Work Text:
If asked, Jonathan Reid could pinpoint the exact moment his humanity fled him; the moment he became more than human. It wasn't the moment he rose from the mass grave, confused and starving, but what he did immediately after it. Killing his sister, drinking her blood, was what truly solidified the bond between the man and the monster, making them one in his deceased form.
At first, he resisted, feeling immeasurable guilt about the murder of his sister, and at the fact that it was the most alive he'd ever felt before. Blood was an eternal temptation, one that he swore on Mary's grave to abstain from, but over time, resisting felt like its own form of cruelty.
It was his inaction, his…refusal to kill that allowed Dr. Strickland to bully his way into Harvey Fiddick’s surgery, crippling him for life; it was his inaction that brought Rufus Kingsbury into his operating room with severe lacerations and broken bones from one of Seymour Fishburn’s rages. Inaction, he discovered, was its own kind of action. And so, he decided to take action of a different kind.
At first, he started small; murderers and rapists and abusers fell to the cobbled streets bloodless. It got easier, as time went on, to be more lenient about his justifications. This one was planning a murder, but hadn't acted, this one had cheated on her husband, but felt remorse. After a few months of this, he needed no more reasoning other than the fact that he was hungry, and they were there. He still tended to his patients of course; they adored him after all, he wouldn't want to deprive them of his care or his presence, but out of all the citizens of London who loved him, the one that he wanted the most was still out of his reach.
Geoffrey McCullum; the one man who he couldn't bend to his will.The Irishman was sharp and stubborn, but that didn't stop Reid from desperately seeking his presence. It was his unattainability that drew the Ekon close, making the hunter that much more alluring.
Jonathan sighed, running a hand over black and red eyes, the only sign of his departed humanity, as he finished signing off on patient reports for the night. There had been an accident at the local dye factory, and they'd been treating those exposed to the chemicals the whole night.
He'd been planning on hunting, but time slipped away as he worked, and soon the sun was already beginning to peek over the horizon. He bit at his cheek in frustration, closing the door to his office perhaps a bit too hard. Oh well, there was always tomorrow night, he thought to himself; perhaps he'd visit the Docks. Enid Gillingham was due for a checkup, and there was bound to be at least one gang member lurking around to sustain him. And maybe, just maybe, he'd run into a certain guard, he thought to himself, a grin on his dead face.
His sleep was unremarkable as usual; the bed was just as cold as the room when he got up the next evening. Usually he gave off some sort of body heat, no matter how scant, but tonight his veins were dry and his body chilly. He didn't feel temperature the same way he did when he was alive, but it unnerved his patients when his flesh felt like ice, and that just wouldn't do. Jonathan performed his rounds quickly that night, before informing Ackroyd of his house call. The man still didn't like him much, but he begrudgingly accepted the fact that the surgeon was here to stay.
He grabbed his coat, more of a habit than a need at this point, and his medical bag, before leaving. Summer was nearing its end, and Jonathan appreciated the fact that the sun set earlier every night. It was a warm, clear evening; one of the rare times that it wasn't raining, which meant there were many humans out and about, soaking up the warmth from the recently departed sun. Jonathan received a few smiles and waves, and in a couple cases, people came up to start a conversation. He extracted himself as politely as he could; he was hunting, not looking to socialize. He handed out a cold tonic to one of London's people, his people, whose blood smelt of sickness, before walking on to the Docks.
Jonathan's victim of the week was unremarkable, some gang member with more bullets than brains. The Ekon pretended to be lost, making the man feel as though he was in control, before he struck unexpectedly and silently. His collar was low, perfect for Jonathan to latch his mouth onto the man's salty flesh and sink his fangs into the carotid. His medical knowledge, it turned out, came in quite handy when bleeding victims. With the right amount of pressure, the heart would effortlessly pump blood into a waiting mouth, something he knew almost instinctively. It was hot and sweet, filled with notes of regret and anguish, Jonathan remarked to himself as though he was at a wine tasting, but delicious all the same.
The unnamed stranger beat at the surgeon's back until he grew limp and pliable, his shallow breaths evening out before stopping all together. Reid released his jaws, licking the droplets of blood from his lips. He could feel warmth traveling through frozen limbs, rejuvenating the corpse he still occupied. His skin turned from cyanotic to pink with life, something he mimicked quite well. He let the body drop, slashing at its throat with his claws to disguise the bite wound. Just another victim of gang violence, how sad, he mused to himself as he walked along to the Gillingham residence. After all, he had a patient to see.
The old woman still mistook him for Dr. Tippets, something that irked him every time, but she was appreciative enough for the fatigue medication he gave to her. He took a deep, unneeded breath of the polluted night air as he stepped out of the front door; the scent of the citizens' blood mingled with the smell of burning garbage that seemed to permeate the whole city. However, one of those human's blood smelled more potent and far more familiar than the rest. He took another breath, scenting the air with a smile.
“Hello, McCullum,” he called out, turning his head in the direction of a nearby alleyway that the hunter stepped out of with a scowl.
McCullum looked just as delectable as usual. His hair was slightly windswept, and he had a thin layer of sweat over his sun darkened skin. His eyes were stormy, set above rough stubble and a frowning mouth. The hunter's clothes were worn, and a new tear in the side of his coat was speckled with blood, the sweet aroma calling to him like a siren song.
“Leech,” he greeted, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword even though they both knew there was nothing permanent he could do with it. “What are you doing in the area,” the hunter asked, eyes narrowed, “find some poor soul to snack on tonight?” he enquired reluctantly as though he didn't want to know the answer.
Jonathan's grin widened; he could never lie to the man, “mm, isn't it part of your job to figure that out yourself? It's a kind of scavenger hunt, like the ones my father used to leave for my sister and I,” he answered, aware McCullum knew far more about him than he did about the hunter.
“The sister you slaughtered, you mean?” McCullum asked, his voice nonchalant, but the beating of his heart betrayed his nerves. He knew that if the surgeon decided to pick a fight, he wouldn't walk out alive. Not that Jonathan had any intention of killing him.
“The very same,” Jonathan said calmly, appraising the hunter's wound through his clothes. It didn't need stitches, so he'd leave it to McCullum. Although he craved to put his hands on the man, he was used to being patient. He did, after all, have eternity. “However, I'm just in the area seeing a patient. Poor Mrs. Gillingham has no one to look after her anymore, someone has to do it,” he shrugged, playing innocent.
McCullum wasn't buying it, “yeah, cuz you killed the bloke who'd take care of her,” he snarled, looking for all his power like a toothless pit bull. He couldn't beat the Ekon; he failed before, and they both knew it. The hunter wasn't stupid; when the time came to kill the leech doctor he'd come with the full weight of Priwen at his back, but right now he was essentially helpless, and he hated it.
Jonathan scoffed, “please, Martin Nightingale was entering her home under false pretenses to steal and sell her things, especially those belonging to her dead son. She's better off without him,” the surgeon said, a hint of humor in his voice.
“And so you killed him,” McCullum said with a sigh, his hand never moving from his sword.
“And so I killed him,” Jonathan affirmed, “however, his blood has sustained me enough to come check on Mrs. Gillingham on occasion, so really he's helping her more now than ever before.”
“You're sick,” McCullum spat into the dirt, “and someday Priwen will come and put you down like a rabid dog. Mark my words.”
Jonathan hummed, “I wait on baited breath for the day, my dear,” he grinned, showing his teeth, fangs and all.
“You don't even breathe,” McCullum said, shaking his head. Even agitated and tired as he was, Jonathan had never seen a more handsome man.
McCullum turned to walk away, and the surgeon fell into step with him absentmindedly. They'd played this game before; the hunter would vent his frustrations, the vampire would take them, and they'd be on their separate ways. However, as always, Jonathan wanted more.
McCullum sighed, coming to a halt a few paces later, the fight seemingly leaving him. “What do you want, leech?” He asked, several sleepless nights obvious on his face.
“I want whatever you want, Geoffrey,” Jonathan said, using the hunter’s first name. “If I am a dog then I am yours to command, your weapon to wield as it were. I never wanted to harm you, but merely to be in your presence,” he purred, lacing his words with mesmer that he knew wouldn't be able to breach the man's beautifully guarded mind; just another thing about him to adore.
“You wanna know what I want?” McCullum asked, a teasing look on his face.
“Always,” Jonathan replied, relishing the hard won smile on the hunter's face.
McCullum's smile turned predatory, “I want you to leave me alone,” he said cheekily, enjoying Jonathan's frown.
“McCullum,” Jonathan huffed, “that's not fair," he protested to the man's chuckling.
“What happened to ‘anything I want’?” he grinned, showing off a missing tooth near the back of his mouth. Jonathan wanted to run his tongue over the cavity.
Jonathan bit his lip, sighing. “I suppose I shouldn't have expected you to be anything other than…devious,” he frowned. He hadn't lied; he would never lie to the man, and he did want to prove he was trustworthy. With another exaggerated sigh, he allowed his body to dissipate into shadows, jumping to the rooftop and away in the form of misty tendrils.
“Stupid leech,” he heard McCullum say, with far too much fondness in his voice for what should've been his enemy.
Maybe Jonathan had a chance after all.
—
Geoffrey walked back to base that night confused, angry, and more than a little hard. Jonathan Reid was an enigma, the weirdest dragon he'd ever met. The creature seemed to be content to play doctor with the patients that he didn't end up killing. It was weird, and nowhere in Priwen's records did it say anything about a dragon that did good for the populace, despite being an irredeemable murderer. The leech would blatantly follow him around, even going as far as killing other leeches McCullum might be locked in combat with. The idea of the dragon being possessive about him should've been repulsive, and it was, but it was also something else. This wasn't the first time he'd offered to play the part of Priwen's pet leech, and everytime it got harder to resist the allure.
McCullum shook his head, he could focus on the leech later, right now he had a club's worth of other leeches to worry about. Ascalon had been picking off full patrols for the past few weeks; at first he thought it was Reid, but no, that one had always had a bit of a sweet spot for Priwen, something McCullum tried to resolutely ignore.
The nest of Ekon in the West End were probably still angry over the attack during the epidemic. He hadn't authorized it, but he hadn't exactly stopped it either, and he felt the weight of all his men's lost lives on his conscience. His second has suggested a peace offering, an idea that McCullum shot down himself, but the idea of the meager remaining Priwen destroying a nest that large was almost laughable. He wouldn't go to Reid, he wouldn't.
Instead of taking up the dragon surgeon's suggestion, he spent the rest of the night rearranging the patrol schedules until each district was more or less covered, before finishing up on written orders for more ammunition. Priwen was, he had to admit, struggling. Not only would destroying Ascalon protect London, but it would also be an excellent opportunity for looting. The toffs had to have tens of pounds of items just strewn about, something that could potentially finance the Guard for at least six months. He couldn't blame his boys for taking up thievery during the epidemic; sometimes the low numbers in their coffers made him want to dig through the trash or someone else's pockets too, but if they could manage to take out Ascalon, they'd be set. The problem was there may not be anything left of Priwen when he was done.
McCullum sighed, watching the sun come up over the rooftops of the neighboring buildings. He cracked his knuckles absentmindedly as his eyelids began to droop. He'd been up all night, and the encounter with Reid had shaken him. The beast was obsessed with him, and it would be in his best interest to stay away. However, as he lay in bed, fingers gravitating to the waistband of his pants, he couldn't say it felt *particularly* harmful.
The next four nights went the same way: plan patrols, stockpile ammunition, ignore Reid, and so far it was going as well as he'd thought. Another patrol had gone missing in the West End, and their exsanguinated remains had been dumped unceremoniously in front of their front door, prompting fears that Ascalon would stage an ambush. McCullum spent most of his time those nights reassuring his recruits that, unless invited inside, the leeches couldn't even get past the front door. Regardless of this assurance, McCullum had pulled all patrols to the outer doors, lest a leech try and mesmerize them for an invitation. He'd hoped they'd left this madness behind in the epidemic, but no; there were always leeches ready to settle the score, and those buggers could hold grudges for centuries.
On the fourth night, his luck of avoiding any leeches ran out. He had been patrolling alone, as usual, and the route had been quiet until, of course, it was not. Three well dressed leeches blocked his path, their fancy suits and sabers marked them as members of Ascalon, of course. Two of them lingered back while the third surged forward, forcing McCullum to parry the strike with his short blade while he dug his broadsword out of its scabbard. It was fast, almost too fast, as he ducked a swing that almost had him beheaded. The hunter was forced to stay on the defense, dodging killing blows. However, no leech, Ekon or not, could stay at its best forever, and soon enough it ended up run through with his blade.
The two that had hung behind were seemingly enraged by the death of their companion, leaping forward with claws unsheathed in tandem. McCullum ducked one and slashed at the other, carefully evading the shadow appendages as they forced him closer and closer to the wall. An upstroke with his sword cut the hand off the slowest one, but the strike left him unprotected for a second too long. Claws embedded themselves into his shoulder, tearing through muscle and skin as he was thrown to the ground. The hunter hissed in pain as his sword skidded one way and he the other. The Ekon grinned, clearly preparing to deliver a killing blow, but what happened was something else entirely.
The shadows rippled, almost warping around the leech in front of him, but before McCullum could get a better look at it, the shadows *exploded*. The beast was not lucky enough to get out of the way in time, jagged spikes made of pure darkness erupted from the ground, cutting through bone cleaner than any scalpel. The Ekon was immediately disemboweled, the sharp tendrils cutting through its abdomen and straight into its heart. It fell into a pile of viscera in front of McCullum, giving him front row seats to Jonathan bloody Reid tearing the other one's throat out with his teeth.
McCullum sat up, his shoulders screaming, as he watched the dragon lick the remainder of blood off his lips, before shadow jumping far closer than the hunter was comfortable with.
“You're bleeding,” Reid said, his cool fingers probing the area. “This will need stitches,” he remarked, propping the hunter against the wall like a sack of flour. McCullum would've struggled, but the pain and the stress from the previous weeks were catching up to him, making it seem almost impossibly hard to fight back.
“No biting,” he ground out as the leech unbuttoned his shirt and shoved it aside. The dragon just grinned, showing off blood stained teeth.
“If I bit you, I wouldn't be able to stop,” he said in lieu of an actual answer. However, he pressed a rag soaked in some sort of chemical to the wound, before stitching him cleanly up. The whole procedure was quick, minimally painful, and uncomfortably silent. McCullum kept his eyes locked on the surgeon's own, watching the black eyes with equal parts revulsion and fascination. However, it was done sooner than he thought it would be, and he came out of his reverie to the dragon offering him a hand to stand. McCullum stared for a moment before taking it with his uninjured arm, allowing the beast to pull him to his feet, bringing his face far too close to the leech.
Up close, Reid smelled faintly like cologne and primarily like blood, however, the red grin on his face made him look oddly joyous, as though there was nowhere else he'd rather be. It all came to a head then, the oddly tender care mixed with the panic about Ascalon and the pervasive sense of loss that he hadn't been able to shake since he'd held Carl Eldritch’s dying hand. He swayed slightly on his feet, and the dragon caught him effortlessly, but McCullum shoved him away.
How dare the leech continue to play doctor while killing innocents? How dare Ascalon target his men? And how dare he be too weak to stop it?
“Reid,” McCullum said angrily, his sadness turning to rage, “you wanna do something for me so badly?”
The leech stood stock still, dipping his head in a slight nod as if he was afraid of being chastised by the hunter; the hunter who couldn't even kill him. What a joke.
McCullum surged forward then, backing the dragon into a wall; his anger only growing with the realization that Reid was *allowing* this, that he'd never be able to do it on his own.
“I want you to go to the Ascalon club, and I want you to kill them *all*. You wanna play Priwen's pet so badly, here's your first command,” he bit out, the glare on his face so severe it'd strip paint.
Reid stood still for a moment longer, as though he wasn't sure he was allowed to move, before his eyes dilated like some great cats. He raised his hand to cup McCullum's face, but the hunter batted it away. “No touching,” McCullum said, aware how hypocritical the statement was as his hand remained fisted in Reid's lapels.
The dragon put his hands to his sides instead, freezing completely in place. He'd look like some inhuman statue if it wasn't for his eyes tracking McCullum's every movement. The hunter stepped back with a nod, tapping a cigarette out of the case in his front pocket.
“Well, go on then,” he said, bringing his lighter up to his lips. “There's only so many hours in the night.”
The next time he looked up to where Reid had been standing, there were just curls of residual shadow left in his wake.
—
So far, Jonathan's entire existence had been dictated by what other people wanted for him. He was turned to defeat a disaster, making him no longer himself as the last drop of blood was drained from his body. He was drawn into so many conflicts and unimportant arguments that it made his head spin, his name written on contracts in a foreign hand in his very own blood; it was all too much. He'd disobeyed his maker at first in his refusal to take a life, but soon it felt like killing was the only thing he could control, and so he even began to enjoy it.
However, out of all the flawed characters in London, both those he healed and those he killed, none of them were like McCullum. The hunter was so sure of himself, so sure of his cause, that he risked death to even attempt to bring Jonathan to his knees. It was fascinating and invigorating to be in the same room as the one man who knew exactly what he was and did not flee. The Ekon found himself willing to do anything to be in the man's presence, even if it meant he had to entangle himself further in the whims and wants of others; no, not others, just him.
The walk to the West End was peaceful; almost everyone was in their homes for the night, that is, unless they were vampires or those who hunted them. Jonathan effortlessly sidestepped two separate Priwen patrols in his path, amusing himself with their placid faces. Humans could be so oblivious, he mused as his wingtip shoes moved across the cobblestones silently, but tonight he wasn't here for them.
Jonathan walked past Charlotte Ashbury with a nod, before strolling up to the front door of the Ascalon club and kicking it off its hinges in one fluid motion. The doorman, Arthur Pembleton, was knocked over by the blast, giving the Ekon the perfect opportunity to run a stake through his heart. All at once, several other Ekon descended the staircase to gaze upon the carnage: one of their own lying in a puddle of growing blood, and a “traitor” standing just beside him, the bottoms of his shoes growing tacky from the sanguine liquid. It was still for just a moment before chaos erupted, the other club members falling on him like some sort of mob. It was, well, rather invigorating.
Before, Jonathan had almost found solace in his weaknesses; he would never be strong if he didnt kill humans to feed, but he'd been alright with that, wore it like a badge of honor really, until he realized the harm that abstaining could do. He saw the bruises Christina Popa tried to hide left by Cadogan Bates after she hadn't made rent, not to mention the never ending strife caused by Jack Gillingham's murder. If he didn't kill them, if he did nothing, they would continue to hurt others. Wasn't that his job as a doctor? To save lives?
He leapt through the shadows as though he was made of them, sending spikes of both blood and darkness through the feet and bodies of his opponents. Ascalon's attendance had grown sparse since the end of the epidemic with more and more Ekon leaving the isles, however, all that mattered in that moment was ripping the blood from the bodies of those present. As the final head rolled across the floor, Jonathan activated his blood sight in case there were any others hiding. Upstairs in what he knew was the main office held a single vampire; Redgrave, most likely.
He walked up the stairs, shoes leaving bloody tracks in the plush carpeting in the hunt for the last remaining Ekon, other than himself. Jonathan popped his dislocated shoulder back into place on a door frame, feeling the rest of his injuries beginning to heal. McCullum had done worse to him in the attic, the surgeon thought to himself wryly; if this was the best Ascalon could offer, it was surprising they'd lasted so long.
A glimpse into Jonathan's blood sight told him that Redgrave was standing behind the door; he found himself breaking off a doorknob and slamming the door into the wall. He'd expected the Earl to be a more formidable foe, but soon enough Redgrave found himself lying on the floor with his skull smashed in. Jonathan licked the blood off his fingers, bringing an end to the insufferable gurgling of the older Ekon as blood pooled in his lungs.
Jonathan waded his way through the carnage, nearly tripping on some dead vampire's dismembered body. The front door was, unfortunately, completely broken, so he left the door frame open like a gaping maw as he walked back home. The sun was rising, and he knew he'd never make it to the Docks before it was fully in the sky, not that he'd mind burning for the hunter.
His own manor was cold and dark due to the culmination of his own actions, but he found he didn't mind. The entryway rug was already soiled with blood, so he found it easy to wipe the remainder off his shoes onto the stained mat. Jonathan's clothes were ruined, so he threw them in a pile in his room to be burned, something he found himself doing almost nightly. The hardest part about being a vampire, it seemed, was keeping one's possessions free of bloodstains. It was a good thing he was not too terribly attached to anything he owned.
Jonathan's sleep was unremarkable, as always. His heart ceased its slow beating, his lungs stilled, his synapses paused their firing; he was, for all intents and purposes, dead during the day. The sunrise was beautiful, apparently, but he had no care to see it, his body trapped in rigor mortis until he awoke the next day to stiff limbs and cyanotic fingers. He cracked his neck upon awakening, taking a reflexive gasp for air he didn't need as he looked around the room; empty as always. The surgeon dressed slowly, having no need to be at the Pembroke that night, instead he was to report to McCullum, something that caused the dragon to feel almost giddy.
The Docks were quiet as Jonathan stopped by the Turquoise Turtle for a nightly report, hoping for reports of further carnage; an unneeded justification for another kill, but all that had happened was some poor drunk had stumbled upon his own exsanguinated victim. How disappointing. Jonathan made his way past Priwen headquarters, not sensing the hunter's heartbeat, and instead made his way to McCullum's private flat, one whose location he'd stumbled upon by accident.
McCullum lived in a small block of flats, really just two, in what must have been an old house. The hunter lived on the bottom floor, and a quick dip into his blood sight told him that the upstairs neighbors were not home. Jonathan knocked on the door politely, a smile already forming on his face.
The hunter opened the door with a gun, which didn't surprise the Ekon, who simply stepped back to accommodate the width of the barrel. “Leech,” McCullum ground out, his heart racing, “how did you know where I live?” He asked harshly, positioning the muzzle over Jonathan's heart.
The dragon folded his hands behind his back, “good evening, McCullum,” he purred, “I found your flat ages ago, I'm afraid. You're not a hard man to find; all I had to do was follow the scent of your blood.” He took a half step closer, the double barrels of McCullum's shotgun digging into his ribs.
McCullum narrowed his eyes at the dragon, dropping the gun to point at the floor, but not stepping an inch over the door frame. It'd be very smart if Jonathan meant him harm, which he didn't. “What do you want?” He asked, seemingly resigned to endure whatever Reid had to say.
“I did what you wanted, last night,” he clarified, “I'd have told you sooner, but unfortunately the sun rose before I was able.”
McCullum blinked as though he was trying to recall their previous conversation, “you what, took out Ascalon?” He snorted, returning his gun to its rack next to the door.
Jonathan shifted awkwardly on his feet, “yes,” he replied simply, watching the hunter go from amused to dead serious.
“You? You stormed up to Ascalon and killed them?” McCullum paused for a moment, as though assessing the sincerity of Jonathan's black and red eyes. “Why?”
“Because you asked,” Jonathan replied just as nonchalantly, as the hunter grew more visibly baffled.
McCullum's eyes widened, “so what, if I asked you to stand out in the sun? To run a stake through your heart? You'd just do it?” McCullum asked, an almost hysterical edge to his voice.
Jonathan thought for a moment. He wasn't a fan of the idea of dying, there were so many lives for him to save after all; medically and otherwise, but if McCullum wanted him dead, truly wanted him dead, he found little reason for him to fight it. “That is likely, yes.”
McCullum glanced around, a violent sigh leaving his lips, “get in here,” he said, grabbing Reid's arm and pulling him through the open door. He led Jonathan through the open kitchen into a small parlour off to the side, sitting in a rickety chair and unbuttoning the top of his shirt, showing the stained bandage from the previous night. “Go on,” McCullum said, waving his hand permissibly, “aren't you supposed to be a doctor?”
Jonathan took a few steps closer, bending over the hunter slightly to slide his shirt off his shoulder and unwind the soiled bandages. The skin was red and slightly puffy, but the surgeon could smell no lingering infection in his blood. He wrapped a new bandage around the wounds, keeping his eyes firmly on his task, even though he couldn't help but be aware of the fact that the hunter was watching his every move.
Reid stepped back, allowing McCullum to inspect the fresh dressings with a gruff “you done?”
Jonathan nodded, “I am,” he replied, looking around the hunter's space as though he was committing it to heart.
“Good,” McCullum replied, “now leave,” he said gruffly. Jonathan caught the barest hint of surprise on the man's face as he did just that.
—
It got easier after that, to call on Reid whenever something needed doing: a strangely powerful Ekon killing people by Limehouse, a Vulpe stationed in the sewers, or even a lone Skal digging through the trash, it was so simple to storm down to the West End and get Reid to do whatever he wanted…it was intoxicating, really. McCullum got a few odd looks from his men, but they couldn't argue with the results, and if he looked at Reid a bit too long while the dragon licked the blood off his lips, well, that was his own business.
The leech never protested, never did anything other than stare at him with those red and black eyes; eyes of a murderer. McCullum knew Reid was out there killing, saw some of his victims even, but well, he was more useful like this.
Tonight McCullum was sitting in his flat nursing a glass of whiskey waiting for the telltale three knocks that would announce the presence of the leech. It had been a weird couple of days; a new group of Ekon had shown up attempting to claim the city, something that seemed to happen every so often around here. There were a lot of them, and he didn't want to risk his men, so he'd gone and oh so politely knocked on Reid's door with his “request”.
A few more minutes of silence passed, allowing the hunter to lose himself in his thoughts, before the familiar knock sounded out against the weathered wood of his front door. McCullum took another sip of whiskey.
“Come in,” he said, already knowing who, or what, was on the other side of that door. Reid had clearly gone home to change first, his clothes and face neat and free of blood. “All done?”
The dragon smiled, “Indeed,” he replied, sitting across from the hunter on the threadbare couch. “There weren't as many as I'd thought, so it didn't take as long as I'd suspected. It gave me time to wash up afterwards.”
“Why? You got plans after this?” McCullum asked, shrugging his shoulders like the thought of Reid having other responsibilities didn't bother him.
The sofa creaked as Reid shifted his weight, “not as such. Why? Is there something else you need?” He asked, so bloody earnest like he always was.
“Yeah,” the hunter said, his voice low, “come here.” He gestured for the dragon to get closer, grabbing him by his tie as soon as he came within arms reach, just like he'd done during their meeting on the street a few months ago. “You can touch now,” McCullum said, his voice purposefully neutral as his blue eyes stared into Reid's red-black ones, both sets of pupils dilated to some degree in the dark. And so Reid did.