Because he can’t hunt Sean or Dr. Reid. Not when so much of London depends on those two. There’s no decision to be made here, just acceptance to find. So it goes.

Ichabod Throgmorton will have to change professions.