Jonathan barely had time to compose himself—or hide anything—before the door swung open, revealing his 'companion' standing in the threshold, one hand braced against the frame. His eyes swept the room, first landing on the slumped corpse in the chair, then on the gun still clutched in Jonathan's, surprisingly, steady grip.
The man let out a low whistle. "Didn't think you had it in you," he muttered. "Not that I blame you, this place reeks of bad luck. Did you put another hole in 'im just for good measure?"
Jonathan swallowed, forcing himself to hide his shock. "No," he said, his voice barely steady. He slid the revolver into his pocket, an uneasingly familiar motion. "I...I thought I saw something."
The man just cocked his head, his brow furrowed. "Right," he said slowly. "I'd be more concerned if you weren't seeing things. This house's got death steeped into the floorboards."
Jonathan wasn't sure if the man believed him or not, but there wasn't time to dwell on it. The sounds of shouting outside had grown louder, more urgent. The Priwen were close. Too close.
Then, as if fate itself was mocking them, the telltale sound of a door being kicked in downstairs echoed through the house.
"Shit," the man hissed. His hand instinctively went to his belt, where Jonathan now noticed the hilt of a rusted blade peeking from beneath his coat. "We need to go. Now."
Jonathan's thoughts were still tangled in the impossibility of what had just happened, but survival instincts kicked in. He forced himself to move, his body stiff and unwilling, but moving nonetheless.
"The back," the man was already turning toward the hallway. "Most of these places have got a way out—windows, doors to the alley. You good on your feet, or am I gonna have to drag you?"
Jonathan straightened, pushing aside the lingering haze of his failed attempt at escape. "I can move."
The two of them hurried out of the room, their footsteps careful but quick. Below them, the sounds of the Priwen moving through the house were unmistakable—the heavy boots, the scraping of weapons being drawn, the hushed but urgent voices.
"They're here," a voice grunted from the bottom of the stairs. "Spread out. The leech won't get far."
Jonathan's chest tightened. He glanced at the man, who was already moving toward a door at the end of the hall. "Come on," he urged in a whisper.
They slipped into what seemed to be an old study, filled with stacks of rotting books and broken furniture. The graverobber wasted no time, moving toward a grimy window that overlooked the alleyway behind the house.
"Shit," he muttered, peering through the glass. "Bars."
Jonathan clenched his jaw. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. It was never that easy.
The sound of creaking steps behind them signaled they were running out of time. Jonathan glanced around the room, his gaze landing on a battered old writing desk pushed against the far wall. The wood was warped, and one of the legs was broken, but—yes. The faintest glimmer of moonlight seeped through the cracks of what looked like a narrow crawlspace beneath it.
"There," Jonathan whispered, pointing.
The man followed his gaze. His eyes widened slightly, then he grinned. "Smart lad." He wasted no time, crouching low and pushing the desk aside with surprising strength. Beneath it, a small, half-rotted wooden door was set into the floor—probably an old servant's entrance, long forgotten.
Jonathan bent down, gripping the edge. It groaned in protest as he pulled, but it gave way with one final heave. The stench of damp stone and rot hit him immediately, the space below leading to what seemed to be a narrow passage beneath the house.
"No idea where this goes," the man admitted, eyeing the dark hole warily. "Could be a rat's nest for all I know."
"Better a rat's nest than a pyre," Jonathan murmured.
He grinned again. "Fair point."
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
Jonathan didn't hesitate. He slipped down into the passage first, the cold stone pressing against his hands as he lowered himself into the darkness. The man followed quickly, pulling the door shut behind them just as the study door swung open.
"Nothing here," one of the Priwen men grunted. "But he's close."
A long silence. Then another voice, sharper, commanding. "Check the alley. If the bastard's hiding in the shadows, we'll drag him into the light."
Jonathan exhaled slowly as the boots retreated.
The man let out a quiet chuckle. "Well, that was close."
Jonathan shot him a sharp look. The man only shrugged. "This way," he said, gesturing down the narrow, crumbling passage. "Let's see where the rats scurry, shall we?"
Jonathan nodded, and together they vanished into the dark.
The passage stank of damp earth and the sour tang of stagnant water, the kind that clung to your clothes and never quite washed out—it didn't help that the passage was suffocatingly narrow either.
It was like a fog had lifted from his vision, revealing something unnatural beneath. The dark passage was suddenly 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘳, though it wasn’t sight as he had known it before.
The walls faded into a dull grey, the air thick with floating motes of red—𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥. Trails of it, like threads winding through the shadows, pulsing softly in the gloom.
It's like all the colour was sucked from his eyes all of a sudden.
Jonathan staggered, gripping the damp wall for balance. His heart pounded. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?
“You alright?” The man had paused ahead, watching him with a raised brow.
Jonathan swallowed hard, forcing himself to straighten. “I—yes.”
He tore his gaze from the glowing streaks of crimson that lined the floor, the walls, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.
He could see it. The blood in his veins. Moving. Flowing.
Could see and 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 the man's heart beating in his chest.
His hunger twisted inside him, sharp and gnawing.
He clenched his jaw and pressed on.
Jonathan moved carefully, his footsteps uneven as exhaustion and his concealed hunger gnawed at him. But the man pressed on ahead, forcing Jonathan to keep up—moving like a man who knew the streets beneath the streets.
Jonathan kept his voice low. "You seem to know your way around."
The man glanced back, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Wouldn't be much of a graverobber if I didn't, would I? When you do what I do, you learn quick—where the bodies get dumped, which streets got cellars no one checks, and most importantly, which piss-pot hidey-holes keep you out of trouble."
'𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘳?' Jonathan struggled to keep up with all of this, it made sense, sure? And of course Jonathan had heard of the profession—if you could call it that—but to meet a man so blatant with it, so willing to admit to such impropriety, was baffling.
The man stopped briefly, crouching to feel along the dirt wall, his fingers pressing against the damp stone. "Aye, here we go," he muttered, and with a bit of effort, he wrenched a loose slab to the side, revealing a narrow opening.
Jonathan hesitated, peering past the man into the gloom beyond. "And this leads...where, exactly?"
The graverobber chuckled, brushing the dust off his hands. "Out, if we're lucky. Close to the docks. That's where we need to be."
The East End Docks. Jonathan vaguely recalled them from his time before the war—though he had little reason to visit back then. A place thick with dockhands, sailors, and men who made their living on the wrong side of the law, men very different to him and the usual company he was expected to keep.
If his guide knew the area well, it meant he was either born to it or had spent long enough skulking in the filth to call it home. Either way, the man had saved his skin thus far, and Jonathan wasn't about to argue with survival.
Suddenly, the passage widened into a crumbling brick archway, and the graverobber led him up a short flight of slick stone steps. He paused at the top, glancing back at Jonathan with a finger pressed to his lips.
Jonathan barely had time to register the warning before the man pushed open a rusted old gate, its hinges groaning in protest. They stepped out into the night air, the scent of salt and coal smoke instantly replacing the damp stink of the tunnel. They had emerged into a tight alley wedged between two warehouses, the wooden walls swollen and warped with years of exposure to the polluted air.
The graverobber exhaled, stretching his arms before shaking out his shoulders. "Right then. We keep our heads down and get to the Turtle." He cast Jonathan a sideways look, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hat. "You 𝘥𝘰 know the Turtle, yeah?"
The man snorted. "Figures. You got the look of someone who used to drink at places with white tablecloths and piano music." He adjusted his coat. "Turquoise Turtle's a pub, one of the better ones 'round here. Blokes like me keep their heads down there. No one asks too many questions, which-" he gestured vaguely at Jonathan's bloodied state "-seems like a bit of a necessity for you, doc."
Jonathan tensed. "How did you-"
"Oh, don't look so startled." The graverobber started walking, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Your clothes ain't right for a dockhand, your hands ain't calloused enough for proper graft, and when you talk, you sound like you've spent more time lecturing in a hall than brawling in the street. Plus, you looked at that watch like it meant something, not like you were just thinking about what it'd fetch in a pawn shop. Posh types like you don't end up in places like this unless somethin's gone very, very wrong."
Jonathan said nothing. The man wasn't wrong, sadly. Something 𝘩𝘢𝘥 gone very, very wrong—if only he knew what himself.
They kept to the shadows, ducking behind crates and stacks of rotting fishing nets as they worked their way through the winding streets. The Priwen were still out, their patrols sweeping through the docks in twos and threes, torches held high, their voices carrying over the night air.
Jonathan felt the unexplainable hunger gnawing at his insides again, the dull ache growing sharper with every step. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to focus. Now wasn’t the time to lose control, not again, 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.
He forced himself to ignore the streaks of blood decorating the cobblestone beneath his feet—for now.
The man led him through a tight warren of alleyways, weaving through the maze of wooden structures that lined the riverfront. A couple of drunks staggered past at one point, oblivious to their presence, and in the distance, the chiming bells of St. Mary’s echoed faintly through the fog.
Finally, the man stopped, nodding towards a squat brick building tucked between two looming warehouses.
The Turquoise Turtle loomed ahead, its weathered brick façade half-hidden by the creeping fog rolling in from the Thames. A battered sign swung above the door, the faded lettering barely visible beneath years of grime. Golden light seeped from the warped wooden windows, cutting through the murk of the East End night, accompanied by the muffled hum of some light conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from within.
The man exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he came to a halt just outside the entrance. “Right, here’s your stop, doc.” He adjusted his coat, tugging it tighter around himself as he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The Priwen patrols were nowhere in sight now, their torchlight long swallowed by the winding streets behind them. “Looks like we gave those bastards the slip. Best get yourself inside before you keel over.”
Jonathan hesitated, glancing at the pub’s door. The thought of stepping inside—of surrounding himself with people in such a vulnerable state—made his stomach twist uncomfortably. His clothes were still damp with blood, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, and worse still, that 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 coiled deep within him, sharp and insistent.
The man clicked his tongue, watching Jonathan’s hesitation with mild amusement. “Ain’t gonna find many better places to catch your breath ‘round here, mate. The Turtle’s got it's share of rough sorts, but they ain’t the type to stick their noses where they don’t belong. Long as you got coin for a drink and keep your head down, no one’ll ask why you look like you crawled out of a grave.”
Jonathan tore his gaze from the door, studying the man who had—against all logic—helped him escape. He had half-expected the man—the graverobber—to try and rob him blind at some point, or at least demand something in return. But the man had led him here without so much as a request for coin or favor.
“You’re not coming in?” Jonathan asked, his voice rough.
The man huffed a quiet laugh. “Not tonight. Got my own business to get back to. Edwina’ll have my guts for garters if I keep pissin’ about all night.” He tipped his hat slightly, his grin crooked and easy despite the night’s dangers. “Besides, you’re a big lad. Reckon you’ll manage.”
Jonathan nodded slowly. There was little else to say. He could barely grasp what had happened since he’d clawed his way back to consciousness in that wretched pit, let alone think of how to thank a man like this.
The man tilted his head toward the pub. “Go on, then. Get inside before someone decides you’re worth askin’ questions about.”
Jonathan hesitated only a moment longer before stepping forward, pushing open the heavy wooden door. A rush of warmth hit him instantly—stale beer, tobacco smoke, the lingering scent of damp wool and unwashed bodies. The dimly lit area was mostly empty, expected—given the time, and area. The only people he could see was a semi-well dressed man behind the counter, a barmaid hastily sweeping the floor, and a man leaning against the bar—clearly very inebriated, perhaps a dockworker?
As the door swung shut behind him, he turned instinctively to glance back. But the man was already gone, vanishing into London's fog.
This is also available on my Ao3 (under the same username).
Hope this wasn't too bad!
