Chapter 3: The Shabby Shack
The London fog felt like wet wool, thick with the stink of coal smoke, horse dung, and the brackish tang of the unseen Thames. Felia stumbled over uneven, slick cobblestones, her modern silk slippers instantly ruined, the heavy, sodden skirts of her dress – absurdly formal for this grimy reality – tangling around her legs. Gas lamps cast weak, flickering halos that did little to pierce the gloom, only deepening the shadows in the narrow, reeking alleys. Panic threatened to choke her. This wasn't her London. This was a darker, dirtier beast.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the locket’s warmth beneath layers of damp fabric. It pulsed gently now, a low thrum against her skin, as if satisfied. "You did this," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Bring me back. Now." Nothing. The locket remained stubbornly warm, inert. Terror warred with a spark of furious defiance. She wouldn't just stand here. She shoved the panic down, forcing her mind to work. Shelter. Safety. Figure out when this was. The clothes of the few shadowy figures hurrying past confirmed it: bonnets, frock coats, the rhythmic clop of unseen hooves – Victorian. Mid-to-late 19th century. A century and a half from where she belonged. From Lucian.
She needed to move. Huddling in this dank corner near a reeking pile of refuse wouldn't help. She gathered her heavy skirts, wincing as the wet fabric dragged, and ventured cautiously towards the slightly wider street where dim light pooled. The air grew thicker with the smell of fish, tar, and decay. The rhythmic slap of water against wood echoed nearby. Docks. She was near the river.
A figure lurched out of a deeper shadow just ahead, making her gasp and stumble back. A man, hunched and ragged, wrapped in layers of filthy, oil-stained cloth that might have once been a sailor’s peacoat. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and spat a glob of phlegm onto the cobbles near her ruined slipper. One eye was milky white, the other, a startlingly sharp blue, fixed on her with unnerving intensity. He reeked of stale brine, cheap gin, and unwashed flesh.
"Lost, are ya, pretty bird?" A voice with grating rasp, like stones dragged over wood. He took a shuffling step closer, his good eye raking over her expensive, anachronistic dress, lingering on the swell of her breasts above the tightly laced bodice. "Ain't no place fer fine feathers 'round 'ere. Not safe." He grinned, revealing broken, blackened teeth. "Crabby Bill knows. Sees things. Knows the river's secrets, I do."
Felia’s heart hammered against her ribs. She forced herself to stand straighter, meeting that unsettling blue gaze. Confidence, even feigned, was her only shield. "I… I require shelter. Directions...help" Her voice wavered despite her effort.
Crabby Bill chuckled, a sound like dry bones shaking. "Shelter? Directions? Help? Why not all three, you can have it all with me heh, heh, heh..." He took another step, closing the distance alarmingly fast. His hand, gnarled and crusted with dirt, shot out, not towards her, but to snatch at the damp hem air. "Cost ya, pretty bird. Everything costs on the docks. Especially shelter." His milky eye seemed to gleam in the gaslight. "Especially time lost." His gaze dropped deliberately to the faint, warm glow emanating from the neckline of her dress, where the locket lay hidden. "Seen a light like that once… long ago. Bad business."
He wheezed, that single sharp blue eye fixed on the hollow of her throat where the locket's warmth pulsed. "Little thing like you won't last the night out here in the dark, not with what prowls," he rasped, leaning closer, his breath a foul gust against her cheek. "But Crabby Bill knows things... saw the light tearin' the sky when you dropped in, knows why that shiny piece burns so fuckin' warm between yer large, juicy breasts." A gnarled finger, crusted with filth, tapped his own sunken chest. "I might just tell ya... if you're willin' to help poor Crabby Bill with his own little problem." She stood firmly, stared at him with a look that didn't hide her mistrust.
Crabby Bill's sharp blue eye widened at her face, but he just grinned wider, that single blackened tooth glinting. "Know things 'cause the river whispers, pretty bird," he rasped, then abruptly turned, shuffling surprisingly fast into the dense, shadowed trees bordering the docks, his rags flapping. "Follow or don't. Your pretty neck, your choice."
Felia stood frozen, nausea churning at his crude words and the reek he left behind. The sudden emptiness of the fog-choked wharf felt more threatening than his presence; unseen eyes seemed to watch from the gloom. Her gaze darted between the labyrinthine, reeking alleys and the dark woods swallowing Bill's hunched form. He knows about the light. He saw it. The terrifying truth slammed into her: she had no map, no coin, no ally in this brutal time, only the madman vanishing into the trees. Panic clawed its way up her throat, cold and sharp. She gathered her heavy, sodden skirts, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, and ran after him.
She plunged into the woods, the damp, earthy smell of decaying leaves and pine sap thick in her nostrils, replacing the docks' foulness. Bare branches snagged at her sleeves and hair like skeletal fingers. She hadn't run far when movement flickered behind a moss-covered oak trunk just off the path. Crabby Bill lurked there, partially hidden, his wiry frame pressed against the bark. He watched her approach, a predatory gleam in his good eye, his breathing shallow and excited. He'd been waiting, spying, enjoying her frantic pursuit. The thought sent a fresh wave of revulsion through her.
"C'mon then, pretty bird," he crooned, stepping out fully, a grotesque parody of welcome. "Knew you'd see sense. Shack's just yonder. Got a bite to eat, maybe. Warmth." His gaze dropped meaningfully to her damp bodice, then roamed hungrily over her curves outlined by the clinging fabric. "And answers, oh yes... answers 'bout that shiny trinket of yours, burnin' so sweet 'tween your lovely little tits." He licked cracked, grimy lips, already imagining her soft hands on him. "Just gotta help ol' Bill first...'."
He gestured deeper into the oppressive gloom where a crude dwelling of stacked branches and rotted canvas emerged from the undergrowth. He shuffled inside, holding the tattered flap open. The interior was a suffocating den of shadows and stench – unwashed body, stale beer, and something sickly sweet and rotten. A single guttering tallow candle cast long, dancing shadows on walls lined with strange, tattered finery – water-stained silks and moth-eaten brocade incongruous with the squalor. He rummaged near a heap of rags that served as a bed, pulling out a half-eaten, greasy meat pie crawling with ants. "See?" He held it out, grinning. "Supper fit for a queen. Now... about my curse..." He set the rancid pie down on a warped crate.His filthy hands fumbled urgently at the rope holding up his ragged trousers. They dropped heavily around his ankles, revealing stick-thin, grimy legs. He wasn't wearing underclothes. His erection sprang out, thick and obscene against his wiry frame, the head swollen and mushroom-shaped, glistening with pre-cum even in the dim light. He groaned, a wet, guttural sound, as he took his cock in his crusted hand, giving it a slow, filthy stroke. "Needs your sweet lips, pretty bird," he panted, his eyes locked on hers with manic desperation, his other hand gesturing vaguely towards his groin. "Just a kiss, right on the head. Cures anything, this magic cock does. Seen it! Kiss it. Kiss my fat fucking cock-head, Felia. Suck the curse right out." He shuffled a step closer, the thick, sour smell of his arousal filling the small space. "Do it... and I'll spill every secret the river ever told me 'bout you and that locket." He thrust his hips forward slightly, the bulbous tip glistening inches from her face. "Go on, girl. Kiss it. Taste old Bill's magic."