#aislin writes

The rhythmic thud, thud, thud of bootsoles against concrete pull him from his thoughts, nearly drowning Anthony in the wave of dread that acts as a prelude to the hurricane of emotions threatening to overwhelm him as reality sinks in once more. Heavy feet come to a stop outside the door to his cell, replacing the sound of footfalls with the unmistakable clatter of keys knocking against each other. His stomach tightens in anticipation. He doesn’t need to see who’s coming through the door to know it has to be one of the goons from earlier—no one with two brain cells to rub together would be able to make that much noise unlocking a padlock. Light floods the room as the door is finally swung open to reveal the mountain of a man who’d landed the lucky gut-punch that got him into this mess. Ugly #3, as he’s mentally dubbed him.

Disappointment, it seems, is his only constant companion in situations like this. The glee in the man’s eyes as they fall on him is a stark contrast to the thorny tendril of dread rooting itself in Anthony’s gut. He looks downright thrilled to see the shell of a younger man before him, all of his earlier bravado choked out not by his own treatment, but by the screams from down the hall that still echo in his ears like an infernal symphony.

The faintest huff of air escapes him—maybe a laugh, maybe a sigh of satisfaction. He circles behind the chair, keys jangling ominously from his belt as he fiddles with the ropes binding Anthony’s handcuffs to the metal chair. The clinking of metal and the creaking of the ropes create a maddening cacophony, each sound adding to the tension in the small, grim room.

Anthony’s mind races, hundreds of half-formed ideas flittering through his pounding skull, not one of them slowing enough for him to catch them. He’s torn between the animal instinct to lash out, and the human need to know she’s safe before he throws caution to the wind. He won’t lie and deny that the thought of headbutting the guard and making a desperate bid for freedom isn’t deeply satisfying, but he knows it’s a reckless–and useless–gamble. He needs to know where she is, to know what fate has befallen her, before he can formulate a plan for escape. There are too many variables to risk her safety now just to soothe his wounded pride.

The guard’s fingers are methodical as he works, his movements slow and deliberate. A thoroughly disturbing thought occurs to him; if the man was shite at something as basic as unlocking a door, how much practice must he have to be able to untie a man so efficiently?

Anthony’s wrists ache as the rope gives way and the chain between the cuffs goes slack, the sudden rush of circulation making his arms feel foreign and heavy. When he’s pulled to his feet, his legs, numb from hours of restrained sitting, barely support him. He stumbles, catching himself with a strained grunt. The pain in his joints is a sharp reminder of how long he’d been stuck there, helpless.

There were no words, no explanation shared, as the guard hauls Lockwood unceremoniously to his feet. He hadn’t really expected there would be, but it would have been nice. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. Every stumbling step is a fight he isn’t sure he can win. His heart pounds in his chest, providing a drumbeat to the thready melody of anxiety coursing through his veins as he struggles to maintain his upright position. The only feeling capable of cutting through the fog of his panic is the clear, driving need to find out where they're keeping her—and how he can save her before the unthinkable becomes reality.

Once he’s been ejected from the room by an unceremonious shove by his apparent escort, Anthony feels a cold focus settle over him in a way he'd only experienced once before—images of sources piled within rings of iron chain, black shimmering gates, clouds of breath suspended in stagnant air, pale hands clutching colourful feathers, the sting of the unrelenting chill in the air—as his eyes scan the dimly lit hallway. The narrow concrete corridor stretches out behind him, an endless grey passage punctuated only by the occasional flicker of a failing fluorescent light. The heavy silence is broken only by the dull echo of their footsteps, and the low hum of a distant air vent. Every shadow, every echo, seems to whisper of looming danger. He fights the defiant urge to turn and spit in the face of his captor, to make one last desperate bid for freedom. He wouldn't succeed, and angering these people more than he already had wasn't going to get him anywhere.

For now, he follows, his mind rushing with strategies, and scenarios that grow more and more dire with each iteration. The real fight is coming, he can feel it in the marrow of his bones, and he needs to be ready for whatever lies ahead.

His focus is quickly yanked back to the present when a calloused hand smacks the back of his head, forcing his gaze to the floor. The impact is just as jarring as he remembers. The brute grabs him by the back of his neck, his grip like a vise as he forces him to keep his head down. With a final, almost contemptuous shove, the man propels him forward. The scuff of the soles of his shoes echoes off the walls as he stumbles onward.

Anthony considers counting the steps, but the thought evaporates quickly as he realizes the lack of distinguishing features in the hallway would render the effort futile. He turns his focus inward instead, silently organizing the pieces of the puzzle he'd collected so far, hoping to find a kernel of useful information he might have gathered without realizing. The sound of what he suspects to be distant machinery is almost as effective as white noise in helping him concentrate.

After a seemingly interminable walk down the maze-like corridor, a firm hand clamps onto his shoulder, bringing him to a sudden halt. The grip is almost painful, guiding him through a heavy steel door that seemed to materialize from the grey. It creaks open reluctantly, revealing a stark, utilitarian stairwell bathed in harsh, artificial light. One that nearly becomes his grave when his escort decides he's moving too slowly, giving him a sharp prod to urge him along. The steps are old, concrete, and worn, their surfaces marred by sizable cracks and chips. His foot slips off of one such chip—roughly the size of his fist—forcing him to do his best impression of a worm in the rain in an attempt to regain his footing.

He counts the steps meticulously—fifty-six, if he includes the longer slabs that marked the start of another flight—each one leading him deeper into the bowels of the building. A coil of dread tightens in his stomach, the loaded silence in the stairwell amplifying his growing unease. He knows every step brings him closer to the answers he desperately needs, but can’t bring himself to hope for.

Finally, they arrive at another set of doors. These are heavier, reinforced, and secured with a key from the same ring that held the key to his cell. The sound of the lock turning echoes ominously through the corridor, the click of the latch doing nothing to soothe his fried nerves.

His mind goes blank at the sight before him. No amount of wracking his brain for clues could have prepared him for this. He hadn’t given them enough credit. Even in his darkest scenario, he could never have thought them capable of this level of inhumanity. The room sprawls out before him, dimly lit and foreboding. Rows of floor to ceiling dog cages line the walls, each separated by thick, rusted, unyielding bars. Inside each cell is nothing but a filthy mattress haphazardly thrown on the floor. The stench of decay, infection, and despair permeates the air. Bile bites at the back of his throat, but he’s unsure if it’s the scent or the realization that some of the slumped shadows within the cages are silhouettes that's made him feel so nauseous.

As he is shoved roughly through the room, Anthony’s eyes dart from one cell to the next. The darkness makes it hard to discern details, but he can make out the shapes of bodies huddled together against the bars, curled into themselves in an effort to conserve what little warmth they can. Each silhouette seems to tell a story of suffering, and the sight is almost too much to bear.

A short, sharp tug on the chains of his handcuffs jolts him back to the present. The metal bites into his wrists as he’s forced to an abrupt stop. Bitter dread trickles like ice down his spine when he sees they’ve come to a stop before the door to one of the cells. The brute yanks on the chain, forcing Anthony to his knees, and begins rifling through the comically oversized key ring with one hand.

Anthony watches the best he can over his shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest. The man’s clumsy attempts to find the right key are frustratingly slow, each moment stretching into an eternity. Finally, with a grunt of effort, he selects the correct key and shoves it into the lock. The door groans and shrieks as it swings open, its sound seemingly amplified by the silence of the room. Several of the huddled figures begin to stir, their movements slow and wary.

Instead of departing with nothing but another shove as a parting gift like Lockwood had come to expect from the miniscule eternity he’d spent with the man, he surprises him by pulling out a single key and expertly removing the handcuffs with practiced ease. Before Anthony can react, he grabs him by the back of the neck with a rough grip and throws him unceremoniously into the cell—now that was more in character for the large fellow. The door slams shut behind him with a resounding clank, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoes through the empty space.

Ugly #3 spares no time for heartfelt goodbyes, opting instead to storm back the way they came, his heavy footsteps growing fainter as he leaves Anthony alone in the cell. The darkness closes in around him, and the cold, damp air of the cell seeps into his bones. His heart races as he takes in his new surroundings, the weight of his predicament settling heavily on his shoulders.

It takes him longer than he thinks it should to regain his bearings. His eyes slowly adjust to the dim light, and he begins to scan for any potentially useful details. The room is small, and entirely devoid of furnishings. The only object besides the mattress is a wooden pot against the wall, which he refuses to acknowledge until it becomes otherwise impossible not to.

The mattress, though stiff, lumpy, and somehow flat at the same time, is a welcome relief as he sinks onto it, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall at the rear of his cell. The physical discomfort is minor compared to the blow to his pride. He hasn’t been manhandled like this in years—not since the DEPRAC officer who still visits him in nightmares. The humiliation now feels sharper, more acute, though he was far from a novice even then.

He takes several deep breaths, attempting to steady his racing heart and calm his nerves. Each inhale is a battle against the rising tide of panic, each exhale a vow to find a way out. With each breath, the dim light grows a little clearer, and the creeping darkness in the edges of his vision recedes a little further. His hands tremble slightly as he rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The effort is a small gesture of defiance against the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind.

As he surveys the cell again with a clearer mind, he can feel the crushing weight of anxiety pressing against his carefully constructed walls. The room is still a maze of shadows and stark edges, but now he can see the minimal light filtering in from a small, barred window high above. Now he can hear that the eerie silence is occasionally punctuated by distant, indistinct noises—footsteps, muffled voices. He can’t afford to let fear control him now. He misses things when he’s afraid, and he can't afford to miss a single thing if he wants to get them all out of here alive. He needs to think clearly, to piece together a plan before the weight of drastically rising stakes make good on its threat to swallow him whole.

The cell to his left is empty, a gaping void that seems to echo with a desolate silence. The two cells to his right, however, are occupied. His own mattress is pushed against the rear wall, positioned almost exactly in the center between the two rows of bars that separate him from the others. The mattresses in the two cells to his right are close enough that they nearly touch the bars dividing them. He wonders if the occupants are familiar with each other. The proximity might suggest a shared connection, the comfort of which might make them more willing to converse with him.

His curiosity piqued, Anthony studies the shadowed figures in the adjacent cells. The mattress closest to him is eerily still, with no sign of movement. The figure on the far side, however, has shifted into a sitting position. The dim light plays tricks on his eyes, but he can make out the silhouette of long, dark hair cascading down the figure’s back. The faint light reflects off his own pale skin like moonlight, stark against the darkness, but their skin casts a warm, rich ochre glow.

There’s a tense moment as he weighs his options. He’s unsure of what to say, feeling the pressure of his recent missteps drastically reducing the faith he has in his ability to talk his way out of any situation.

The figure on the far side seems to be inspecting him with a curious, if wary, gaze. His throat feels dry as he searches for the right words, grappling with the strange sense of vulnerability and the nagging urgency to establish some form of rapport with the girl.

“Sorry, but… are you Anthony Lockwood?” A woman’s voice cuts through the gloom, soft yet tinged with a rasp consistent with days of unuse. Though she sounds undeniably rough, there’s an underlying clarity and crispness that suggests she would normally occupy a far more organized and vibrant space. The simple elegance of her voice in juxtaposition to their environment catches him off guard, momentarily overshadowing her surprising familiarity with his identity.

When he recovers, he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying to peer into the darkness where her voice emanates from. “At your service, Miss?” He mirrors her soft volume, letting the question hover between them. He’s cautious, careful not to make any sudden movements or loud noises.

“Ah, forgive me,” she responds, her voice taking on a rueful edge. “It’s only been a few weeks and I’ve already managed to forget my manners.” Her quiet laugh is laced with bitterness, but it doesn't stop the soft smirk from rising to his face at the sound. “Holly Munro, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve seen you before, in the papers. Even considered applying with you a few years back.”

Her admission carries an undercurrent of wistfulness, a longing for something that might have been. Anthony’s mind feels sluggish as he tries to process her words. He wonders about the circumstances that led her to this place, as well as any potential implications of her recognizing him, but he can't seem to hold on to the thoughts darting around inside his skull. Names and faces from past interactions blend with the immediate reality, leaving him incapable of holding any accurate memory for more than a split second. The brute's backhand is really not to be trifled with.

“How did you end up here?” Anthony asks, trying to mask his lack of tact behind a veneer of concern. He’ll chastise himself for being so direct later, when he isn't facing the horrifying unknown. Holly’s familiarity with him should afford him a bit of leniency anyway, and he’s a bit too preoccupied still scanning every visible cage for a glimpse of his agent to worry about it right now.

Holly’s voice falters as she begins to speak, her tone laden with pain. “I’ve been out of the business for a few years now, since my last employment ended… poorly.” She hesitates, and for a moment, the silence is thick with her struggle to maintain composure. “But my, um…” Her voice catches, thick with emotion. “My friend was a freelancer. She got an offer for a job that could set her up for a long time. All she needed was someone to fill in, because the client wouldn’t accept less than two agents on the job.”

The details align disturbingly well with the information from the newspaper article he’d read. Anthony nods grimly, absorbing the confirmation of what he suspected. The pattern of disappearances is becoming clearer, yet the implications are no less chilling than the unknown.

“And your friend?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. He suspects he already knows the answer, but can't bring himself to assume the worst.

Holly’s response is nearly inaudible. “She, um… They came and took her for a match two nights ago. Normally, they’d take us together, but…” Her voice breaks, wavering as if the weight of her words is almost too much to bear. She forces the next part out, each word seeming to catch like razors in her throat. “They haven’t brought her back.”

His heart sinks at her words, a pang of sorrow for the stranger's loss making him feel disgusted with himself over the selfish, single-minded focus still hounding him to push her for more answers. “I’m sorry,” he replies solemnly, swallowing his tongue for the moment.

Holly seems to sense his inner turmoil and speaks again. “You can ask me.” Her sudden offer makes him wonder if she can somehow read his mind, but he dismisses the thought as a product of stress and the possible concussion. He stares at her, feeling like an absolute imbecile, until she takes pity on him and continues. “I’ve been here long enough to know that we all come in pairs, but I’m afraid there’s been a lot of traffic in the past few days. I’d like to help you find your friend, if I can.”

Her offer to assist gives him a sliver of hope. He hadn’t realized how much faith he'd lost in the good of mankind over the past however many hours, how welcome some basic human decency would feel.

“I—thank you,” Lockwood says, his voice rough with exhaustion and gratitude. “My… associate and I were brought in for a last-minute job. Our oh-so charming host spun a tale that was impossible to resist, and sold us a story so convincing that we walked right into their trap.” He grimaces, the memory of their deceitful invitation stinging more than the physical wounds. “I didn’t realize the danger we were in until it was too late. We were vastly outnumbered before I had a chance to warn her. She was injured before I was knocked out—one of her sleeves will be soaked in blood.”

He pauses, the words hanging heavy in the air as he shifts to lean his head against the cold concrete wall behind him. The frigid touch of the stone is a harsh but grounding presence, a small comfort amidst the turmoil of emotions causing an ache behind his eyes. “She might… she might be in pretty rough shape. I could hear her screaming until roughly an hour ago.”

His voice falters as the gravity of his words settles in, the anguish evident in his strained tone. Up until now, there had been enough happening to distract him, he could avoid acknowledging the nauseating possibility that the worst had already happened. Not anymore. He can see her face in his mind, warped with the pain she must have endured, and it fuels his growing desperation. The barred walls seem to press in on him, threatening to crush him.

“Oh!” Holly exclaims, her voice rising a bit with her urgency, almost startling him with the contrast to the subdued volume of their conversation until then. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting anxiously toward the cell between them. They fall silent, the tension palpable as they wait for any sign of movement from the nearby occupant. After a moment, when the cell remains still, Holly continues, her voice dropping back to a whisper. “They wouldn’t have tortured her—at least, not in the way you’re thinking. They need us strong enough to put up an entertaining fight. But if she was hurt badly enough to bleed that heavily, they would have stitched the wound before sending her to the cages. Anaesthesia isn’t something they worry about here.”

Anthony's breath catches in his throat at her words. If they’d cleaned and stitched her arm without any form of numbing, it would explain the agonizing cries he heard. His heart clenches painfully as he recalls the panic in her voice, the desperate plea that cut through the darkness and filled him with a helpless dread. She hadn't been particularly fond of needles to begin with, he could only imagine how much worse it would be now.

He slumps back against the wall, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his thoughts. His hands move to his face, rubbing at the tension and exhaustion etched into his features. Despite the relief that they hadn’t inflicted further damage, the realization does little to soothe the ache of her suffering or his own feelings of inadequacy.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled and thick with emotion as he speaks through his palms. The words are simple, repetitive, and hardly seem sufficient.

“What’s her name? What does she look like? I can pass the word around when others wake up. We’ll find her,” Holly says, her eyes searching Anthony's, shining with a glimmer of hope.

Before he can ponder the seemingly impossible task of breaking everything she is down into a few descriptive sentences, a familiar voice calls out from the cell between them. “Lockwood…?” It’s ragged, strained from overuse, but unmistakable.

Holly’s gasp of surprise is barely registered as Anthony springs into action. He’s across the cell in an instant, his hands gripping the icy bars with a white knuckling desperation. He curses the metal that keeps them apart, every fiber of his being thrumming with frustration and helplessness.

“Sleeping Beauty, I should have known that was you,” he calls out, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and anguish. The words are intended to be light-hearted, a small attempt to ease the tension. Her soft, broken laughter on the other side of the bars briefly lifts his spirits, but it quickly dissolves into a harsh coughing fit. The sound of her wheezing, each inhale ragged and painful, tightens the knot in his stomach.

His heart can’t continue carrying the weight of his helplessness. He can almost feel the shivers of her pain through the bars, the sound of her distress cutting through him. Every instinct screams for him to be beside her, to offer comfort and soothing words, but all he can do is reach through the narrow gaps and wish desperately for a way to bridge the gap between them.

“I don’t feel particularly beautiful or well-rested right now, so I’ll forgive you for not recognizing me,” she finally rasps, her voice a low, throaty murmur. She rolls onto her side, the movement labored and pained, before trying to push herself upright. A stifled yelp escapes her lips, triggering another coughing fit, and she collapses back onto the mattress, her body curling inward in distress.

“Shit,” Lockwood hisses, his voice filled with concern as he watches her struggle. “You okay, love?”

“Just peachy,” she retorts through gritted teeth, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the obvious agony. “Caught a boot or two to the ribs after they knocked you out, no big deal.” Her attempt at bravado is undermined by the grimace that accompanies her words. Holly’s worried glance toward Lockwood tells him that he's not the only one not buying the whole ‘badass’ act this time.

“Any idea why they brought us here?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “Or what hell-hole ‘here’ crawled out of?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Lockwood admits, frustration edging his tone. “But I get the feeling your neighbor will be able to shed some light on the situation for us.”

As he speaks, she extends her uninjured arm towards Holly, her movements cautious but determined. She slips her hand through the narrow gap between the bars, reaching out toward the other cell. The greeting is a silent plea, an unspoken request for connection in the midst of their dire predicament. Holly accepts the proffered hand, her grip firm despite the weakness in her voice.

“Holly Munro, pleasure,” she says, her tone both warm and weary. “Though I do wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“Likewise.” The other woman introduces herself and replies, her voice carrying a note of gratitude amidst the exhaustion.

Lockwood finally pulls his stiff hands away from the cold metal bars, feeling the residual chill bite at his skin. He watches as Holly brings his associate up to speed, her voice cutting in from time to time as a soft murmur of reassurance or inquiry. Meanwhile, he turns his attention to the narrow space between his cell and hers, pushing his mattress toward the metal separating them. Considering the placement of her own, the difference it will make is laughable, but he’s desperate for any semblance of closeness he can manage.

Every clink of metal and shift of the mattress heightens his sense of urgency. He’s well aware that his emotions are rapidly outgrowing the bounds of mere professional concern, becoming more personal and fervent with each passing moment. He tries to shove aside the intense feelings bubbling up inside him, but it—like so many things this evening—is an effort in futility.

Settling back onto his mattress and leaning against the wall, he shifts slightly, attempting to find a comfortable position amidst the jabbing of exposed springs. The thin layer of padding does little to ease his discomfort, but he forces himself to endure.

“So what is this place, exactly? Any luck finding out?” The question hangs in the air as Lockwood's gaze shifts back to the woman, her voice breaking the spell of his thoughts. In the dim light, he can see she’s managed to pull herself upright, her silhouette leaning against the bars, still holding Holly’s hand.

“Yes, actually!” The other woman’s voice carries a note of weary triumph. “This place is an underground facility that was once used for dog-fighting during the prohibition era. The walls here are steeped in a grim history.” She pauses, her voice trembling slightly, and Lockwood notices the subtle shiver that runs through her as she continues. “There are networks of tunnels connecting various buildings to this place. We suspect that the primary entrance for the cages is from an abandoned railway station directly above us.”

If he had to guess, he'd say she had tightened her hand around Holly's. The exchange is quiet, but the gratitude in Holly’s eyes is unmistakable. His agent’s expression softens, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“I think the audience comes in through those tunnels, though,” Holly adds. “It’s never loud enough in here to account for the foot traffic. It’s a constant low hum of activity, like a distant, eerie heartbeat.”

Lockwood’s heart swells with a mixture of admiration and concern. The bravery and compassion displayed by both women in the face of disaster is both inspiring and heart-wrenching. As he processes the new information, he feels his sense of urgency grow deeper still. That network of tunnels could hold the key to their escape—or lead them to their deaths.

“I’m sorry to cut in, but you keep mentioning ‘matches’, and now an audience. What exactly do they do here?” He can’t resist addressing the elephant in the room any longer. When Holly flinches and goes silent, he instantly regrets it.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Holly. It must be painful to talk about. We won’t push you, but knowing what to expect will help us put together a plan to get everyone out of here safely.” Her voice is gentle and Anthony can hear more than see her scooting closer to Holly.

“Thank you.” It’s barely more than a whisper, the words almost lost in the tremor of her voice. “They, um… Well, it’s kind of a morbid repetition of history, in a way. They abduct agents in pairs, interrogate us about our skills, keep us in cages, and feed us well enough we don’t lose our strength. When the sun goes down they fetch two with complimentary Talent and bring them up to what they call the ‘arena’, arm them with a silver net and a measly handful of salt bombs, and toss in the Source of a Type Two. If you win, you go back to the cells to wait for your next match. If you lose…”

He’d read enough of that paper to know what happened to those who lost. Their Ghost-Touch swollen bodies would be dumped unceremoniously miles from here.

“I’m sorry to make you think more about this, but I have a few questions if you’re up to it.” Lockwood’s voice is steady, but his eyes betray the urgency of his request. He waits for Holly’s slight nod before pressing on. “When you mention ‘complimentary Talent,’ I'm assuming you’re referring to one with the Sight and one with either the Listening or the Touch?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Holly’s voice is subdued but clear. “They used to take me and Em together because she had the Sight and I had the Listening. But...” Her words falter slightly, and guilt tugs at her tone, nearly overwhelming. “I think they figured out that my Talent faded years ago. I’m afraid they might see me as expendable now.”

Before Lockwood or his associate can offer consolation, Holly plunges ahead with the weight of her revelations. “It’s safe to assume they’ll come for you tonight, Lockwood. They’re aware of your Talent, and they’ve been murmuring about ‘the big night’ for days. I didn’t grasp the full meaning until I recognized you. The only real question is who they’ll pair with you, considering your friend is too injured to be of much use for entertainment.” She adds quickly, “No offence intended!”

“None taken, believe me.” She gives Holly’s hand a comforting squeeze before letting go. Pushing herself to her feet with a groan of effort, she waves a dismissive hand at her neighbours cries to lay down and rest. “I will, I will, don’t nag! I’m just trying to make myself a bit more comfortable. With what we know now, I’d say our best option is to conserve our energy and stay focused on surviving until we can figure out a way out of here.”

Anthony’s frustration simmers beneath his surface as he watches her struggle. She grabs a corner of her mattress with one hand and starts dragging it across the grimy floor, her movements laboured. Realising her intent, he reaches out as soon as it's within his grasp and helps pull the mattress the remaining distance until it’s pressed snugly against his own through the bars. The two beds are now practically fused together, their surfaces puckering around the narrow gap between their cells.

With a sigh of relief that quickly turns into a groan of discomfort as a particularly stiff spring pokes at her ribs, she collapses onto the makeshift bed. Anthony reaches out tentatively, his fingers brushing against hers, recoiling slightly from the cold.

“Christ, you’re freezing,” he mutters, his voice low and filled with concern. He leans closer, gently lifting her hand to his face. Cupping it between his warm palms, he alternates between blowing gentle puffs of breath over her chilled skin and lightly massaging it to stimulate circulation.

“It’s practically an icebox in here, if you hadn’t noticed,” she retorts, her tone making a play at sharp, but being softened by her discomfort. When Anthony looks up, he’s struck by the depth in her eyes—a look that’s almost hypnotic. For a brief moment, they find haven in each other's eyes, a shared understanding amidst the chaos. But then, a shiver races through her body, and the moment shatters. His concern surges to the forefront, pushing everything else aside.

She reluctantly pulls her hand away, shifting beneath the tattered blanket draped across her mattress. The thin, threadbare fabric offers scant protection against the cold, its ability to retain warmth practically non-existent. Anthony watches her struggle for a moment, his frustration mounting as he witnesses her futile attempts to find some comfort.

Without hesitation, he moves to free his own blanket from beneath him, carefully maneuvering it through the narrow space between the bars. While he can't slip through the bars himself, his arm is long enough to extend through the gap up to his shoulder. He holds the blanket out toward her.

She fixes him with a defiant glare, her mouth opening to argue. Anthony’s expression remains resolute.

“Shut it, Sleeping Beauty. You know I run warmer than you anyway,” he says firmly, his voice carrying a hint of warmth despite the cold.

Another shiver wracks her body, but it’s the look in his eyes—a blend of genuine concern and blind stubbornness—that finally convinces her. With a soft murmur of thanks, she reaches out and takes the blanket from him. She wraps it around herself, the fabric immediately offering a small measure of comfort against the icy chill.

She tosses and turns restlessly for a while, each shift only deepening her discomfort. Frustration eventually gets the better of her, and she attempts to lift her injured arm to tuck it under her head, only to bite back a cry of pain.

With a sigh that carries a note of mock suffering and a twinkle in his eye, Lockwood shifts to lay on his back, moving as close as the confined space allows. He tucks his left arm behind his head, stretching the right through the bars to gently tap her on the head with the back of his knuckles. When she lifts her head, ready to scowl, he nods toward his arm, offering it as a makeshift pillow.

She contemplates the offered limb for a moment. Finally, she relents, lowering her head onto his arm and wriggling into a position that allows her to stay close to him without displacing her meager blankets. As soon as she settles, Lockwood bends his arm to cradle her head, gently stroking the side of it. The soft, contented hum that escapes her lips is a small victory he treasures.

She falls asleep almost immediately, her breathing evening out into a peaceful rhythm. Lockwood gazes down at her, his heart swelling at the sight of her serene expression—one he'd almost given up hope of seeing again.

When he looks up, Holly is still sitting, her gaze fixed on the pair of them. The expression on her face takes a moment to decipher in the dark, but he finally recognizes it as a bittersweet mix of wistfulness and quiet understanding.

“Does she know?” Holly’s voice is barely a whisper, but the question pierces through the silence like a knife. Anthony’s heart leaps into his throat. Though her words are soft, they feel as though they’ve reverberated throughout the confined space, making him acutely aware of the woman sleeping on his arm.

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound emerges. Instead, he opts for a slow shake of his head, the gesture more eloquent than any words he could muster.

An uneasy silence stretches between them, filled only with the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional creak of the cell.

“Em, she… she wasn’t just my ‘friend’,” Holly confesses. The admission, though he had suspected it, lands with an unexpected weight, deepening the ache he's sure he'll feel for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says. His own experiences with loss have been numerous, but to lose someone he loved in a place as merciless as this is a fate he cannot fathom.

Holly offers a weak smile, though it is tinged with sadness. “You should try and get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you later.”

Anthony nods, acknowledging her advice. He watches as Holly settles herself, her form curling up in a bid for rest. Despite his agreement, he knows sleep will remain elusive. His mind is awash with concerns and fears, and the weight of the world resting on his arm makes it impossible to drift off.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

    The first time the phone rings, both inhabitants of 35 Portland Row manage to remain deep in a well earned slumber.

  The second time the phone rings, it successfully rouses one George Karim.  Muttering a string of colourful insults under his breath that - had he been in his family home - would have earned him a smack over the head with his mother’s slipper, he reluctantly drags himself from the warmth and comfort of his duvet.  Letting out a long suffering sigh that lasts through the entire shuffle from his room to the phone on the floor below, he lifts it from the receiver and greets the caller with a noise somewhere between ‘hello’ and ‘fuck off’.

  “Evening, sorry to wake you.  This is James, calling from The Royal Oak.  Is there a, uh-”  Even over the numerous voices and the clinking of glass in the background, George can hear the gruff sounding man being interrupted by a woman’s voice mumbling incoherently before all sound is muffled by a palm being pressed over the mic on the other end, “-sorry, did you say…?  Really, sweetheart?  Alright, but don’t try to blame this on me tomorrow when you sober up.”  

  Then the phone is back to full volume. “Sorry about that, I’ve got a young lady here who says she lives at this address?  She’s too drunk to get herself home and this is the number she gave for someone she trusts to come get her.  But, uh, she-”  James seems like he’d rather not say the next bit, “well, she just keeps asking for ‘that selfish wanker’?  Won’t give me a name otherwise.”

  There’s not a lot in this world capable of rendering George completely speechless, but that…  That does it.  He allows the phone to drop from his ear for a moment, resting it on his shoulder as he attempts to compose himself and reply to the nice man on the other end of the line.

  “Uh…  Yeah, she- she’s ours.  Probably talking about our boss, then.  I’ll, uh…  I’ll go wake him.  I’m sure he’ll be there very soon.”  He has to speak up over the sound of James choking and sputtering in surprise to say a polite ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’, before slamming the phone down and jogging up the stairs to wake his friend.  

  He pauses for a moment halfway up, considering heading back downstairs to grab a boot to throw at the door.  Unfortunately his need for immediate answers outweighs his urge to be petty, so he settles for pounding loudly on the door instead.   There’s quiet rustling and not so quiet cursing on the other side before it’s ripped open.

  “What?!”  A dishevelled Anthony Lockwood snaps, blinking sleep from glaring eyes and leaning on the doorframe in an endeavour to keep himself upright.

  “Just got a call from The Royal Oak, down on York Street?  Turns out they have a resident of this address drunkenly calling for a ‘selfish wanker’ to come pick her up.”  George crosses his arms, raising a challenging eyebrow at the taller man.  

  Lockwood’s expression shifts from its existing irritated frown into confusion, then straight to alarm.  He wastes no time flipping the light switch beside the doorway, bathing the room in light as he crosses it to tug one of his dresser drawers open.

  “Can you call me a Night Cab, please?  Offer them double fare to prioritise.”  He calls over his bare shoulder, searching for a t-shirt and hoodie to toss on.  His researcher says nothing as he complies, deciding to save the interrogation for later.

  Anthony is properly worried.     Their third roommate had come back from their last job acting distant.  They’d been separated by a pair of particularly nasty Spectre’s for close to an hour, but she’d succeeded in securing the Source’s and they’d all made it out in one piece.  He’d been so caught up in pride for his team he hadn’t noticed the effect it had on her until days later.  When he tried to approach her with his concerns, she clammed up and looked as though she was about to cry before excusing herself to her room.  None of the members of his agency, himself included, had seen her exit her room for two days after that.   He hadn’t asked about it since, and while giving her space seemed to be working by way of not making her cry, he was starting to wonder if it had been upsetting her in a different way.     Even taking all of that into consideration, there’s still no way he could have seen a phone call like this coming at 2:56 AM on a Tuesday.

  All he can find is a sleeveless black undershirt.  With a huff of frustration he pulls it over his head, kicking the drawer closed simultaneously, then pulling open the one above it.  The joggers he fell asleep in are fine enough, so after a fit of undignified hopping across the room to cover his feet with pink socks he grabs a random hoodie off of the armchair by the window, shrugs into it, and zips it on his way down the stairs.

  George is waiting for him at the bottom, staring at his watch.

  “Your cab should be here in three minutes, mine should be here in thirteen.”  He looks up from his wrist, meeting his boss’s confused look with an exasperated one.  “I’m heading to Flo’s for the night, so whatever you fucked up, mate?  Fix it.”  Karim claps him on the shoulder, walking past him to pack an overnight bag.  It might not be conventional, but Anthony knows it’s the closest thing to encouragement he’s going to get.

  The next several minutes pass in a blur of waiting and worrying, until finally it’s 3:14 AM and he’s slipping the cab driver an extra twenty quid to wait for them, swearing to be no longer than fifteen minutes.  The ungodly-early morning air is sharp and cold, cutting to the bone as soon as he steps out of the comforting warmth of the vehicle.  It’s plenty enough encouragement to hurry his way to the building, pulling the door open to slip into the soft golden warmth and loud ambiance of the pub.  

  He hesitates on the doormat, catching sight of the other patrons.  Thankfully it isn’t a particularly highbrow establishment, but it's nice enough for him to feel noticeably underdressed in black joggers and a grey zip-up.  And then he lays eyes on her, and all insecurities are immediately banished by the sharp knife of shock burying itself in his gut.  

  She’s balanced on a table, wearing a little black dress he’d never seen before.  Her arms are raised above her head, fingers combing through her hair as her hips sway to the bass of the music in a way that probably would have had his mouth watering if it wasn’t for present circumstances.   He isn’t the only one noticing her.  There’s a group of men standing around the table, watching her with hungry eyes that make his skin crawl with disgust.   A tall blonde man pushes his way past the rest of the crowd, deep set ice blue eyes chasing up her legs.  She seems to either be unaware of his presence, or too lost in the music to care.  Even from his position across the room he can see her eyes are out of focus, drifting away for split seconds every few beats from the speakers on the wall.     The man raises a hand and grabs her thigh, using enough pressure to leave visible fingermarks.

  Lockwood finds himself frozen in place, blood boiling as he mentally considers how challenging talking his way out of a murder charge could really be.  Surely not that much harder than talking his way out of an arson charge, and he’d done that often enough to be confident in his abilities.

  Before his sleep deprived mind can break free of its indecision, the girl spins around abruptly and slaps the lecherous limb away from her.  The slime of a man attached to it is none too happy about that, making a move to grab for her arm.  Her normally impeccable reflexes are slowed by the alcohol, she can’t move fast enough to avoid the attack.  When his fingers close around her wrist, he pulls.  Hard.     She teeters on the edge of the table, her short cry of pain audible even over the music.

  Huh.  He’d always thought the whole ‘seeing red’ thing was entirely turn of phrase, but as it turns out, there’s actually a modicum of truth to it.

  He’s halfway across the bar by the time he realises he’s in motion, but he’s not about to stop.  Closing the remaining distance in a few purposeful strides, he grabs the creep’s arm in a vice grip.  The blonde releases his hold on her immediately, instinctively trying to pull away from the pain.  Lockwood lets him stumble away in surprise, wasting no time placing himself in between his friend and the threat to her safety.  At first he’s optimistic he might have a chance to vent some anger when the wanker locks eyes with him, but whatever he’d seen in Anthony’s was enough to make him back down and stumble off with an insincere apology.  

  Reminding himself to focus his attention where it belongs, he turns to look up at the girl on the table.  Her face lights up with delight when she recognizes him, then swiftly sours the longer she looks at him.   He feels like an absolute prick for not noticing the dark circles around her eyes sooner.  Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he reaches up to offer her both of his hands, palms up.  She sways in place for a moment, scowling pensively at the proffered appendages.  He studies her face while he waits patiently, trying to find any hint of what could be bothering her enough to take this approach to forgetting.

  With a tiny hiccup she finally caves, placing her hands in his and allowing him to help her to solid ground.  Once both of her feet are securely on the sticky floor, he offers her his arm for support.  She gives him another little glare, but just like before, she eventually accepts his help.   Scanning the other tables and chairs around her makeshift stage, he sees no sign of a purse or jacket that he recognises in the slightest.

  “Did you bring anything with you, sweetheart?”  He asks her directly, leaning closer to her ear to be heard over the noise.  If he didn’t know any better he’d say she looks almost flustered; eyes glazed, cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink, looking through him rather than at him as she tries to filter his words through the haze of liquor clouding her mind.     Although he’s prepared to wait as long as it takes for her to answer, he can’t help but feel a touch relieved when the bartender waves him over holding a familiar leather clutch.  Gently taking her by the arm, he guides her to a nearby chair to sit and wait for him to collect her belongings.  Giving a final warning look to the remaining crowd for good measure, he leaves her side to approach the bar.

  The man behind it is average height, with mid length dark hair as well kept as his perfectly trimmed goatee.  He abandons the glass he’s polishing, tossing the white cloth he’d been using over his shoulder and offering Anthony a calloused hand.  “I take it you must be-”

  “‘That selfish wanker’?  Present and accounted for, though I also answer to ‘Anthony’.”  He replies, accepting the handshake.  

  The other man’s grip is firm but friendly, and he throws his head back in merriment at Lockwood’s unexpected introduction.  “James, pleasure to finally meet you.  I’ve heard a lot about you from your little Songbird over there.”

  Lockwood winces.  “Not all bad, hopefully.”

  “No, not all bad.”  James soothes before leaning in conspiratorially, “Just don’t tell her I said that.”

  He shoots him a wink as he settles back, and now it’s Anthony’s turn to laugh.  It’s decided then and there; they like each other.

  He reaches behind the lip of the bar, grabbing the clutch he’d tucked out of sight until he could determine Lockwood’s identity.  “This is all she brought with her.  You’ve got a safe way home?”

  Anthony takes it from him with a grateful smile.  “Yeah, paid the driver to stick around.  I consider myself pretty good at multitasking, just not ‘keeping her upright and not getting ghost-touched’ good.”  James lets loose a hearty laugh in response.

  The screech of wood against the floor draws their attention back to the woman formerly in the chair, now standing unsteadily a few feet away.

  “And that’s my cue.  Pleasure to meet you, James.  And, uh-”  He glances back at her involuntarily.  “Thank you.  For keeping an eye on her, calling us, the lot of it.”

  The bartender smirks, quirking an eyebrow and giving him a knowing look.  “It's what any decent person would do.  Don’t be a stranger now, either of you.”

  Lockwood departs the bar, clutch in hand, with a salute and a promise to be back another time.   She seems confused at first when he tries to get her attention, switching to stare at him reproachfully when she recognises him again.  He sighs, trying to tuck away his own feelings of exhaustion and defeat.  

  “Let's get you home, love.”  He murmurs, offering his arm again.  She takes it without hesitation this time, leaning heavily against him as they make their way to the exit.  Pausing on the doormat, he carefully extracts his limb from her grip, soothing her little noise of protest by assuring she’d be using him as a crutch again momentarily.  The metal of the zipper is cold against his bare arms as he shrugs his hoodie off, blatantly ignoring her attempts to argue with him and draping the grey fabric over her shoulders.

  The cold breeze cuts into him once they’re outside, but he carefully schools his expression to avoid showing her it's affecting him at all.  Despite having paid the man extra, he’s still pleasantly surprised to see the black cab still waiting at the curb.   It’s easier than he’d expected to load her into the comfortable back seat.  She doesn’t even try to swat his hand away when he places it on top of her head to prevent her bouncing it off the roof in her attempt to get in.   Once she’s scooted to the far side, he climbs in after her.  She seems lost in thought, staring absently at the headrest in front of her.  He leans closer slowly, giving her ample time to move away if she doesn’t want him in her space.  When she remains stationary, he reaches across her body to grab her seatbelt, gently buckling her in and tightening the belt over her hips.  

  She finally looks at him, expression blank as she studies his features.  It’s clear her mind is elsewhere, and she returns to staring at the black leather so quickly he wonders if he’d imagined the whole thing.   He gives their driver the all clear, directing him to drop them off where he’d first picked him up before slumping back into his seat for the uncomfortably quiet ride home.

  They’re half-way there when he can stand to ignore the elephant in the room no longer.  The words slip out before he can think of a more tactful way to ask;  “What’s going on with you?”

  She turns to look at him so slowly it’s almost unnerving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  She answers bitterly, her voice laced with the same steel as her eyes.

  “That’s bloody horseshit!”  He scoffs, far too tired to hold back.  “If there was nothing wrong, I wouldn’t have gotten a call tonight.”

  Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly for several seconds, seemingly overwhelmed by the number colourful insults she’d like to hurl at him.  

  “Like you care.”  She finally mutters, shaking her head and turning away from him to stare pointedly out her window.

  “...What?”  He manages to put his frustration on hold for a moment, making room for his growing concern.  “Of course I care, what makes you think I wouldn’t?”

  She laughs darkly, shaking her head.  “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”  He cries in exasperation.

  She whips around to face him.  “You knew I was struggling!  You knew, and you ignored it because it was easier than dealing with me!”  Her eyes are wild, chest heaving as she draws in air like she has to fight for every breath.

  All hostility drains out of him in an instant, leaving him uncomfortably hollow in its absence.  He’s intimately aware of her eyes searching his face, trying to gain some kind of insight into his mind.     He feels like he’s just stumbled into a minefield, and in a way he has.  If his next words aren’t carefully chosen, he could detonate one and destroy his friendship with someone he can’t live without.

  Organising his thoughts and taking a deep breath, he plunges ahead.

  “I’m sorry.  I thought by giving you space I was giving you what you needed, but I should have just talked to you.  And you’re right, I was being selfish, just… not in the way you’re thinking.”  She looks like she’s about to interrupt, but he ploughs on.  “I was afraid if I pushed too hard you’d shut me out.  I thought it would be safer to stay silent and let you come to me when you were ready, but it was my responsibility to communicate that to you, and I failed.”

  They sit in stillness for far longer than he’s comfortable with, his words hanging in the air between them.

  When she finally puts him out of his misery, he has to strain to hear her over the rumble of the car.  “It wasn’t two Spectres.”

  It feels like someone’s poured ice down his back.  “...What?”

  “The last job?  We thought it was just two Spectres, but it wasn’t.  It-”  Her voice shakes, then dies.  She has to stop and breathe, looking like she’s about to be crushed by the weight of the words on her tongue.  “One of them was a Fetch.”

  Staring down at his hands, he searches for the right words to say.  Is he supposed to say anything at all?  If he interrupts now, will she shut him out?  If he doesn’t, will she think he doesn’t care?     A point of personal pride for him is being able to read people, to shape himself into whatever role they need him to fill, but… he has no idea who she needs him to be right now.  

  She hesitantly continues.  “It was you.”  

  He looks up at her only to find her eyes already on him.  “It wasn’t.”

  She laughs sadly, but doesn’t look away.  When she tips her head to concede the point, the light catches at the corner of her eye.  “Right.  It did use your face, though.”

  “Whatever it said, it isn’t true.”  He can’t resist the urge to reach across the seat between them, wiping the tear from her cheek and hoping she can feel the truth in his words when he says;  “A Fetch will find your worst fear and exploit it.  And I swear to you, I will never allow anything to make you feel afraid like this again.”

  Silence stretches on between them, becoming heavier with every second passing them by.  His thumb continues stroking her face slowly, absentmindedly.  If he didn’t know any better, he’d think her eyes had drifted to his lips. 

  “Kiss me.”

  His hand falls from her face.   For a second, he thinks it’s him that’s said it.  When he realises it wasn’t, the potential implications of her words make his heart stutter.  There’s a chance this is just a drunken impulse, a need for comfort in a moment of vulnerability.   If it is, what the hell is he supposed to do about it?  If he gives in to her, will he be able to carry on working beside her once he’s had a taste of the life with her he doesn’t even allow himself to dream about?   On the flip side, there’s a chance that this is an actual confession.  The Fetch had chosen his face to torment her, and as horrifying as that had been to hear, it only would have done so if she felt something for him.  Maybe she feels the same as he does.  Maybe the reason he can never figure out what mask to put on for her, is that she’s only ever needed him to be himself.     Hope fills every inch of him as he stares at her, enraptured.

  Then, he realises he’s been quiet for long enough for panic to fill her eyes.

  “Ask me in the morning.”  He breathes, feeling as perplexed as she looks when the words come out of his mouth.  She’s confused that he hasn’t directly shot her down.  He’s confused that he’s capable of this kind of restraint while sleep deprived.

  “What?”  She frowns, blinking as her eyes lose focus for a split second in her bewilderment. 

  Feeling more confident in his decision, he smiles softly at her. “Ask me when you’re sober, and when we’re not in this nice man’s cab.” 

  The driver laughs, trying and failing to cover it with a guilty cough.

  Once they reach 35 Portland Row,  Anthony covers the fare and slips the man a generous tip for enduring their antics before exiting the cab.  The emotional intensity of the ride home had been enough to partially sober up his companion, but he still isn’t sold on her ability to climb stairs without assistance.     He keeps his arm wrapped tightly around her waist until they reach the door of her room - formerly Lucy’s - on the top level of the house before reluctantly removing it.  She wobbles for a moment, but it seems to be more from her leaning to chase his touch than any serious instability.  They stand there for a while, neither willing to walk away from the other, until a large yawn overtakes her.

  He chuckles, suddenly remembering James’ nickname for her.  “Goodnight, Songbird.”

  “That’s a stupid nickname.”  She complains, scrunching up her face in distaste.  When all he does is laugh some more, she sighs and carries on.  “Goodnight, Anthony.  Sweet dreams.”

  He disagrees completely, of course.  From her lips, his name is the sweetest song he’s ever heard.   Turning away from him, she places her hand on the doorknob but doesn’t make any move to twist it.  He’s about to ask her if something is wrong when she turns back to him swiftly, closing the distance between them and standing on her toes to brace her hands on his shoulders as she presses the ghost of a kiss against his cheek.  By the time he’s raised trembling fingers to the tingling skin, she’s already in her room with the door closed behind her.

  He spends his early morning dreaming of the flutter of wings, and birds gently pecking him on the cheek.

  When he’s woken by persistent knocking on his door once more, Anthony Lockwood finds himself wondering what precisely he had done to piss off Hypnos in a past life.

  Still on high alert from his unusual evening, he’s out of bed and across the room without a second thought.  When he pulls the door open he’s entirely expecting another emergency, not to find the girl of his dreams standing there staring steadfast at her feet.

  “I am so sorry about last night, I should have told you what was going on instead of going on a bloody bender.  That was incredibly immature and irresponsible of me and I completely understand if you want to fire me.”  She starts slow, but by the end of her apology the words are flying out of her mouth.  Despite her best efforts, the misery in her voice as she says the last bit is tangible.

  Why would he want that?  Still not entirely awake, the first thing out of his mouth is the first thought in his mind.  “Please don’t leave.”

  “...What?”  Not even remotely prepared for that response, she finally looks up at him.  As their eyes meet, reality sets in and time seems to slow.

  When he takes a proper look at her, he completely forgets the entirety of the English language.  Her hair is mussed from sleep, remnants of last night's makeup smudged under her eyes.  She’d apparently had the mental faculties to change into her pyjamas the night previous, and while he’d seen her in those shorts often enough to control the urge to stare, something about her wearing his hoodie zipped over them was making him feel like a moron.  He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.   On the other side of the doorway, she’s having a very similar crisis.  His sleep tousled hair only doubled her ever present urge to rake her fingers through it.  And not only had he been in such a hurry to answer the door he hadn’t bothered to slip on a shirt, his joggers were also sitting dangerously low on his hips.     Their eyes snap back to each other's faces in tandem, both flushing almost comical shades of red.

  “Did you mean what you said last night?”  He asks hurriedly, heart pounding in his throat.

  “I said a lot of things.”  She wraps her arms around herself, laughing nervously.  “Which part?”  

  He keeps his eyes fixed on hers, searching them for some clue to tell him what comes next.

  Mustering more courage than she thought she was capable of, she answers honestly.  “Yeah, I did.  Every word.”

  Mimicking his actions from the night before he extends both of his hands towards her, palms up.   She tilts her head quizzically, but places her hands in his.  He uses them to pull her close enough their bodies are almost touching, guiding her arms to rest on his shoulders, releasing them to place one hand on her waist and the other on the side of her neck.  She inhales sharply when he leans in, his thumb lightly stroking her jaw while her gaze flickers between his eyes and lips.   He’s studying her face like he never wants to forget a single detail, but he doesn’t get any closer.  She’s lightheaded and pretty sure she’s going to die if he doesn’t kiss her soon, which is probably why it’s not until she sees the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile that she realises what he’s waiting for.  

  “Kiss me.”  She breathes.

  He doesn’t need to be told a third time.   He leans down and kisses her like he’ll never get the chance to do so again, like the world is falling to pieces around them and the only thing that can save them is the feeling of her lips against his.     The hand on the side of her throat slides back to bury itself in her hair, cradling the back of her head to take the strain off her neck from their notable difference in height.  Her hands wander the expanse of bare skin across his back, mapping every muscle and scar like it’s the braille translation of his life story.  He shivers under her touch, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her body tight to his in a desperate attempt to fill the yawning pit within him that had grown larger with every day he believed he’d never get to hold her like this.  

  As she runs her hands down his sides to his hips he gasps involuntarily, deepening their kiss with enthusiasm.  Driven by curiosity, she lets her nails graze his skin as she retraces her previous path.  The noise he makes in response is downright sinful, but so is the feeling of his rapier-calloused skin against her back as he slips his hand under the hem of his hoodie.  Her breath catches as his fingers trace featherlight patterns up and down her spine, feeling him grinning between kisses when he notices she’s not wearing anything beneath the grey material.  When he nips at her lower lip, she drags her nails down his back, and the last of his restraint abandons him.  

  Both of his hands drop, fingers dimpling the flesh of her upper thighs.  As in sync as they are in the field he’d never dared to imagine the same would apply to the bedroom, so he’s a little blown away when she understands his intentions immediately, jumping as he lifts her up to wrap her legs around his hips without breaking from each other.  Now he’s the one craning his neck to capture her lips, the floor creaking beneath his feet as he crosses the short distance to the wall, pressing her back against it and groaning at the restrained whimper that slips free from her.

  “Please don’t hold back.  I want to hear you sing for me, my little Songbird.”  He urges, adjusting his grip to slide his hands up her sides under his hoodie, palming one of her breasts and swiping a thumb experimentally across her skin to carefully catch one of her nipples between his thumb and the side of his forefinger.  She finally breaks, back arching away from the wall, head falling back against it as she moans unabashedly.  All of his strength threatens to leave him when she rolls her hips against his, dropping his free hand to grab at the plush of her ass and pull her impossibly closer as he whispers praise between frenzied kisses pressed to her throat.  She buries her hands in his hair, gasping for air as his ministrations travel to her collarbones then slowly down the centre of her chest, placing an open-mouthed kiss to swell of her breast-

  The front door slams open, startling them apart.  There’s the sound of shuffling beneath them as someone kicks off their shoes.

  “OI, MATE!”  George’s voice calls from the base of the stairs, “Did you fix it?”

  They look at each other, dazed and drunk off each other.  A confused frown decorates her features, mouth falling open to ask him what the hell their other roommate is talking about.  He shakes his head in exasperation, shooting her a look that reads ‘I’ll fill you in later’ and dropping his head to rest on her chest.  They take as many seconds as they dare like that, her fingers combing through his hair soothingly as he wraps his arms around her back, basking in the warmth of her body against his.  Reluctantly, he lifts his head and steps away from the wall, gently setting her back on her feet and pressing a kiss to her temple.  She seems hesitant to move away from him at all, back to staring at her feet instead of looking at him.  He’s known her for long enough to know she’s overthinking.

  “Hey, look at me.”  He slips his fingers beneath her chin, gently lifting her face to meet his concerned gaze.  “What’s on your mind, darling?”  

  “I don’t-”  She starts strong but stops suddenly, shifting anxiously.  “I really don’t want this to be a one time thing, or - or just a way to blow off steam-”

  He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, cradling her face and pressing a brief but searing kiss against her lips.  She softens, melting into his touch.

  “Good,” He murmurs as he pulls away, tucking her hair behind her ear and giving her a peck on the cheek like the one she’d given him the night before, “because I don’t think I can survive another day of not being able to kiss you.”

  George chooses that moment to begin his ascent of the stairs.  They break away from each other, struggling to make themselves presentable before he makes it to the landing.  Anthony rushes to grab a shirt from the foot of the bed, throwing it over his head haphazardly  She squeaks when she finds the zipper of his hoodie down to her navel, shooting him a teasingly chastising look when he snickers and crosses past her to greet their researcher in the hall, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it.  She yanks the zip as high as it will go, trying to smooth her own hair as she approaches the bookshelf and grabs something at random.  She throws herself into the armchair in the corner of his room just in time, flipping the book open to roughly the halfway point and staring intently at the page as George reaches the top step.

  “Good morning!”  Anthony greets him far too cheerfully, leaning against the doorframe in an attempt to obscure the other man’s view of his room.  

  “...Morning.”  George replies, not even trying to disguise his attempts to peer around his boss.  “How’d it go last night?”  

  “Um - fine!  Yeah, just fine.  Perfectly fine.  Everything is… fine.”  She closes her eyes, letting out a slow quiet sigh at his obvious nerves.  

  Adjusting the book to make sure it’s in his line of sight, she grits her teeth and bites the bullet.  “Morning, Georgie!”  

  Lockwood looks over his shoulder at her in alarm, but at her reassuring nod he steps hesitantly out of the way so she’s in clear view.

  George inspects her with narrowed eyes.  “You are significantly less hungover than I’d expected.”

  She winces, not able to fault him in the slightest for the disappointment in his voice.  “Yeah, pretty sure it just hasn’t hit me yet.  Sorry about that.  It won’t happen again, Scouts Honour.”

  “Why are you in Lockwood’s room?”  His brow furrows almost imperceptibly.

  She doesn’t miss a beat.  “I was so drunk last night he was worried I was going to fall asleep on my back and choke on my own vomit, so he made me sleep in this ridiculously uncomfortable chair.”

  Both men fix their eyes on her.  Anthony looks horrified, while George looks strangely impressed.  The bespectacled man studies her for another moment and she holds her breath, hoping he’d bought it.  Shrugging a ‘fair enough’, he bids them a temporary farewell and walks into his own room, closing the door behind him.  

  She huffs a sigh of relief, closing her eyes and slumping back in the chair as the tension drains from her body.  When she cracks an eye a few long moments later, Anthony is still standing in the doorway with the same look of horror plastered across his face.

  “What’s wrong?”  She asks, worry laced in every syllable.  

  “I didn’t even think of that!  I could have let you die!”  He seethes, throwing his hands up in annoyance at himself.  

  She has to fight the urge to laugh at him, focusing instead on gathering her strength to stand and walk over to take his hands in her own.  

  “I appreciate the concern, my love, but I wasn’t that drunk by the time you got me home.”  She smiles fondly at him, lifting his hands to press soft kisses to each knuckle.  When she glances up at him even his ears are flushed pink, looking at her with a lovesick smile.  

  “Call me that again?”  He implores, pulling her against him.

  With a quiet laugh, she drapes her arms over his shoulders before replying.  “My love.”

  They lose themselves in each other for another several minutes, only parting grudgingly at the rumble of his stomach and the threat of another interruption.

  George waits until later that morning when Lucy, Kipps, and Holly have joined them and they’re all in the kitchen eating breakfast to comment on Anthony’s inside out shirt, and how impressed he is that the sixth member of their agency has learned to read upside down.   As Lucy slowly turns to look at them, eyes wide and jaw seemingly aiming to touch the floor, Anthony lets the red-faced young woman beside him hide her blush in his shoulder.  For some reason, he can’t even bring himself to be annoyed.  Grinning proudly, he winks at the Listener, causing her to shriek loudly and demand to know the full story.

  When his girlfriend looks up to shoot him a warning look, he mimics zipping his lips.  “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Luce.”

  Lucy’s demands are finally met five years later when James taps the side of his champagne flute with his knife, drawing the attention of the room full of guests to tell his favourite story about the bride and groom.

⤛⊹ 𝔣𝔦𝔫 ⊹⤜

taglist: @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @shakespearseclipse @ettadear @kassandra1000

  “For the last time, I am not going to the fucking hospital!” she spits, the final threads of her restraint turning to spider’s silk and breaking under the weight of the fear hiding behind her anger.  Lockwood’s narrowed eyes glare daggers at her across the thinking cloth.  He scoffs as he leans back, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

  He swears he can see steam pouring from her ears.  She swears he’s an argumentative prick.

  Their… ‘disagreement’ has been slowly building over the course of several hours, culminating in an explosion of epic proportions in the kitchen around lunch time.  She insists she’s fine, that she barely even has a headache left over from the incident the night before.  He insists she’s irritable, and is clearly having difficulties focusing.  George – who had spent the previous night in his old room after losing track of time researching an upcoming case – chimes in to mention that isn’t exactly out of the ordinary, and the look she gives him in response could probably peel paint.

  He mutters something under his breath about picking something up from Arif’s as he flees the room, grabbing his coat from the floor in front of its designated hook and opening their front door just as Lucy reaches the top step.  She quirks an eyebrow and opens her mouth to question his urgent departure, but he vehemently shakes his head to silence her.  Grabbing her by the wrist, he drags her behind him as he flees the scene of what he is certain will soon to be a crime.

  The first one to break the terse silence of their glaring contest is Lockwood.

  “Look, I’m not trying to be an arse-”

  “Since when do you have to try?” she interjects bitterly, pushing away from where she’d been leaning against the counter and raising her arms to rake her fingers through her hair.  He grits his teeth, trying to bite back a scathing rebuttal.  Her fingers lace behind her head and she stares at the ceiling as if begging for strength.  She paces back and forth in front of the kitchen sink like a caged animal, and his heart aches at the sight.  Even if he disregards whatever past she’s unwilling to disclose and only considers what he knows about the strength and nature of her talent, it’s understandable why she isn’t keen to be surrounded by the painful echoes of lives lost in a multitude of traumatic ways.

  That being said; some things are worth facing discomfort for, and her long-term safety will always be at the top of that list to him.  He takes a deep breath, schooling his expression into something more neutral before trying another approach.

  “I understand you don’t like hospitals, and I respect that you have your reasons,” he assents, “so what about a clinic?  Something small practice, with no ghost-locked patients?”  He uncrosses his arms and raises his palms in a placating manner, silently imploring her to be reasonable.

  She fixes him with a suspicious glare and he worries he’s accidentally stumbled upon a landmine, but it isn’t long before she visibly deflates, dropping her arms and staring intently at her now fidgeting hands instead of meeting his gaze.  While it wouldn’t remove the discomfort of the dull lights and surgical cleanliness, nor the chill she still gets from being around doctors in general, not having to be around ghost-locked residents would help a considerable amount…

  “Fine,” she eventually mumbles, more misery and reluctance packed into one syllable than he’d ever heard before.  She wants nothing more than to hide and wait for the problem to go away, but when he looks at her with those eyes – soft, pleading, filled with distress – she can’t say no to a half-decent compromise.  No matter how desperately she wants to. “but only on one condition.”

  “Anything,” he replies instantly.  He’s too relieved to be embarrassed by his immediate willingness to do whatever she’d ask of him, or by the breathless quality of his voice.

  She picks at the skin around her fingernails as she gets lost in a maze of tumultuous thoughts.  Showing any sign of weakness isn’t exactly easy for her.  Vulnerability is terrifying, and the concept of actually relying on someone else is as intimidating as it is foreign.

  Familiar with this pattern by now, Lockwood takes the time to gently rotate his neck and release some of the tension he’d built up.  He gives her the space she needs to muster the courage necessary to coax her thoughts into words.

  When she does speak again, it’s so quiet he almost can’t hear her.

  “Come with me,” she begs, her voice hardly more than a whisper.  It’s such a contrast to the bravado and indignant fury from earlier that it almost steals his breath away.

  He has to fight every fibre of his being as it screams to cross the table and hold her, to protect her from anything and everything that has ever made her feel the need to make herself small.  Suddenly he’s filled with hatred towards faceless memories he’s never even heard as more than fearful cries echoing through the house on the nights she wakes from night terrors she never speaks of come the light of day.

  It takes a moment for him to remember how to use his voice again.

  Anywhere, he wants to say.  “Of course,” he says instead; as though it were a fact, some kind of indisputable truth.  As though there was never any other way he could answer.  If he were to be completely honest with himself, there wasn’t.  He would do anything to have a front row seat to every glimpse of vulnerability showing through the cracks of her perfectly constructed mask. 

He’s distracted from his lovesick internal monologue by the sound of an urgent knocking on their front door.  

  The noise startles her. She jumps, lifting her head to meet his eyes.  She raises a challenging eyebrow at him.  It’s a look he knows is accusing him of arranging a meeting with a client today and forgetting about it.  He shrugs, replying with a series of nods and puzzled looks that he hopes conveys his understanding of her reasons for doubting him, but he genuinely doesn’t know who it could be.  He pushes himself out of his seat to go greet their guest.  

  The sound of her quiet footsteps on the linoleum tells him she’s not far behind, likely planning to eavesdrop from out of sight in case it happens to be trouble knocking.  Considering their track record, that’s probably a good call.

  His hand grasps the door handle– but something stops him from opening it immediately.  A strange shiver down his spine urges him to look through the peephole.  The first thing he sees is the top of a balding head, the portly man attached to it coming into view a few seconds later as he steps back to wait and wring his hands.  The man looks harmless enough.  Lockwood shakes off his unease, slides the locks back, and swings the door open theatrically.

  “Good afternoon, sir.  Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Co., at your service.  Do you have an appointment today?” he asks, extending his hand and donning his megawatt smile despite knowing damn well the startled little man did not.  

  The man in question stares with too-big eyes from behind too-small spectacles, and for a moment Lockwood can almost see a terrified mouse standing frozen on his welcome mat instead.    The man gasps and lurches forward, quickly stuffing a clammy and trembling hand into the one offered to him.

  “Oh, yes!  Yes, very good.  My name is Oscar Hughes, pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the mouse/man proclaims, shaking the offered hand vigorously, “I don’t have an appointment, but I do have some information that I think will pique your interest.”  

  The name lights a spark of recognition at the back of his mind, but Lockwood can’t quite put his finger on why, leaving him standing in awkward silence for a split second longer than he’s comfortable with.

  “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but are you the same Oscar Hughes who owns the Lighthouse Theatre?” asks the woman behind him, and Anthony has the urge to either give her a raise or sweep her off her feet.  He makes a mental note to check their wages budget.  Oscar dips his head in confirmation, glancing down the street behind him with what seems to be concern.  

  “It appears I’ve been quite rude.  Terribly sorry, Mr. Hughes, why don’t you come in so we can talk in private?” Lockwood accepts the man’s cue and steps aside to allow him entry, returning to the picture of professionalism with zero hesitation.  He can almost feel the girl behind him fighting the urge to roll her eyes at him.  It’s only once he realises that the shorter man hasn’t moved that he sees the cane in his right hand, bowing under the strain of supporting the majority of his weight.  Internally scolding himself for becoming so distracted, Anthony offers Oscar his arm to cross the raised threshold.  

  As her boss helps the fidgety man into their foyer, she offers him a reassuring smile and extends her hand to take his jacket.  He bows his head repeatedly in thanks, firing off a few rapid sentiments of gratitude before allowing himself to be led into the sitting room to discuss the case.

  Lockwood takes a seat in the armchair, gesturing to the loveseat to convey his want for their potential client to sit across from him.  Oscar hesitates for a split second before shuffling over and dropping onto the well worn cushions.

  “Now, that’s much more comfortable.  All that’s missing now is some tea and biscuits; would you mind, love?” his voice is soft, the pet name slipping past his lips before he has a chance to think about it.  There’s a pause, the slight twitch of his brow the only significant outward sign of his immediate panic.  Thankfully, she takes it in stride and exits the room with a quiet affirmation and an air of purpose.

  He doesn’t see the blood rushing to her cheeks, or notice her relief at being given an excuse to exit stage right to compose herself.  He does find the lack of ribbing slightly unusual, but he figures she’s probably trying not to embarrass him in front of their client.  That theory is swiftly dismissed when he remembers she would definitely jump at the opportunity to do precisely that.

  He’ll have time to worry more about the implications of that when there isn’t a potentially high-profile client sitting less than five feet away from him, he reminds himself.  

  Clearing his throat, Lockwood leans back into his seat, crossing his legs and fixing the cuffs of his sleeves in one smooth motion.  

  “Excellent!  While we wait, Mr. Hughes, I believe you’d mentioned having some information that might interest me?”

  “Right, to the point, then.  You may have heard of the tragic case of Alexandra Wright?” he stares at the younger man expectantly, waiting for confirmation as if the whole of Marylebone hadn’t been following the case for years.

  Alexandra Wright had been a young local stage actress at the start of a very promising career when she’d suddenly disappeared without a trace.  She’d been playing Titania in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Mr. Hughes' own theatre on the last evening anyone had seen or heard from her.  She’d declined her Oberon, Matthew Moffat’s invitation to have a celebratory drink with the cast on the eve of their final performance, opting instead to go home for a quiet evening with her feline companion and a bottle of wine.  

  Unfortunately she’d never made it back to her flat.  Death wasn’t exactly uncommon even in those days, but it was the mystery of it all that made it so hard for the town to move on.

  Occasionally there would be whispers of spottings; the grocer down the way who closed late one night would swear he’d seen her hurrying along from ghost lamp to ghost lamp, or Mrs. Peterson who swore her granddaughter had told her of seeing a ghost perfectly matching Alexandra’s description.

  Despite the small town rumblings and rumours, no legitimate reports of a Visitor matching her description had been seen since her unusual disappearance.

  Until now, if one were to believe the claims of Mr. Hughes.

  Apparently, the ghost of Ms. Wright had been Visiting an alley adjacent to the theatre, leaving those unlucky enough to have to pass through even before curfew with a persistent sense of dread.  Those with Talent who lived in the flats above the alley reported seeing her wailing as she tried to drag herself away from the invisible echo of the assailants responsible for her untimely demise.

  His associate had returned part way through Oscar’s account, and when she steps away after handing their guest his cup she looks downright nauseas.

  Lockwood can’t resist the urge to reach out and run the back of his fingers comfortingly up and down the back of her arm.  She turns her head to give him a grateful little smile, and surprises him by moving to perch on the armrest of his chair instead of taking one of the other empty seats in the room.  He’s never been more unsure about what to do with his hands.

  “As you can imagine, these rumours haven’t exactly encouraged paying customers to come knocking,”  Hughes laughs dryly, his eyes portraying an edge neither of them had thought him particularly capable of.

  “My team and I will investigate tomorrow evening, and I assure you we will do so with the utmost discretion,”  Lockwood flashes him his signature grin, easily gathering the underlying meaning behind the man’s words as he leans back 

  “Oh, well, you see…  Time is of the essence, if I dare be so bold.  I was hoping you’d be willing to take a look this evening.”

  Lockwood considers him for a moment.  On one hand, he’s certain Lucy would tan his hide if she caught wind of him taking on a case of this magnitude without her.  On the other, there are so many similarities between the cases of Alexandra Wright and Annabel Ward that even after all these years he finds himself eager to solve it without sticking her in the middle of it all.

  And George…  Well, with his Talent now gone, George preferred to avoid being in the field whenever possible.  The likelihood of a scolding from him was much lower than it would have been when they were young.  Hell, Flo would probably even thank him for keeping the man out of it–

  A hand resting featherlight on his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts.

  When he turns to look at her, her eyes are already on him, and they’re glittering with excitement.  She knows as well as he does what solving this mystery could do for Lockwood & Co., and for him.  He’d told her about Fairfax and Ward when they had started becoming closer to friends than colleagues.  About the crushing frustration and disappointment that had hounded him for years after, urging him to make impulsive and reckless decisions to try and regain what he felt had been stolen from him.

  Frustration at a system supposedly put in place to protect Agents being manipulated to treat them as tools and nothing more, disappointment at having the crown jewel accomplishment of the legacy he’d been trying so hard to build torn from his hands mere moments after earning it. ‘Do it,’ her eyes seem to urge, ‘say yes.’  His heart soars.

  Emboldened by her touch and eager to right a wrong once done upon him, ignoring a strange sense of dread as that familiar feeling of invincibility settles over him, he fixes his eyes on their client once more.

  “All right, Mr. Hughes.  We begin at sunset.”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

  Anthony stands over the silver-wrapped portrait, rapier hanging loosely from his hand as he waits on baited breath.  She’d never been wrong about a Source before, but he isn’t about to risk both of their lives by not taking appropriate precautions.

  The second he’s certain the shrieking form of Mr. Roland isn’t about to make a disastrously surprise reappearance, he lets the blade fall from his hand and rushes to the crumpled heap of fabric and flesh at the foot of their clients bed. He’d wake in a cold sweat from nightmares featuring the echoing crack of her skull connecting with the frame for a long time after this.  Trembling fingers smooth the hair away from her face, stomach in knots over the alarming pallor of her skin.  Shifting his hand to her shoulder, he rubs briskly up and down her bicep in an attempt to rouse her.  He curses under his breath when it becomes obvious it isn’t working.  Swallowing hard, he brushes the hair away from her neck and places two tentative fingers on her pulsepoint. ‘Relief’ doesn’t come close to describing the emotion that floods his body at the presence of the steady – if a little shallow – beat beneath his fingertips.

  Still alive, then.  He can work with that.

  Normally he hates this part, but he can’t be anything other than grateful they’ll have the chance to fight later when he insists she go to the hospital to have herself checked by a professional.  If he hadn’t learned to better value his own life he’d already be on the phone with the paramedics, but he knew better than to be the one responsible for her waking up unexpectedly strapped to an infirmary bed.

  She’d been quick to disclose she had a complicated history with hospitals upon joining his agency, though she’d been reluctant to go into the details of why.  They had accepted this without question, assuring her it was her story to tell if she ever felt ready.  If anyone could understand withholding tales of woe until it was absolutely necessary to share them, it was the members of Lockwood & Co..

  After carefully performing a field assessment to ensure he isn’t going to cause any damage by jostling her unconscious form, he shrugs off his long coat and drops it unceremoniously on the ground, then eases his hands beneath her shoulder and knees.  Rolling her onto her back and lifting her into his arms, he sits with his body between her and the bed and places her gently on the floor between his legs.  When she’s nestled safely against his chest, he rests her head on his shoulder and grabs the pile of cloth from beside him to drape his jacket over her.  Now, he waits.

  His leg shakes restlessly.  His fingers tap nonsensical rhythms on his thigh.  In a moment of weakness he brushes his fingers through her hair, combing it gently away from her face.  It’s soft, and the scent of her shampoo is beyond comforting.  In another world, a happier one, would he have found himself this close to her under better circumstances?  Would they have come home from their normal jobs, to a home where they were simply roommates?  Maybe they would have started their evening in the kitchen, preparing a meal with the intention of dining together instead of fighting for their lives.  She would laugh gleefully at his best attempt not to burn anything before shooing him out of her way to try and fix whatever monstrosity he’d created – heaven knows she’d had to do so often enough in the real world.  Maybe they’d retire to the sitting room to watch a movie on the old television in the corner.  She’d doze off before the end, as always, having fought the siren song of sleep until it weighed her head down to rest on his shoulder.

  If he really tries, he can almost make himself believe they’re settled on the small uncomfortable couch, not on the cold bedroom floor of a widow.  Almost.

  The white walls of the small room seem to be creeping closer and closer, threatening to crush him.  His heart thunders in his chest, a horridly high pitched ringing building in his ears.  He breathes in through his mouth for a count of four – holds it for two – and exhales through his nose for a count of six.  He repeats this for as long as it takes for the darkness to recede from the edges of his vision.  Having regained control of his thoughts, he lets his head fall back to rest on the edge of the wooden frame.  The breathing exercise George had taught him the first time he’d found him having a panic attack in the library is effective, but not so much he can afford to stop letting his mind wander.  He decides instead to reminisce on the small selfish moments he allows himself from time to time; the ones he uses to antagonise himself in his more self-pitying moments. Sometimes it’s as simple as a stolen glance here or there, almost always in the moments where she’s too focused on research –  or lost to time in the echoes of a Visitation.  His favourite is when she falls asleep on the couch; it’s easy to admire how peaceful she looks when she isn’t arguing with him about something stupid.  More than once he’d been lulled into sleep himself by the delicately lingering scent of her perfume on the couch the following day.  Lucy had definitely caught on the last time it had happened, judging by the mischievous twinkle in her eyes when she’d arrived early carrying doughnut’s as a bribe to get George to look into something for her to find Lockwood blinking awake curled around the same throw pillow their coworker had fallen asleep on the night before.  She’d winked at him, miming zipping her lips before carrying on her way.  Obviously she’d given him a hard time about it later – she wouldn’t be much of a best friend if she didn’t – but she went easy on him given her own fondness for the woman.  They had made quick friends, after all.

  There had been just three months left on clock tick tick tick-ing down to Lucy’s departure when the solution to almost all of his problems had – quite literally – fallen into his lap.

  He’d barely stepped one foot out of the shower when he’d heard a knock at their front door.  George had managed to make it out of his basement office at a reasonable hour the evening before and Lucy slept like the dead, which left the responsibility of answering the door squarely on his shoulders.  Another knock had urged him on as he’d rushed to at least partially dry and dress himself.  

  When he’d finally jerked the door open, she’d been about to knock a third time.  He’d startled her, causing her to take a step back in an attempt to avoid rapping him on the chest with her knuckles.  Unfortunately, the top step of 35 Portland Row had never been as large as it should have been.  He can still vividly recall the look of abject horror on her face as she’d realised she was about to fall.

  Somehow he’d managed to break free from the trance he’d fallen into the second he laid eyes on her to lunge forward, catch her by the elbow, and pull her away from the edge.  He must have put more strength into it than entirely necessary, because the next thing he’d known they’d been on the ground inside the foyer.  The floor had been ice cold beneath his back, which had done almost as much to soothe the ache of the impact as the feeling of the young woman laying on top of him.  She’d stared down at him with wide eyes, doing a rather convincing impression of a deer in headlights.  He’d flushed red hot, floundered desperately for the words to say to regain control of the situation, and come up with nothing.

  Of course, that was the moment Lucy had chosen to wake and stumble languidly down the stairs.  They’d been alerted to her presence by the creek of ancient floorboards at the base of the stairs, two sets of eyes suddenly drawn to the agent staring confounded at the bizarre sight of a stranger straddling her boss in their foyer.  The aforementioned stranger had begun to panic in earnest at that point, stammering apologies to him and his co-worker alike as she’d scrambled off of him.  Lucy and Anthony had stared at each other in confusion as she’d profusely apologised to the Listener.  Trying to piece together what specifically she had been apologising for in the first place was a struggle, since every sentence was left unfinished in the urgency of the next rushing to be heard.  Finally, it had dawned on them; she was under the impression they were living together under vastly different circumstances.  Luce had laughed, Lockwood had laughed, and their guest had looked like she was going to be sick in their entrance hall.

  It had taken two full cups of tea and countless assurances for the perpetual state of mortification to wear off enough for her to explain why she’d sought them out to begin with.  After seeing their agency in the papers she’d become convinced it had to be some form of ‘destiny’ that the three of them meet.  The automatically exasperated look he’d shot Lucy had not gone over the head of their guest; she’d lost patience with him as quickly the day they’d met as she had every day since.  As she’d shouted her reasoning at him across the Thinking Cloth, he’d been forced to admit she had a point – and not just to diffuse the tension.  He hadn’t thought it particularly unusual that he and Lucy – the only two reported cases of agents over the age of twenty not having lost their Talent – had been gifted with different abilities, but to meet a third and have her be gifted with the Touch?  Two may well have been a coincidence, but three… Three is a pattern.

  It had at least been enough to drive him to involve George.  He’d left to call the researcher in place of replying, leaving her staring in incredulous fury at his empty seat.  Thankfully, Lucy had intervened before she could find anything sharp to throw at his back.  When he’d returned to inform them he’d made the call, the softness behind the surprise in her eyes had been the final nail in his coffin; he’d been smitten ever since.

  George had arrived in record time, which made the thud of the front door being forced open more alarming than it should have been.  He’d dropped a comically large stack of books on the dining table, forgone introductions, and launched immediately into his cursory theories.  She’d won his approval almost as easily as she’d won Anthony’s.  She’d listened intently, asked the right questions at the right times, slid the plate of biscuits they’d served in his absence his way, and launched into a detailed explanation of her own research as soon as he’d finished.  It had been well after midnight when Anthony had managed to get a word in edgewise to insist they call it an evening.  She’d slept in Lucy’s room that night – and every night since.  In the days that followed, the newly formed team of four had spent every waking hour bent over one book or another.  By the time they’d finally been forced to leave the house to complete a job, it had seemed beyond question for their guest (new roommate?) to join them.  That first job together had cleared any lingering tendrils of doubt from his mind; not one word had been said out loud, but every step had been in perfect harmony.  

  Before any of them knew it, months had passed in a comfortable rhythm.  Their evenings were spent on cases, whilst their days were spent reading every piece of literature on Talent and the Problem they could get their hands on.  In spite of their best efforts, the mystery of why the three of them retained their talent remained unsolved.  No matter how they looked at it, it was apparent there was still a piece of the puzzle missing.  One cold and sleepless morning they’d rubbed the sleep from their eyes, gathered around the kitchen table, and agreed to set the matter aside to focus on more pressing issues.

  As the date of his Listener’s departure loomed on the horizon, he’d gathered every ounce of courage and charisma he possessed to try and seem cool whilst half-begging their new friend to join his agency.  She’d accepted his offer with minimal ribbing, and if he hadn’t known it was just his own hopes influencing his perception of reality, he might have thought she’d blushed when he’d asked her to move in permanently.

  In the final days of Lucy’s employment, something they could have never expected had happened.  Instead of waking to the sound of the phone ringing, Anthony had been woken by Lucy thundering down the stairs to answer it.  That in itself was unusual, given her habit of sleeping deeper than a hibernating bear.  But it had been something else – some weird gut feeling he still couldn’t explain – that brought him to immediate and alert consciousness.  The sound of the phone clattering to the ground had thrown him from his bed, sending him barrelling down the stairs as he hastily pulled a shirt over his head.

  He’d frozen when he found Luce on her knees on the ground, hands pressed to her mouth and tear-filled eyes wide with shock.  Another set of footsteps echoed down the stairs above him, the final member of the household rushing past him seconds later.  She’d brushed Lucy’s hair away from her face and quietly asked her what was wrong.  When she received no reply she’d dropped to the ground, wrapped the other girl in her arms, and picked the phone off the ground to get to the bottom of it all.  Having felt rather useless, Lockwood had set to work doing the only thing he could think of; making tea.

  When he’d returned, three steaming cups precariously balanced in his hands, he found them still clinging to each other in a heavy silence.  Though he could see the phone had been returned to its cradle, he hadn’t had the courage to push for answers.  Instead he’d settled down onto the floor with them, placed their cups on the old wood in front of them, and reached out to rest a comforting hand on Lucy’s knee.  She’d looked up at him then, slowly, and he was confused to find a glimmer of hope in her bloodshot eyes.  Her choked explanation had stolen the breath from his lungs.

  “Norrie’s awake.”

  The early hours of that fateful morning had passed in a flurry of planning, packing, and crying in a manner achingly similar to the day she’d confessed she’d never wanted to be an agent to begin with.  They’d decided to end her employment effective immediately, to use the inevitable media coverage of the literal miracle unfolding in front of them to announce her departure without too many follow-up questions.

  By late afternoon – after George had awoken and made a mad dash to the house – they’d stood together in the doorway sharing bittersweet tear-filled farewells.

  She’d called to let them know she’d arrived in one piece, but from that point on all communication was one sided and in the form of postcards from various towns all over Europe.  Money had changed hands when the household received their New Years card since, tucked neatly inside, was a polaroid photo of the two sharing a New Years kiss in a large iron circle in front of the Eiffel Tower.  George had put money on them not figuring it out until at least January, while Anthony had bet on Valentine’s Day.  The smug smirk on the face of their companion when she’d pulled their money from their hands was as infuriating as it was adorable.

  And so they’d carried on, attempted to settle into their new state of ‘normal’ as an agency with only two field operatives, and did everything within their power to avoid speaking of the listener-shaped hole in their hearts.

  Then, a year after she’d left, Lucy Carlyle had knocked on his front door holding a damned employment application.  As if she didn’t know she’d always have a home in Portland Row, always have a place in his agency.  He’d stared at it like it was written in latin before tearing it in half and pulling the woman into a bone-crushing hug.  Though, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been slightly relieved to find out she wasn’t in need of accommodations this time around; he’d grown comfortable with the casual intimacy of sharing his home with only the little spitfire upstairs.  Lucy had been pink all the way to the tips of her ears as she told him she’d be living with Norrie in a flat just a few blocks away, a state he found himself all too sympathetic of.

  The sound of voices had finally drawn his remaining live-in employee down from her attic.  He’d almost gone deaf at the shriek she’d let out at the sight of her old roommate.  When they’d run to embrace each other and laugh, he’d decided she needed time to catch up than he did.  He’d made her promise to fill him in on all the juicy details over drinks some time in the near future before making his way to the library to give them some privacy.  As the sound of laughter echoed through the house that night, it seemed to banish the final remnants of grief and loneliness from every last shadowy corner of Portland Row.

  A nauseating question creeps to the forefront of his mind; will he ever hear her laugh like that again?   He tries to conjure the sound again, but now all he can hear is the rush of air leaving her lungs and the echoing thud of her head hitting the bed frame.

  Desperate for some kind of distraction, he glances out the window.  The sky is filled with blushing shades of lilac and pink, making promises of a clear day it’s not likely to keep.  The early morning sun shines ethereal rays through the sheer white curtains, turning the miniscule specks of debris still hanging in the air to angel dust.  If the sun has already risen, she’s been unconscious for an alarming amount of time.  Doubt strikes through his thoughts.  Did he make the right choice?  Did his fear of her being angry with him dissuade him from thinking objectively?  If he’d subconsciously prioritised her bloody opinion of him over her health and safety he’d never forgive himself.

  Unable to vanquish the dark thoughts now spiralling farther and farther out of control, Lockwood tries to tether himself back to the present by focusing on the gentle puffs of her warm breath feathering across his chest.  Significantly less pleasant – though no less persistent – is the aggressive tingling of his extremely numb right leg.  He winces, inhaling sharply through his teeth as he shifts his position to encourage blood flow to eliminate the painful TV static in the limb.

  He almost drowns in the tidal wave of relief that washes over him when she lets out a frustrated groan in response to the light jostling.  Gently cradling her cheek to prevent her head from falling from his shoulder, he pushes himself back and further upright.

  “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he says softly, lightly tapping her cheek with his palm in an attempt to rouse her.  She only whines louder in reply, twisting in his lap to burrow her face into his neck.  He can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks as the warmth of her body presses against his front.  The fluttering of her eyelashes against his pulsepoint reminds him of a butterfly’s kiss.  He isn’t entirely sure how to react.  Quite a large part of him wants to wrap his arms around her, cradle her against him and hold her until he can silence every sadistic whisper in his mind telling him he’s going to lose her, too.  

  He doesn’t end up having to worry about what to do for long.  She gasps, shooting upright and scrambling across the floor to create some distance between them.  It’s a very convincing impression of a cornered animal, which leaves his heart aching.  If it serves any positive purpose at all, at least the cold reminder of her feelings toward him banish any doubts of the legitimacy of this reality from his mind.  Then she winces, face contorting with agony as she clutches at her skull, and self-pity is suddenly the farthest thing from his mind. 

  “Easy now,” he keeps his voice low in consideration of what’s sure to be one hell of a headache, “you’ve hit your head and had quite the respectable nap about it.  I’d be surprised if you weren’t at least a little out of it.  Does anything else hurt?”  She lifts her head to look at him, but there’s an absent look in her eyes that makes a pit of anxiety begin to form in his stomach.  When she drops her gaze back to the floor – hand still cradling her skull – he caves.  Pushing himself to his knees, he crawls towards her and brushes his fingers against her thigh.  With a shiver, she looks back at him.  Confusion and pain are painted clear as day across her features.  He doesn’t need a mirror to know his own expression is growing to resemble hers more by the moment.  

  “Sorry, I – uhm, I don’t…” she trails off, glancing at his hand on her leg.  He pulls back like he’s been burned, waiting on bated breath for her to finish.  “I – …do I know you?”  

  His heart sputters to a stop in his chest.  Nothing could have prepared him for that.  His jaw hangs open almost comically as he stares at her with complete devastation.  Mentally, he’s already running through every potential outcome of this situation. How much memory is she actually missing?  Maybe it’s only the ones involving him.  That would be a cruel twist of fate, but his life thus far has been nothing but a series of those, so why stop now?

  All of his strength leaves him at once.  It becomes a struggle just to stay upright.  He can’t afford to fall apart, not when she needs him to be calm, not when she’s – trying not to smile?

  She cracks, stifling a giggle behind her hand before it can bubble into something more.  His brain hasn’t caught up yet, still staring at her slack-jawed and very visibly confused.  Her attempts to stifle her merriment fail entirely, her laughter devolving into something closer to a cackle.  

  “I’m fucking with you, Lockwood,” she wheezes, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “you should have seen your face!”  Wincing again, she presses a palm to her throbbing skull before looking up at him and dissolving into laughter once more.

  For likely the first time in living memory, Anthony Lockwood is legitimately speechless.

  “I-”  he starts, and then stops.  Feeling like a bloody fish, all he can do is open and close his mouth, which does nothing to calm the hysterics of his companion.  After a few prolonged moments of this, she starts to actually worry she might have broken him.

  “Lockwood…?” she asks, reaching tentatively for his shoulder.  “Look, I didn’t mean to – to traumatise you or anything, I was just pissed you left me alone –” He reaches forward and catches her forearm before she can register the movement.  She yelps in surprise, the noise abruptly stifled as he pulls her into his chest and wraps his arms around her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold her tight enough.  Taking a deep and steadying breath, he drops his head to rest on top of hers.  Slowly, she returns his embrace with trembling arms, tucking her chin into her chest and nestling into him.

  “I’m sorry I was late.  It won’t happen again,” Lockwood’s voice is ragged when he breaks the silence, emphasising his point by tightening his arms.  She nods, feeling lost for words.  

  They stay there, curled together, until the birds start singing their morning chorus.

  He figures she’s too shaken up to push him away.

  She figures he’s been too worried to care about his personal space.

  Neither is willing to be the first to let go.  

  “Hey, Lockwood?” her voice is soft as she pulls her head back to look up at him.

  “Yes, darling?” he replies, carefully sculpting his trademark smile back into place.

  “Let’s go home.”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!): @shakespearseclipse @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @ettadear @kassandra1000 @stardust611 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @hellojameshowyadoin @sarahhelpimsinking @soapshipper @myownpainintheass @furblrwurblr @sleep-i-ness

  The echo of water dripping onto concrete is the first thing to worm its way into his consciousness. Next comes the throbbing pain through his skull, the relentless pounding that sends sharp waves of agony through his head. Lockwood lets out an involuntary hiss of discomfort, which in turn brings an unfortunate awareness of how dry his mouth is.  Each breath feels like sandpaper against his throat. His head hangs forward, and the muscles in his neck ache from the strain. It takes an immense effort to gather the strength to lift his head and look around, and when he finally does, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

  The room is a grim tableau of grey, its walls, floor, and ceiling a continuous expanse of cold, unyielding concrete. The only breaks in the monotonous shade are the occasional questionable reddish-brown stains that mar the porous material. Hints of past violence are embedded in the very fibre of this space. To his left, a heavy iron door looms.  With its surface pitted and scarred by time, it stands as an ominous sentinel to his dreary prison.

  The throbbing between his ears intensifies, making it difficult to piece together the events leading up to this moment. How did he end up here, bound and trapped in a room straight out of a horror film? Lockwood’s memories slowly rise to the surface through the fog of his headache, and with them comes a growing awareness of his predicament. His wrists are bound tightly to the arms of a metal chair, the cold steel biting into his skin. 

  Something important is still begging to be remembered, some crucial detail just barely out of reach. He struggles to focus, his mind a chaotic swirl of fragmented memories and disjointed thoughts. They should be on a job right now, shouldn't they?

  It all comes back to him in a rush.

  ‘Hughes’, the alley, the fight. The memories crash over him like a wave, and he feels as if he’s finally awake. Where is she? His heart pounds as he wonders about the fate of his companion. Is she somewhere nearby, tied up like him? Or has she met a worse fate? She’s never been one to shy away from confrontation, especially with arrogant men like these. Her sharp tongue often gets her into trouble. Before he can fully lose himself in the depths of his fears, the large metal door swings open with an ominous creak. The echo reverberates through the cold, concrete room, and in walks their would-be client.

  Lockwood immediately schools his features, burying his rage and fear for his companion behind a mask of aloof and casual amusement. He takes a deep breath, pushing the worst-case scenarios from his mind.

  “Did you sleep well, Mr. Lockwood?” asks the man, his voice dripping with false politeness. He pulls a chair Anthony had previously missed away from the wall, dragging it with a harsh screech across the floor, and sits down directly in front of the bound agent.

  “Oh, like a baby,” Lockwood quips, shooting him a crooked smirk. He leans back in his chair, straining against his bindings to maintain a facade of nonchalance. “Woke up every couple of hours crying. You should consider marketing this place as a spa retreat. The concrete walls and the ambiance of dripping water are just so... soothing.”

  ‘Hughes’ barks a laugh at that, a glimmer of admiration for the young man dancing in his eyes. Lockwood’s heart races, but he doesn’t let it show. He needs to stay sharp, keep this man talking, and find out where he is– and, more importantly, where she is.

  “If we’d met under different circumstances, I think I could grow to like you, Mr. Lockwood. I’ve never met a man capable of looking so unbothered whilst bound to a chair.  Shame it had to be this way, what a waste of potential.” The heavy implication that Anthony won’t be leaving alive hangs in the air as the man props his elbow on the arm of his metal chair, resting his chin on his hand. He inspects Anthony as if he’s nothing more than a rat caught in a trap.

  “It hardly seems fair that you know my name, but I haven’t a clue what yours is.” Anthony risks the challenge, watching his captor’s face closely.

  “My man must have a heavier hand than I thought. If he’s addled your brain enough that you’ve forgotten already, maybe I should give him a raise.” The man laughs, waving his hand dismissively.

  There just now; the tiniest twitch of a vein on his left temple.

  “Surely a man of your intelligence wouldn’t be so foolish as to use his real name to hire a pair of Agents he has no intention of allowing to live. I’d hoped by now you’d have enough respect for me not to assume I’d be thick enough to believe you would.” Of all the reactions Anthony was prepared for, laughter wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. ‘Hughes’ almost doubles over in his chair, clapping his hands together before wiping tears of merriment from the corners of his eyes.

  “Boy, if you didn’t have those bloody morals of yours, I’d recruit you to take over when I retire. Damon Martin, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He offers Lockwood a hand to shake, then rescinds it with a mock-apologetic shrug as though he’d forgotten he’d bound Anthony’s hands.

  Anthony’s mind races, filing away the name, the mannerisms, the arrogance. This is a man used to getting his way, a man who found joy in toying with his prey. But Anthony knows something he doesn’t. There’s still hope, still a chance. He just has to bide his time and keep Damon talking.

  “If I didn’t have these ‘bloody morals,’ I might be inclined to accept your generous offer. In another life, perhaps,” He pauses for a moment, weighing his options carefully. The chances he’s garnered enough favour to get away with a question are still slimmer than he’d like, but feigning ignorance might tip the scales his way. “Why did you go through all this effort? Surely there are easier ways to kidnap a few agents, at the very least an easier agency to grab them from. I’m assuming you need our Talent for some nefarious reason or another?”

  Damon chuckles at that; it’s an uglier sound than before. It can’t hide the treacherous vein on his brow, oh so eager to betray him.

  “Definitely easier agencies, but none that have pissed off as many Relic Hunters – and other unsavoury folks – as the lovely little lilies at Lockwood & Co.” He shakes his finger in time with every alliteration, the obvious enjoyment glittering in his eyes is almost sickening.

  “So it’s a matter of revenge, then?” If Mr. Martin is so willing to believe him a fool, he might as well use it to his own advantage. “Not unusual in this field, though not precisely expected either. So, what cruel fate do you have in store for us?”

  Damon leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “Revenge. Justice. Call it what you will. Your little agency has made quite a name for itself. Stepping on toes, disrupting operations, making enemies. It was only a matter of time before someone came to collect.”

  Anthony’s mind races, trying desperately to fit together the final pieces of the puzzle. The throbbing behind his eyes hasn’t eased, and it isn’t making it any easier. “So, you’re just another wronged party in the long list of those seeking retribution. How original.”

  Damon’s smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. “Oh, it’s not just about retribution. It’s about sending a message. You and your friends have a habit of poking your noses where they don’t belong. It’s time someone reminded you of the consequences.”

  Lockwood’s jaw tightens, his mind whirling with strategies. “And what consequences would those be? An untimely demise in your charming little dungeon?”

  “I hate to make it too easy on you, so we’ll leave it at ‘you’ll find out soon enough’ and move on. Surely there’s another question itching away at the back of your mind.” The smile on his face sends a chill down Anthony’s spine, a feeling he imagines to be akin to someone walking across his grave.

  “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  “Ah, see? I thought we were getting somewhere, but it seems you still have all the subtlety of an ox.” The other man snorts, shaking his head ruefully. “Your companion is alive and, well… not ‘well’, but alive.”

  Anthony is almost certain there are more words following, but he loses the ability to hear through the blood rushing in his ears. If he has harmed her in any way, there will be hell to pay.

  “Anything else you’d like to know while you’re still inclined to speak with me?” The delight in Martin’s voice is sickening, but it is essential Anthony maintains his composure. No matter how desperately he wants to hurl insults and threats at this monster, he can’t.

  “You say that like you’re certain our time is coming to an end. I do like to consider myself quite tolerant, in the grand scheme. What do you have planned?”

  Damon checks his watch, grinning a Cheshire cat smile before looking back at the lad in the chair. “I’m afraid our time is up, Mr. Lockwood. For what it’s worth, I’ve enjoyed this little game of wits.”

  Anthony’s mind races as Damon’s words sink in. He has to think quickly, to find some way to delay whatever is coming next. “Well, I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual, Damon. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed your hospitality.”

  Damon laughs, a dark, hollow sound. “I didn’t expect you to. But, alas, our paths cross for a reason, and I have my own agenda to follow.”  He watches Anthony with a predatory glint in his eyes.

  Lockwood strains against his bindings, his eyes darting around the room for anything he might be able to use to his advantage. “This isn’t over. You think you have the upper hand, but you don’t know us. You don’t know what we’re capable of.”

  Damon’s smile widens, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “Oh, I’m well aware of what you’re capable of, Mr. Lockwood. That’s why I’ve taken every precaution to ensure you won’t get the chance to show it.”

  Anthony’s mind races, formulating plans upon contingency plans. He knows he can’t afford to lose hope. Not now. Not when so much is at stake. The tension in the room is palpable as the two men stare each other down, the silent battle of wills raging on. Anthony knows he has to stay sharp, stay focused. They will find a way out of this.

  The scream erupts through the air, sudden and unrelenting, slicing through the stillness like a blade. The sound is raw, visceral, and it sends a jolt of icy terror racing through Anthony’s veins. All the steely resolve he’s been clinging to shatters in an instant, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. His heart pounds like a drum in his chest as he struggles against the metal bindings that confine him. The chair groans and creaks ominously under his frantic movements, the metal biting into his skin as he throws himself forward in a desperate bid for freedom.

  “I swear to God, if you don’t let her go I will hunt you to the ends of the earth. There will not be a rock you can hide under that will save you from me,” he vows, his voice a low, dangerous growl filled with a venomous intensity. He spits in Damon’s direction, a tangible manifestation of his fury.

  Martin’s only reaction is a dark chuckle, a sound devoid of any real fear or concern. He lounges back in his chair with a nonchalant ease, his smile wide and untroubled. “Bold words from a man strapped to a chair in my basement,” he says with an almost lazy disdain. The words are dripping with mockery as he stands up, pushing himself to his feet. “Do try to keep your strength; it would be a shame to cut the entertainment short this evening.”

  With a final smirk, Damon pushes himself from his chair, and strides toward the metal door. His footsteps echo in the cold, sterile room. The door slams shut behind him with a resonating clang, sealing Anthony in darkness. The only sound that remains is the tortured, muffled sobs and anguished cries echoing faintly through the corridors.

  Lockwood closes his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the sound that haunts him. His teeth are clenched so hard they ache, and he fights the overpowering urge to rage against his restraints. The sound of his own name falling from her lips had never made him feel sick before.

  He whispers silent apologies into the void, each one a fragment of his broken heart as he hears her cries fade to wrecked sobbing in the distance. Tears stream uncontrollably down his cheeks, each one a testament to his helplessness. He forces himself to remember that if he exhausts his strength now, he will have no energy left to save her when the time comes. His mind is a whirlwind of anguish and determination, driven by the urgent need to endure for her sake.  If he exhausts himself now, he’ll have no way to help her through the next part of this.

  He knows what’s happening here. At the very least, he has some very well founded theories. 

  He’d begun to piece the clues together on his way back from running errands, the headline of a fresh edition of the paper catching his attention.

  ‘Missing Bunchurch operatives found ghost-touched three miles from job location.’

  George had mentioned something about these disappearances a few days ago. Lockwood had dismissed him without putting much thought into it, infuriating his researcher to the point of him storming out after curfew.  Lucy had scolded him senseless about it, and even he’d been forced to admit he’d handled it poorly. George’s Talent might have faded, but his mind is sharp as ever.  In the spirit of ‘making an effort’, as Lucy would say, Lockwood paused to buy a copy from the paperboy and stepped under an awning to avoid foot traffic as he leafed through the pages to find the article.

  ‘“A man approached them when the agency was nearly vacant for the evening, requesting their assistance for a high-profile case that required their immediate attention and discretion. Unfortunately, we didn’t get any details about the suspect before the disappearance of our operatives,”’ a supervisor explained when questioned. The story bore an uncanny resemblance to those reported by other agencies. ‘Who is this mystery man, and why does he seem to be targeting agents?’

  Lockwood’s gut twists as he absorbs the implications. Agents go missing or die on jobs more often than anyone is willing to admit. The constant flow of cases had prevented the authorities from connecting the dots until recently. Agents, typically in pairs of two, would leave on last-minute assignments and simply vanish without a trace. When their bodies were discovered – if they were found at all – it was often days later, in locations far removed from where they were supposed to be. The details are vague, but the true intrigue lies in the spaces between the lines, the picture painted by the gaps in the written words.

  He ponders the logistics. For a small-scale agency like Bunchurch or his own, it would be easy for one man to watch for an opening. But Fittes or Rotwell... catching a large-scale agency with few occupants requires more than luck. It demands extensive reconnaissance, meticulous notes on routines and schedules, and perfect timing.

   This isn't the work of a lone psychopath. This is organised crime, a network with resources and coordination.

  Lockwood’s mind races. If the person staking out their targets was consistent, someone in the neighbourhood must have noticed them, even if they didn’t realise it. DEPRAC and Scotland Yard had surely canvassed the area, asking questions. But had they inquired about the weeks leading up to the kidnappings? About any oddities that initially seemed out of place but became so routine they were almost invisible?  Inspector Barnes would surely have asked those questions, but Lockwood has his doubts about the competency of the other men under his command. The picture is becoming clearer: a network of criminals, a methodical approach, agents watched and taken with precision. Lockwood folds the newspaper, now fully alert. 

  Everything in this report suggests a calculated effort to target and eliminate agents under the guise of urgent and confidential assignments. These abductions are not random misfortunes or isolated incidents; they are part of a cruel and systematic scheme to exploit the talents of the agents and dispose of them in the most horrific ways imaginable. Lockwood’s thoughts churn with grim realisation. If one were to calculate the number of missing agents, and compare it to the number of bodies found… The numbers simply don’t add up. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place, and with each one, the urgency to act becomes more pressing. This is not just a matter of solving a mystery, or bringing justice to the fallen; it’s a race against time to save those who might still be trapped in this nightmarish scenario.

  He makes a mental note to make time to talk to Barnes, to offer his services as a consultant. Maybe even as bait.

  The thought barely has time to form before the pieces finally click into place, each realisation deepening the pit of dread in his stomach.

  They couldn’t be bait if they were already targets.

  A bolt of ice stabs through his chest as he realises the time. A quick glance at his watch confirms his fear. He is going to be late.  Again. He’s been so slow on the uptake—she could already be in danger.

  He curses himself under his breath, looking around wildly. Despite every instinct screaming at him to blindly run to her aid, he knows he has to find a way to pass a message to their team. It’s their only hope of surviving the trap he’s unwittingly led them into. His gaze flicks side to side as he forces himself to breathe in, hold, and breathe out for equal counts of four. Combat breathing helps regulate his body’s response to stress. He needs to think clearly and appear calm to pull this off. The faces around him blur together as he moves with purpose in the direction of their rendezvous spot, buying time for himself to come up with a reasonable plan. He knows the enemy could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting. The seconds tick by, each one a reminder of how close he might be to losing everything. 

  He turns a corner and catches sight of the river, the water glinting in the afternoon light. Amid the crowd, a distinctive outline catches his eye. He can’t help but grin, thanking his lucky stars for the first time in his life that he lives so close to the Thames.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

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❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

  She’s going to kill him.  

  The sun has long set and the blue light of dusk does no favours for the ambiance of the house in which she is the sole living visitor.  For the tenth time in half as many minutes the girl glares at the green numbers faintly glowing at her from the clock on the back of the stove.  Twenty minutes past six, and still no sign of the single most infuriating man born this millenia.  Her roommate/employer was supposed to be here almost an hour ago, having instead left her to complete a potentially deadly job all by her lonesome.     Okay, so maybe she’s being a touch dramatic.  All reports from their client indicate a Type One, but even with the weakest Visitor, one mistake can be fatal without backup.   Sighing loudly, she drains the thermos of tea clutched in cold hands and slams it down on the counter, using the motion to vent the last of her frustration.  Fighting a ghost on her own would be significantly easier if she wasn’t radiating enough negative emotion to keep it fat for a month.  

  She leaves her lamp on and resting on the counter, then hauls the heavy kit bag off of the kitchen’s marble counter and ventures into the living room with the intention of laying down a circle for when all hell inevitably breaks loose.

  Once inside the room, a quick scan of the space tells a decisive story about the occupants.  The furniture itself is uncannily clean, accents of sunshine yellow and navy blue scattered amongst a palette of white and cream that one would find between the pages of a 50’s home decor catalogue.    With more care than any other member of her agency would bother to show, she places the duffel on the floor in front of a dreadfully yellow loveseat to avoid soiling the vibrant fabric.  Iron filings had a way of working their way into the woven material of their kit bags; she'd spent enough time trying to scrub the rust stains out of her own clothes to know how dreadful it could be.  The recently widowed Mrs. Roland had more than enough to worry about without adding blemishes to an otherwise spotless space, especially one sure to see plenty of grieving guests over the next weeks.

  It becomes harder to maintain focus on her assessment of the space as the temperature in the room begins to drop, the hair on the back of her neck standing straight on end as the perverse feeling of being watched sets in.  She lifts her hand to smooth the prickling sensation, though the chill of her skin does little to soothe it.  Her attention is pulled to the closed door down the only hallway attached to the living space, something from within silently calling her to enter and discover what secrets lay beyond.     Who is she to deny the call of curiosity when it comes knocking?  Especially when it comes alongside another noticeable drop in temperature.

  With a calming breath that hangs visible in the air like a miniature stormcloud, she considers her next move.  The Fittes manual clearly states the first order of business in a situation such as this should be to prepare an iron circle so you have an avenue of escape should anything take a turn for the worst.  As such, this would be the first step of any by-the-book agent.

  Unfortunately one does not find themselves under the employ of Lockwood & Co. by behaving like a by-the-book agent, and in a streak of bad luck she’d broken both her primary and backup rapier’s on the job this week.  She’d called ahead for a new one of course, but Lockwood was supposed to be in charge of bringing it with him.  Obviously, this was proving to be a problem.

  Muttering a few choice words about ignorant manchildren with poor time management skills under her breath, she bends to unzip the kit bag and retrieve the chains.  The muttering becomes progressively more vulgar with every second the links refuse to come free, clearly caught on something else from the haphazard way they’d been tossed in after their previous job.  Lockwood had drawn the short straw and been left to stow their gear whilst her and George had set to work righting the furniture the Poltergeist had been lobbing at them all night.  Apparently he’d been displeased enough to simply pile everything in together instead of taking the time to place things properly.

  Forcing another a calming breath, she makes a mental note to explain the phrase ‘weaponized incompetence’ before bracing her foot against the rough canvas of the bag and tugging harshly on the chains.  They come unstuck abruptly, the remaining force behind the pull sending her backwards to land unceremoniously on her rear, whilst the momentum of her sliding foot shoots the bag underneath the yellow monstrosity.  It comes to a rest dead centre beneath the settee, its other contents partially spilled and glittering tauntingly at her from the shadows.

  Unable to deny herself a moment to wallow in frustration, she rolls onto her side to rub at her smarting tailbone as she contemplates what deity she must have pissed off in a past life to deserve this kind of treatment.  Whoever said the gods have no sense of humour had clearly never known anyone with luck like hers.     The shattering of glass from down the hall proves effective in disrupting her pity party, immediately on high alert as her instincts kick in with a vengeance.  Blood roars in her ears as she pushes herself to her feet, suddenly blissfully ignorant of the literal pain in her ass.

  “If there’s anyone up there I haven’t pissed off yet, please, not another bloody poltergeist…”  She mutters under her breath, sparing a few seconds to shoot a pleading look at the ceiling and bracing herself for whatever comes next.  

  Once she’s certain nothing is going to start flying across the room at her, she loops the cold links of chain into a vice grip in her left hand, letting roughly half of them fall loosely from her right as a makeshift flail.

  The floorboards creak eerily under her feet as she approaches the simple white door at the end of the hall, making her glad for the undeniably tacky runner in the middle that at least partially muffles the sound.  As an involuntary shiver wracks her frame, she curses the metaphorical pain in her ass for her lack of a proper weapon one final time before focusing her attention wholly on the matter at hand.    Although cold to the touch, the doorknob twists open easily.  Even the hinges are blessedly silent.  She wastes no time in pushing it open and crossing the threshold.  By-the-book or not, no agent worth their weight in salt would ever hesitate in a doorway.

The room on the other side is unassuming, the same shades of white and cream attempt to convey peaceful feelings, but something about them is downright unnerving tonight.  The moon outside bathes the room in white light, adding to the almost ethereal nature of the scene before her.   Her gaze is instantly drawn to the only splash of colour in the room.  A painting stands stark against the white wall on her left; shades of songbird-yellow illustrate a field of golden grass, a single leaf-bare tree standing tall and proud in the midst of it all.  When she looks closely, she can see the delicate lines of lightly fraying rope binding a low-hanging wooden board to a thick branch overhead  - a child’s swing.  The initials ‘H.R.’ are barely visible in the bottom right corner.   She can’t recall how she got close enough to see the details.   A deep yearning to return to the peace and innocence of childhood almost knocks her off her feet, knuckles white around the heavy chain as she strains against the urge to reach out and Touch it.  Losing herself in visions of the past now would be a death sentence without someone to watch over her.

  Swallowing thickly, she tears her eyes away from the painting and forces them to scan the room properly.  To the right there’s what seems to be a large window, though any view of the glass itself is obscured by the sheer white linen curtains swaying in the gentle breeze.  There’s a light layer of dust present on the surface of the bedside tables, evidence of the rooms lack of use over the past weeks.  Where had Mrs. Roland been sleeping, if not here?   Even in the dark she can see how perfectly the bed is made, each layer tucked and folded neatly to rival any upper class hotel.   Something is wrong.  She can feel it.  There’s something obvious right in front of her, a voice in her head screeches at her to figure it out before she gets herself killed.  If she wasn’t still reeling from the strength of the psychic imprint on that painting she would have already realised there should be no breeze present to disturb the curtains, no matter how light the material.

  She turns to inspect the left side of the room but in the process a flash of white in her peripheral vision has her blood running cold.  Time seems to slow around her as a series of unfortunate events occur in particularly rapid succession.   First, her eyes lock onto the shards of glass scattered across the white carpet in front of the window.  Then, her heart leaps into her throat as she realises the light they’re reflecting is coming from behind her.  Finally, she whips around to find a shapeless white shimmer in the air only inches from her face.

  In a split second she rushes through a mental checklist; no overwhelming malaise, no ectoplasm stains around the house, no ghost-fog, below freezing temperatures, delayed apparition.  The sudden flare up of bright other-light is the final piece of the puzzle.  A Changer.  Not the best possible option, but she’d take it over some of the alternatives any day.  At least she could drop a few of her mental walls to focus on physically evading the thing.

  …Strike one.

  Feeling at least partially in control of the situation again, she leaps towards the bed, tucking into herself to roll across the softness before springing to her feet on the other side.   The previously flawless bedding holds an imprint from her impact and subsequent dismount, but that’s not what she finds herself frozen staring at.  Technically she isn’t actually staring at anything, more at the absence of it.  When she tried to look back at the new shape of the Changer, she found the room completely empty.     Shit.

  If it had been a weak apparition, and that flare was it deciding it was better off without a corporeal form, then-- squeezing her eyes shut, she breathes deeply as she tries desperately to get a handle on her panic and replace the psychic defences she’d oh so foolishly abandoned.   It’s too late.  An ear piercing shriek erupts through the space, echoing off of every wall to create a cacophony of noise she only realises she’s adding to when her throat starts aching in protest of the violent treatment.  A bloody Screaming Spirit.  This is a problem - no pun intended.   A cold ache permeates her body, she can feel herself becoming more sluggish with every passing second.  If she could just lay down, cover her head with one of Mrs. Roland’s goose down pillows, surely that would block out enough noise to let her rest?

  That might have been the end of her, succumbing to ghost-lock alone in a house straight out of Home & Garden, if the front door hadn’t slammed open loud enough to wake the dead.  Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she gathers her wits and sprints from the room.  It’s not until both feet are on the hardwood in the hallway that she notices she’s dropped the chains and is now completely unarmed.  Not the end of the world, but still not ideal.   Apparently having neglected to learn from her previous mistakes, she’s distracted enough to lose her footing and slip on the runner.  

  Strike two.

  As she slides into the living room, arms pinwheeling in an undignified manner in an attempt to stay upright, a part of her can’t help but wonder if this is revenge for mentally calling it tacky.  Regaining her balance just in time, she pivots on her heel, intending to make a beeline straight into the kitchen and out of the house to buy enough time to come up with a proper plan.  She makes it three steps into the kitchen before being stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Sorry it took me so long, darling.  Traffic was atrocious.”  An infuriatingly calm voice says behind her, making the slender arm wrapping around her waist a split second later only slightly less alarming.  He pulls her back firmly against him, his warmth enveloping her.  She curses her traitorous body for immediately relaxing into his chest.     Any verbal response she might have had to The World’s Worst Boss™ invading her personal space is cut short as he releases his hold and manoeuvres her to safety behind him, the singing of metal on metal filling the air as he draws his rapier.  

  “Anthony John Lockwood, you fucking asshole!  The sun set half an hour ago!”  She seethes, smacking the back of his shoulder to emphasise every word in an attempt to vent some of her frustration before she implodes.  He huffs an absent laugh at her theatrics, still scanning the sunny sitting room for any sign of something chasing her.

  “Any idea what kind of Visitor we’re dealing with?  Or what the Source could be?”   She gapes at him unabashedly, honestly attempting to drill holes in the back of his head with her eyes.  Was he really going to ignore her after subjecting her to this nightmare of an evening?  Lockwood looks back over his shoulder, flinching at whatever he finds in her eyes.

  “Y’know what?  Figure it out yourself.  You would have had to if you’d been a minute later anyway.”  She barely recognises her own voice without the warmth it usually carries when she speaks to him.

  “What do you mean?  What happened?”  

  It’s his genuine concern that throws her off first, second is the way he promptly turns to face her.  Her breath catches in her throat as she’s met with the undeniable fact of their proximity, face to face.  Well, face to chest, really.   He’s looking her up and down carefully for any sign of injury, a frown painted across his face as his hands hover between them, trembling gently but making no move to touch her.  

  Upon joining Lockwood & Co., she’d figured out rather quickly that he had some kind of touch aversion.  When she’d accidentally touch his hand or brush past him in Portland Row’s narrow entryway, he would jerk away from her like he’d been stung, stumbling over his words and staring at the ground before making a quick escape.  Lucy and George seemed to be safe for him by now, which made sense considering he’d known them so much longer, so she swore to herself she’d respect his space and give him whatever time he needed to open up to her.     It had been better in recent months, as long as he knew to expect contact he could stay calm.

  A shrill scream echoes across the house, jarring her from her thoughts.  She winces in pain at the sudden noise, tucking her hands beneath her hair to cover her ears.  Lockwood covers the minimal distance between them in an instant, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest to shield her the best he can from the sound.     As quickly as it started, the screaming stopped.  His arms loosen around her, allowing her enough room to pull her palms away from aching ears.  

  “You okay?”  His voice sounds farther away than it should.  

  She doesn’t have much time to worry about that though, not when his face is suddenly so close to her own.  Dark eyes find hers in the lamp light, worry overflowing within them.  Her thoughts run wild with images of closing the distance between them, each and every one making it harder to breathe.     Needing a second to compose herself, and entirely refusing to trust her tongue not to betray her, she raises her hands at him in an attempt at a placating gesture and tries to take a step back.

  His eyes sharpen, grabbing her by the wrists as she moves to lower her hands.  The movement startles her, instinct taking over as she tries in vain to pull away.  Tightening his grip, he uses his hold on her to guide her closer to the lamp.  As soon as they’re near enough the light that she can properly see every detail of his face, he releases her.  She opens her mouth to ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing manhandling her like that, but clamps it shut when he reaches for her face.

  His skin is soft against her own as he grabs her gently by the chin, she thinks she might pass out.  He slowly turns her head so the light is on her right, then uses his other hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she swears to god she’s going to combust.  Breathing is a distant memory when she feels his thumb swipe gently across the skin connecting her throat to her jaw, just below her ear.  But when he looks at her, his gaze is serious.  He retreats suddenly and she’s certain he’s taken part of her heart with him.   Then he shows her the blood on his hand, and her stomach drops.  She looks down at her own hands, finding more blood smeared across her right palm.  The side closest to the painting.  

  At least there really isn’t any doubt about what the Source is.

  “Now will you tell me about it?”  It might be fairly obvious the humour in his tone isn’t entirely sincere, but she laughs nonetheless.  Grateful for something to tether her back to reality, and for his own form of reassurance, she decides then that she won’t give him hell for dragging her around.   There’s still an edge to him, something sharp just behind the eyes that she’d never seen from him before - it dawns on her.  He’s angry, and not just a little.  

  For reasons unknown to her, the words come tumbling from her lips as if they can’t get out fast enough.

  “Through the living room, down the hallway - mind the runner, it’s slippery - the primary haunting is in the bedroom.  Husband’s name was Harold Roland.  There’s a painting on the left wall, initialed ‘H.R.’, psychic imprint like I’ve never seen.  Twenty quid says that’s the Source,”  She pauses, wracking her brain to ensure she hadn’t forgotten any vital information, “Oh!  And it’s probably obvious by now, but it’s definitely a Screaming Spirit.”

  When he doesn’t reply, she looks back up at him.  She finds him already looking at her, an expression akin to a proud smirk gracing his features.  He opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates.

  “Your rapier is on the table.”  It obviously isn’t what he first wanted to say, but right now all she can bring herself to care about is the promise of not being so damn helpless anymore.

  The unassuming cloth bag makes her giddy with excitement, but it’s expectedly short lived.  A bright other-light erupts in the other room, almost blinding them.  Lockwood recovers quickly, his blade whistling through the air as it cuts through the centre mass of the plasm figure throwing itself at him.   She quickly frees her own blade, barely sparing it a glance.  It feels lighter than she’s used to, which shouldn’t be possible considering she’d ordered the precise model she’d had previously, but that’s a problem for later.  The first order of business is trying to concoct a plan to get past the ghastly form of Mr. Roland without losing their hearing, or their lives.

  Striding back across the tile to stand behind him, she flicks her gaze around the room, her head moving restlessly while she tries to piece the loose ideas rattling around in her head into an actual plan.  If she had a salt bomb, maybe she could…     One metaphorical lightbulb moment later and she’s grinning as the final piece falls into place, sliding her rapier into its sheath on her belt.  She might have felt a little guilty about this if she hadn’t still been so bloody pissed at him, but as they stood now; any plan that involved getting the job done and short circuiting her boss at the same time was an excellent plan.  

  Leaning forward and pressing her chest against Lockwood’s back is the only way to get close enough to reach the first step of her plan, but she can’t help but feel a touch of vindictive pleasure at the way he goes rigid in response to her.     Sliding her palms down his sides, over his hips, and slipping her hands under his coat, she retrieves the salt bomb he always keeps in a hidden pocket behind his back.

  She’d learned this fun fact only a few months into her employment under him, having discovered it in a bonafide witch hunt for whichever irresponsible dunce kept leaving salt bombs in their laundry and ruining her favourite clothes.  Apparently he’d found himself without his kit in enough life threatening instances to always carry a backup plan.

  “Follow my lead.”  She says, not waiting for him to reply before stepping back and hurling the bundle of mineral and cloth over his shoulder.   The apparition wails and recoils as it explodes in its face, giving her an opportunity to slip past her colleague and make a break for the silver shimmer under the obnoxious loveseat before Mr. Roland could return to his murderous state.  Dropping to the ground and rolling to shove her arm as far under the settee as possible, she hooks a finger through the silver net, launching herself upright and letting it trail behind her as she sprints down the hallway.  She’s so focused on not wiping out on the carpet runner again, she almost misses Lockwood’s warning.

  “DUCK!”  There’s a sobering panic in his voice as he bellows from behind her.  Every warning bell in her head goes off at once and she barely has time to register the ghostly arm reaching for her through the wall before she’s diving into a tight roll underneath it.  

  The muscles in her legs ache with protest at the speed with which she springs back to her feet and skids through the doorway onto the carpet.  She tears the painting off of the wall and throws it to the floor before freezing, suddenly aware of her empty hands.  

  A quick glance confirms the net’s position on the floor in the hallway where it had been dropped in her evasion of the Visitor’s touch.  

  Well shit. 

  Three strikes, you’re out.

She doesn’t even have time to unsheath her rapier before Mr. Roland appears before her and shrieks at her.  The kinetic force of the psychic blast throws her back, directly into the solid wooden bed frame.  There’s a sickening thud as her head makes contact.  

  Nausea floods her body immediately, followed closely by the pain; her back aches from the impact, but she can’t move from the warped position her body had landed in.  With the shrill whistle heralding the arrival of blood rushing in her ears, the vibrations and flickering lights she’s assuming are related to Lockwood, and the horrifying sensation of the room pitching and reeling like a ship in a storm, the whole experience feels like some kind of twisted carnival ride.     Time begins behaving strangely, as does her memory.  Has it been ten seconds, or ten minutes?  Why is her body so angry with her?   A blanket of numbness creeps over her aches, pains, and anxieties, allowing her to become too aware of the sickening dizziness.

  At first she thinks it’s the whistling in her ears that’s beginning to fade, but no such luck.  Instead, it’s her awareness as a whole, dropping bit by bit until there’s just…

  Nothing.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔫𝔢 -In which Lockwood is late, and Reader ends up face to screaming face with the consequences - 4.08k

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔴𝔬 -In which Anthony Lockwood makes it through a late and relaxed morning, a leisurely afternoon well suited to reminiscing, and the earliest part of a normal evening before his luck runs out - 5.17k

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢 -In which Anthony Lockwood is not comfortable being left alone with his thoughts, and Reader takes a long nap - 4.17k

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔯 -In which Lockwood wants Reader to go to the hospital. Reader does not want to go to the hospital. A mysterious visitor arrives... - 2.66k

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔦𝔳𝔢 -In which Lockwood is horrible at keeping promises, Reader's week just keeps getting worse, and not everything is as it seems. - 3.63k

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔦𝔵 -In which Lockwood wakes up, and the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place. - 3.21k

  The sun has only just begun its descent towards the horizon, but the chill on the wind already cuts to the bone.  In spite of the numerous layers of suit and coat, it bites into Anthony’s flesh.

 “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” a woman calls out to him, loud enough to be heard over the chorus of cafe patrons hiding from the cold behind steaming cups of tea and coffee.

  “I think I’d be better off not doing anything you would do, Luce,” he shoots a wink at her over his shoulder, holding the door open with his elbow to shoot a two-fingered salute at the ginger woman beside her laughing unabashedly at their playful bickering.

  Lucy mutters a retort under her breath, a particularly colourful string of insults if the swat on the arm it earns from her girlfriend is anything to go by.  

  The door swings shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the sound of Norrie chastising her partner about ‘publicly decent language’ and leaving him with a pep in his step as he wanders towards Regent Street in the general direction of his favourite rapier shop.  

  Something about afternoon tea with his best friend and her girlfriend always leaves him feeling reminiscent, the water-colour splashes in soft shades of orange across the horizon only serve to heighten the feeling.  His short walk to Mullet and Sons allows him some time to indulge.

  A lot had changed in the six years since Lucy had joined himself and George at Lockwood & Co..  For one, they’d gained quite the reputation.  Fittes and Rotwell were still most people’s first choice, but now you’d be more likely to hear their little agency recommended than Bunchurch or Tendy’s.   He’ll admit, initially it seemed as though they were going to become infamous rather than renowned; between the disaster at Sheen Road, the disaster at Combe Carey, the disaster at–

  Well, you get the point.  It hadn’t looked promising.

  Their luck had begun to change with the case of the Bone Glass, then eventually Aickmere’s, but it hadn’t felt like nearly enough.   Those days had been filled with anxiety.   Worst of all was the fear of his Talent fading, the uncertainty of what his life would look like without the thing he’d based every choice he’d ever made on.  How was he supposed to survive in a world in which he couldn’t See?  He’d been terrified of running out of time to achieve his dreams, petrified he would fail his family by never achieving anything worthy of their name.  It was safe to say he hadn’t been in the best headspace.

  The fear almost overwhelmed him as time rushed on towards his eighteenth birthday, made all the more unignorable by his experience watching Quill Kipps lose his own Sight.  And while they’d found a solution for the retired Fittes agent in the form of Fairfax’s Ghost-Vision goggles, there was no replacement for the real thing.

  And then the daunting milestone had come and gone with no discernible difference.

  George was the next oldest.   Over the course of that year his Talent faded slowly, then all at once.  He hadn’t minded overmuch, the library had become preferable to being in the field somewhere around their fifth arson-related-incident.  In his defence, Mrs. Manfield flying across her lawn like a bat out of hell screaming about her antique doily collection being smoke-stained would have been enough to traumatise anyone.

  The following year had gone quite flawlessly, if he did say so himself.  With George as their dedicated researcher, and Lucy and Anthony’s competitive spirits driving them to never fall behind each other in skill, they were capable of taking on a significantly larger number of cases.  If they needed additional hands in the field for any particularly challenging jobs they’d enlist either George or Kipps with the aid of the goggles.

  But by her nineteenth birthday, Lucy actually seemed upset that her Talent refused to fade.  The boys had been confused by this at first, and while Lockwood had the sense to leave it alone, George had continued to question her.  They’d found out the full story of how she’d come to be an agent when she’d finally broken down.     She’d never chosen this life, and even though she loved her time with Lockwood & Co., she’d always been comforted by the notion that this life of fighting and fear had an expiration date.  In contrast to his own relief and excitement at the prospect of never losing his Talent, she felt nothing but trepidation.  George was watery eyed by the end of her confession, his lips pressed tightly into a thin line to prevent them trembling.   Anthony felt like he might be sick.   By the light of the numerous mismatched candles on Lucy’s lopsided birthday cake, they made a pact to pretend as though her Talent was fading, and phase her out of the agency within a year's time.

  A few short months later, the first headline popped up in a small gossip rag. It wasn’t even one of his top five.  Someone had taken notice of his remaining Sight at his advanced age, but hadn’t yet noticed their attempts to fake Lucy’s waning Listening.

  In the days after the first article's publication, the obnoxiously loud business phone began ringing more often.   Then, another article in a larger paper.  Followed by another, then several more.

  Anthony had to restrain George from ripping the phone’s cord out of the wall after one too many interrupted naps.  The researcher moved in with Flo not long after, but still kept his room mostly furnished for the evenings he worked far too late to make it to their flat safely.

  By the time their story had been told often enough for the media to lose interest, they had gone from having enough cases to keep them busy to too many to keep up with in what had to be some kind of record time.   In light of the extra attention they had considered hiring another agent, but their options were slim and the thought of bringing in a child to fight their battles was surprisingly difficult to stomach.  Anthony made a mental note to apologise to Barnes after that realisation, gaining some perspective on the man who’d tried so desperately to keep them away from the front lines.

  Time felt more like an undefeatable foe in the six months that followed than it had at any previous point in his life.  How was he supposed to keep taking on cases without anyone to watch his back in the field?  Would he end up alone in this bloody house yet again?   Despite the thoughts that haunted his darker moments, he knew he would let Lucy leave without any fuss.  Even in the last weeks of her employment he knew he could never be selfish enough to ask her to stay.   Though, had he known–

  A street sign reading ‘Half Moon Lane’ interrupts him from his stroll down memory lane, heralding the end of his journey.   The old building slumps under the weight of time.  Even the paint on the window is chipped, almost removing the ‘Sons’ in Mullet and Sons.   Although the storefront's outward appearance borders on decrepit, they have undeniably the highest quality rapier’s in London.  The hinges shriek as he pushes the door open, alerting the proprietor to the presence of a customer.

  “Ah, Mr. Lockwood!  A pleasure, as always.  How can I help you, my boy?” emerging from the back room, the white haired old man beams upon recognising him.  

  “Mr. Mullet, please, the pleasure is mine!  I believe one of my agents placed an order with you recently?  I’m here to pick up for her.”  

  After confirming her name and the details of the order, the old man teeters his way back into the room he’d just come from.  When he emerges again, he does so with empty hands and a deep frown upon his face.  

  “It appears one of my sons has caused a touch of a mixup and sent your employee’s rapier home with another agent.  I can place another order with our supplier, but I’m afraid it won’t arrive until the end of the month,” his tone is apologetic, but Anthony still has to fight the urge to groan in frustration.  

  “Mistakes happen, Mr. Mullet.  We’re only human after all,” thankfully, he’s had plenty of practice schooling his tone over the years, “that being said… we’ve made commitments for this evening.  I can’t very well ask one of my agents to walk into a haunted house unarmed.”

  “Of course, I understand completely.  Since you’ve been doing business with us for so long, I’m willing to offer a percentage off of any of our in stock models as a token of our apology.”  

  It’s a gracious offer, one Anthony is happy to accept.  He defers to the expertise of the older man, allowing him to lead them from option to option within the dimly lit store.  

  Trying to choose such an essential tool for her without her input is a surprisingly daunting task, and he finds himself quickly overwhelmed.   Searching for something to distract him until he can ground himself properly, he lets his eyes wander freely over the different kinds of metal glittering from mahogany shelves before they fix on a single standing display across the room.  Driven by curiosity, he approaches the case to inspect its contents.  What he finds nearly steals the breath from his lungs.    Laying on a scarlet velvet cushion is the most beautiful rapier he’s ever laid eyes on.  It has a fine silver blade, connected to an intricate swept hilt inlaid with gold leaves that wind around the counterguards and down the central ridge.  When his eyes travel to the pommel and find her birth stone caged within golden vines, he begins mental preparations to re-mortgage the house.   Thankfully, when Mr. Mullet wanders over to find him staring transfixed at the weapon, he gives him a knowing smile and cuts the younger man a deal he almost feels guilty accepting.  

  When he departs the shop, rapier tucked safely into a cloth wrap, the sun is dangerously close to the horizon.

  Uttering a quiet prayer to the powers-that-be, he scans the area for a payphone.  Luck is on his side today and he finds one rather quickly, tucked into a nook beside a cafe a few shops down.   As he makes a beeline for it with purpose, he comes aware of the hairs on the back of his neck standing slowly to attention.  At first it’s easy to brush it off as a result of the temperature, but the closer he gets to the booth the more the sensation builds.  It feels like someone’s watching him.   Stepping into the silver-glass encased rectangle, he lifts the phone from the receiver before pausing.  Thinking quickly, he puts on his best thoughtful expression, pretending to have forgotten the number he needs to call as an excuse to let his eyes wander his surroundings.  The droning of the phone waiting for input makes the entire situation feel even more unnerving.  

  Nothing glaringly obvious jumps out at him; no nefarious stalker in a trench coat peers at him from some dark alley, no one stares at him over the top of an upside-down newspaper.  All his eyes can find is folks hurrying into their vehicles before the threat of darkness grows, shop workers locking their doors and flicking off their lights.

  Scoffing at himself for allowing his paranoia to get the best of him, he dials a night cab.  Though he’s quite certain he’d imagined the threat, he still refrains from mentioning his destination out loud.  He hadn’t made it as far as he had by throwing all caution to the wind.  Just… most of it.  Before he can waste too much time chastising himself any further, he slams the phone back into place and turns with purpose to wait for his ride in the safety of the cafe.  

  Honestly, it’s a good thing he’s so dramatic.  If he hadn’t insisted on doing the most theatrical spin, complete with the billowing of his coat as he exited the box, he wouldn’t have startled the man watching him from behind the corner of a nearby bookstore.     The balding head disappears as the body it’s attached to ducks behind the brick wall.  Anthony has several options, but very few of them are good.  He quickly decides his best course of action is to pretend to be unaware of the man’s presence, electing to continue on to grab himself a tea whilst he plans his next move.

  Watching the brilliant orange and scarlet glow of sunset, Anthony finds himself observing the comings and goings of vehicles outside the shop window.  There’s an unusual amount of traffic for this time of day.  He’d expect to see a large number flocking to their homes, seeking safety from the threats that come with darkness.  But to see even two or three vehicles stop to park alongside the road this time of night was unusual.

  The arrival of his cab shakes him from that train of thought, jumping the tracks straight to figuring out how to make it to Mrs. Roland’s house in decent time without being followed.  He hadn’t seen another sign of the man since, but he’s not convinced the danger has actually passed.  With a huff, he draws himself out of the comfortable chair.   The cold air is no more forgiving now than it had been before.  Allowing the warmth of the night cab to envelop him, he instructs the driver to begin a complex route to their destination in the hopes of losing those tailing him.  

  The sky is pitch black by the time they arrive, but his efforts seem to have been successful.  While he’d thought for a moment one of the cars that started up as he’d exited the cafe might have been following them at first, there’s no sign now of anyone suspicious following behind.

  Stepping out of the cab onto the curb, he takes a deep breath and tries to sort his thoughts before he dares to step foot into the house.  Why, precisely, would somebody have him under observation?  For once in his life, he can’t think of anyone who would have reason to.     Pulling up the sleeve of his coat to check the watch on his wrist, he curses under his breath at the time.  There’s going to be a lot of grovelling in his very near future.  It’s nearly thirty minutes past six.  She’s going to kill him, and he can’t even fault her for it.

  He’s about to rush into the house when a set of headlights comes into view at the top of the street, nearly blinding him before cutting to blackness at the sight of his silhouette.  

  Bloody hell, that is the final straw.  He’d done quite a fine job feigning ignorance until this point, but he has to draw the line at this level of obviously shady behaviour.  If they’re this incompetent he can get to the bottom of the matter without the need for secrecy or strategy.    He straightens to his full height, setting his jaw and turning to walk with confidence towards the sleek black car now parked roughly a hundred feet ahead of him.

  The sound of glass shattering fills the quiet night air before he can make it more than halfway, stopping him dead in his tracks as he listens for any further sign of danger.  Usually, the thought of his associate in any form of peril is more than enough to send him spiralling into an – admittedly unnecessary – protective frenzy.  However, considering all elements of the present situation, he finds himself torn.  Their interview with Mrs. Roland prior to the acceptance of the case had left them both confident the Visitor is a Type One, which she’s more than capable of handling herself, and if he doesn’t chase this lead down now–  

  An unholy shriek echoes down the street, sending chills down his spine.

  Sketchy stalker-mobile be damned.

  He turns on a dime, long legs carrying him across the lawn as if chasing his own shadow as the headlights behind him reignite and light his path.  The golden beams veer away, the car pulling a sharp u-turn to flee the scene.  If he wasn’t so worried, he’d probably be frustrated.   He almost can’t stop fast enough to prevent himself from running face-first into the door when the handle refuses to turn.  Swearing loudly, he jiggles it again to ensure it isn’t just stiff before he risks causing property damage.  The screaming is making it hard to think, but he can’t quite put his finger on what about it is making him feel so unnerved.  When it finally hits him, property damage is the least of his concerns.  Barely audible beneath the unnaturally shrill sound, her scream is hoarse and pained.

  He takes a full stride back, rocking his weight back on his left leg and lifting his right.  His foot hits its mark directly beside the lock, the full weight of his panic-aided-strength sending it flying open.  He can’t help but wince at the crunch of drywall, likely from the knob on the far side embedding itself in the wall, but he doesn’t waste any further time on it before striding into the house.   Dead ahead, an electric lantern sitting on the kitchen counter bounces light off of the shining tiles covering the majority of the space.  To his left is a small dining room with only a mid-sized table, four chairs, and a plethora of obnoxiously colourful paintings on the walls.  Deciding having both hands free will be more conducive to survival, he dumps the cloth bag containing her new rapier on the table and rushes towards the commotion.

  Between his relief at seeing her unharmed and the sheer comedic value of the expression on her face as she slides around the corner with arms flailing, he almost bursts into hysterical laughter.  Thankfully, his self preservation instinct is strong enough to encourage him to duck behind the wall while he gets himself under control.   Under normal circumstances he would let her exit the house rather than practically jumping out at her, but he can’t be sure there isn’t someone still waiting outside.  And as a small bonus, if she’s already mentally signing his death certificate, he can’t make it any worse by making an entrance.  He feels a grin spread across his features despite a valiant effort not to enjoy this too much.

  “Sorry it took me so long, darling.  Traffic was atrocious,” he has to bend to wrap an arm around her middle, but that doesn’t stop him.   Instead of lashing out or screaming again, she catches him off guard by completely relaxing into his hold.  A spark of protectiveness flares beneath his breast as the back of her head falls to rest on his collarbone and she lets out a shaking breath.  In stark contrast to her usually unflappable nature, she trembles like a leaf.  There’s no way a simple Type One put her in this state.

  It takes all of his willpower to peel his arm from her waist, to offer her the only shield he can by tucking her safely behind him.  He takes a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling slowly through pursed lips and drawing his rapier.  It’s not enough to eliminate the intoxicating effect of her proximity, but it dampens it enough he can think clearer.

    “Anthony John Lockwood, you fucking asshole!  The sun set half an hour ago!” the rage in her tone fills him with relief, not even the impact of the flat of her hands against his back can take away from it.  He’d obviously prefer if she were calm, but he’ll take anger over despair any day.

  “Any idea what kind of Visitor we’re dealing with?  Or what the Source could be?” he breezes past her outburst, not having to look over his shoulder to know if looks could kill he’d be dead on his feet.  

  He knew this routine like the back of his hand.  She’d be angry at first, call him every name in the book, and then they’d move past it and get the job done.

 Except there’s no scoff, no retort, no rapid fire insults, no reply of any kind.  The silence is deafening.  Taking back every scathing remark he’s ever made about Orpheus’ lack of restraint, he caves to the impulse and glances over his shoulder.   He’d been right about the look, at least.  The incredulous fury painted across her face might have been comical in another place, on another day.  But there, just beneath the surface, was something he hadn’t expected to find; betrayal.

  Shit.  He’s really fucked up this time.

  “Y’know what?  Figure it out yourself,” the venom dripping from her tone feels like knives in his chest, “you would have had to if you’d been a minute later anyways.”   Time comes shuddering to a halt.  His pulse is deafening as it thunders in his ears.  If he’d put her life in legitimate danger – regardless of the circumstances – he’d never forgive himself.

  “What do you mean?  What happened?” he manages to choke around the lump in his throat that feels suspiciously like his heart, turning to face her fully and reassure himself by searching every visible inch of her for any sign of injury.  The urge to reach out and touch her, to feel her body beneath his hands and know for sure she isn’t being stubborn enough to hide some kind of fatal wound from him, is so strong his fingers burn.

  After a few incidents involving him turning into a lovesick moron at the slightest touch from her early on in her employment, she’d gone to great lengths to avoid any form of contact with him.  He’d come to terms with this, resigning himself to the idea of a life spent admiring her from arms length.  So while she hadn’t seemed too opposed to having him in her personal space tonight, he had no intentions of pushing any farther and making her uncomfortable.

  That was the plan, at least.  But when screaming pierces the air once more, the colour drains from her face, and he watches her cave in on herself in an attempt to hide; he feels like this counts as extenuating circumstances.     He takes a single large step forward, arms reaching towards her in unison.  Her hands are over her ears, head tucked into her chest, elbows tight to her ribs.  He allows his upper body to curl at the edges and cage her against him, hugging her head to his chest to muffle the noise.

  Then, it stops.  It’s hard to decide if the ghostly howling or ensuing silence is louder.  

  “You okay?” he murmurs the question, reluctantly releasing her to rest his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to try to catch her gaze in the low light.   There’s merely inches between their faces when her unfocused eyes finally lock with his own.  It’s hard to breathe without acknowledging they’re breathing the same air, but he files that thought away for later.  He concentrates instead on tracing every one of her features with his gaze, every tensed muscle and line that may offer him some insight into her condition.   She squeezes her eyes shut, blinking like she’s just woken up.  When she finally focuses on him, her pupils blow wide as dinner plates.  Her lips part, her small gasp the only disturbance in the air as he involuntarily holds his breath.  

  A sharp stab of heartbreak courses through him as she steps back abruptly, raising her palms in surrender.  His poor heart stops dead for the umpteenth time today when he spots the dark spot on her hand.  She tries to drop her arms, to move to put more distance between them, but his sense of urgency outweighs his better judgement as he grasps her tightly by the wrist.  The chill of her skin beneath his does nothing to assuage his concerns as he pulls her across the kitchen to the light, ignorant to her protests through the haze of his anxiety.   Their proximity to the light confirms his fear, and the crimson red of fresh blood staining her skin has his stomach rebelling against him.  As soon as he drops her wrist she pulls it away and clutches it to her body, glaring daggers at him.    He makes a mental note to beg for her forgiveness later, reaching for her face and watching shades of red begin to decorate her flesh as she reaches new levels of infuriation.  Her skin is sinfully soft beneath the fingers that turn her towards the light and brush against her cheek, tucking the hair behind her ear to give him a better view.     A cold blanket of righteous fury settles over him at the sight of the narrow crimson river running sluggishly down her neck, using his thumb to swipe it away.  Murderous thoughts fill his head at the sight of the stain left in its wake, doubling in intensity at her expression when he shows her the smear of red highlighted by its contrast against his pale skin.

  “Now will you tell me about it?” any attempt at a playful tone is harshly undercut by the tremor of rage in his voice, but she still laughs with less nerves than he’d expected.  

  She studies him closely, but he stares right back, too focused on making the bloody thing pay for hurting her to be self-conscious under her scrutinous gaze.  After a short minute of this, understanding blossoms across her face.  

  “Through the living room, down the hallway - mind the runner, it’s slippery - the primary haunting is in the bedroom.  Husband’s name was Harold Roland.  There’s a painting on the left wall, initialed ‘H.R.’, psychic imprint like I’ve never seen.  Twenty quid says that’s the Source,”  she pauses, lost in thought with her eyes fixed on the ground, “Oh!  And it’s probably obvious by now, but it’s definitely a Screaming Spirit.”

  He can feel the corners of his lips quirking up as she drops the stubborn attitude.

  ‘Good girl,’ he wants to say.

  “Your rapier is on the table,” he says instead, turning his back on her under the guise of watching the direction they’d heard the screaming from.  In reality, he’d just needed an excuse to hide his blush and re-centre himself.

  He’s so busy shaking the offending thoughts from his head and cursing himself out for allowing his mind to wander into unsafe territory that he’s completely blindsided by the burst of other-light lighting up the living room like a flash bang.  He’s still blinking the blind spots from his eyes when rapid movement in his peripherals alerts him to the potential danger.  The ringing of iron fills the air as he draws his rapier, muscle memory taking over despite his still spotty vision as he slices clean through the centre of the spectre mere inches from his face.

  Behind him, the sound of her drawing her own blade drains anxiety he wasn’t aware he’d been feeling.  As she takes her place beside him he admits to himself that nothing in this world feels more natural than having her at his side, trusting him to keep the Visitor at bay whilst he trusts her to strategize.

  Despite being the newest member of their agency, Anthony trusts her instincts more than even his own most of the time.   He’d figured out not long after she’d joined that she had a particular balance of empathy and intelligence - and a sixth sense he couldn’t really explain - that made her an asset in the field.  Of course he’d never been dense enough to phrase it like that to her face, not after sticking his foot in his mouth with Luce all those years ago.

  Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to tell him she’s finished piecing together a plan.  All he can do now is hope she’s feeling generous enough to let him in on it.

  The crisp clean sound of her new rapier sliding into its sheath suggests he might be out of luck.  He’s considering whether or not it’s worth asking her directly when his brain sputters, then stalls.   She steps back far enough he has no warning of her proximity until she presses herself completely against him, the surface area of her chest displacing against the back of his ribs in a way that leaves him feeling a little dizzy.  As much as he really, really enjoys her hands dancing along his sides and hips, he can’t help but question her truly terrible timing as he fights to keep his blade in the air to ward off their ‘friend’.

  “Follow my lead,” she says.  It takes a while to filter through the dial-up connection that is his mind at that moment.  He regains his composure just as she hurls the salt-bomb over his shoulder, realisation dawning on him in a flash similar to that of the silver fulminate as it collides with the ghost before him.  So that’s what she’d been up to.

  She’s off like a bullet the second the apparition dissipates, shooting past him and into the other  room.  In a rather impressive manoeuvre, she tucks and rolls to land on her side parallel to a horrifically sunny loveseat before shoving her arm beneath it as though searching for something.  Of all of the things he could possibly expect for her to retrieve, a silver-net was not one of them.  He adds that to the list of questions he has for her once they get this situation under control.

  She’s back on her face and hurdling across the house like a bat out of hell when Mr. Roland decides to make another appearance in the form of a pair of ghostly arms emerging from the white walls.  A stone drops in his gut when he realises there’s no way he can reach her before the grasping arms of the apparition wrap around her shoulders.

“DUCK!” he hollers, an iron taste filling his mouth.  She immediately dives for the floor and–

  He loses sight of her past the walls of the hallway.

  The pounding of his heart drowns out the noises that follow, his legs carrying him across the house on autopilot.  The cold air stings every inch of exposed skin as he closes the distance to the active haunting, but it’s not nearly as cold as the blood in his veins when he spots the telltale sparkle of silver on the rug outside the bedroom.     He ducks to grab the net and sweeps through the doorway just in time to watch her body fly across the room.

  Even the brutal screaming had paled in comparison to the sound of her head hitting the bed frame. 

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

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