#borrowed magic

The hall is lined with door after door, each with its placard: “Pathology,” “Specimen Storage,” “Laboratory.”  Voices clatter against the hush, coming from the partially open door of the lab. Inside three students in lab coats stand in front of a sealed in setup.

“You think we got it right?” one youngster asks.

“I know it’s not that hard-to-get the fungus spores,” is the dismissive answer from the second.

The third in the group is a young woman, “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this?”

“Oh, come on, it’s just an experiment. Professor Mayers is all for those.”

“This could go so wrong. And it’s illegal,” the woman again.

“Yeah, no joke. No one will trace it though. And they cut the funding. Again.”

“Still...”

Crowley shakes his head and mumbles, “Humans. Always learning—especially what they shouldn’t.”

With that he walks past the door, the female of the trio looking up startled.

He rounds a corner, toolbox still in hand, and stops in front of a placard reading “Rosewood Lecture Hall.” In smaller letters underneath it’s added: “In honour of Sir Sebastian Rosewood, whose vision forever shaped the future of British Medicine.” The toolbox clanks as it’s set on the floor. Crowley smirks at the gold lettering and knuckles the plaque twice. Shaking his head he smirks, “Funny, isn’t it? The worst monsters always get a memorial.” Then he wedges a slim flathead screwdriver under the plague’s polished edge. The screws loosen with a faint squeal. They come out with the wall plugs attached and he pockets them with practiced speed. White plaster dust floats to the floor for the four holes left in the brick wall. He slides the plaque into the toolbox and tilts his head towards the students down the hall.

The pair stand near the water fountain. The taller one nudges his friend and points at the empty patch of wall above the now-bare mounting screws. “Oh, did they finally pull it down?”

His friend, in a puffer jacket, sips from a bottle and shrugs. “Yeah, guess the backlash got to them—even Mayers is pretending it’s overdue. They say the guy ran a torture ward, not a hospital.”

The taller student’s nostrils flare. “So, who’s next up for sainthood? If they ask me, it ought to be someone who didn’t vivisect prisoners.”

Crowley picks up his toolbox, then offers, “I heard they’re putting it to a student vote. Can’t be worse than Rosewood.”

The smaller one nods, “Yep, about time we get a say. I have an idea or two myself.”

“Well then, you better get the ball rolling. Wouldn’t want anyone to steal your thunder.”

 He elbows his friend, “Let’s put it on the UNI-Net. I bet we’ll get a thousand hits till the first lecture.”

Crowley tips his head and heads down the hall, checking his watch.

While exiting the old wooden doors at the entrance he adjusts his glasses in the floodlights, “Let’s see how my old friend is getting on.”

A black cab drifts to a halt beside the burial ground’s metal railings. Aziraphale steps out, fussing with his black umbrella. Its wooden handle is carved like a chess piece. He pays the driver with exact change. Then he produces an arrangement of white lilies from the backseat. Unfolding the umbrella, he heads to the ugly iron gate under the dim light coming from a single lantern. When he presses the rusted iron handle down, it doesn’t budge. After a wave of his hand the gate whines on its hinges.

He enters, shoes pressing into gravel, and walks the overgrown aisle between lichen-choked stones. Rain beads on the lilies’ waxy petals where they stick out from under the umbrella. Running his eyes over the grounds he searches for a marker—any sign of remembrance. He finds a patch of raw earth. Nothing seems to want to grow there. Aziraphale kneels and arranges the lilies with delicate precision.

A shadow detaches from the wall of the caretaker’s hut. Jack Donovan approaches, his raincoat dark and wet at the cuffs. He halts three strides from Aziraphale and glances at the flowers.

“How lovely meeting you here. I was just checking in with my darlings. Bringing flowers for my whores?” he sneers at him.

Aziraphale puts two more flowers in their right place, before he gets to his feet. His voice is soft but with a steel edge beneath, “These women aren’t yours. They’ll never be.”

 “Everything here belongs to me. Even the dead know it,” is Jack’s mocking reply.

That gets him a head shake and another soft edged statement, “I know they have endured quite enough suffering, during their lifetimes. Not to mention in their deaths.”

Jack shrugs his shoulders, “You call it suffering. I call it leverage.”

Aziraphale doesn’t bother to answer this time. Then, behind the railings, Crowley appears. As he approaches, his boots hiss in the thin layer of snow. The frost steams away in a widening circle around him, leaving slick black earth showing through. He stalks up the gravel path, toolbox swinging in precise arcs. Besides Aziraphale he stops and sets down his toolbox with a rattle. Jack Donovan’s gaze flicks downward. A frown appears between his brows – a look of uncertainty crosses over his features. Then his eyes bore into Crowley’s. The men face each other across the lilies, shoulders squared.

Crowley bares his teeth. Steam rises from the ground under his boots. The surrounding snow hisses and recedes in a neat radius, exposing cold, black earth. He speaks in a low tone, “I call you a cockroach, Jack. And I’d suggest you scuttle before you get stamped out.”

Jack holds Crowley’s gaze for a moment. His pupils widen. He adjusts the collar of his raincoat and looks past Crowley at Aziraphale, then at the glistening lilies. Spitting on the ground he growls, “Pft, this place is nothing special. Have your fun with these whores gents.” He turns sharply and stalks back toward the gate. His footsteps leave shallow prints in the melting slush.

Aziraphale takes a look at his watch. Then he kneels to brush away the last of the old leaves from the raw earth. He straightens, umbrella balanced on his shoulder, hands clasped in front of him. While Crowley opens the toolbox, lifts out the plaque, and balances it on one palm. He looks sideways at Aziraphale, who stands motionless. His lips moving in a quiet prayer:

I see you, who were wronged by society.

You were denied justice, kindness and even a proper burial.

Your suffering was needless and not yours to endure.

You are not forgotten. I can’t give you justice. But I will remember you.

Go in peace. Be at rest.

Crowley steps forward, holds the plaque chest-high and speaks clearly: “You go on to hell.” He throws it down through the ground right as Aziraphale’s prayer ends.

The lamps around the burial ground flicker, then snuff out, leaving the cemetery in a blue-washed twilight. Wind rattles the iron gate and shakes loose a few withered berries from a nearby yew. The first flakes of snow drift down, gathering in Crowley’s hair and dusting the shoulders of Aziraphale’s coat.

Aziraphale bows his head, both hands folded atop the umbrella’s carved handle. His voice is audible in the hush, “No one mourned them properly. I suppose that falls to me now.”

Crowley closes the toolbox, “You’ve given them their peace.”

He approaches his friend from behind, rests a gloved hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and waits. Aziraphale straightens and looks at the lilies, then back at the patch of earth. He turns to Crowley, who gives a small, approving nod.

Crowley gestures toward the gate. Together they walk the graveled path, Crowley’s steps melting the thin crust of snow, Aziraphale’s umbrella tilted against the flurry. The gate shrieks on its hinges as Crowley opens it, and they step onto the pavement.

The Bentley’s lights come on and Crowley opens the passenger door, “Let’s pick up the witch and take a look at her work.”

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous · → Next (coming 21.04. around 7 pm CET)

I had to step away from Tumblr for about a week, so this update is a little later than planned—thank you for your patience 💛

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

The hall is lined with door after door, each with its placard: “Pathology,” “Specimen Storage,” “Laboratory.”  Voices clatter against the hush, coming from the partially open door of the lab. Inside three students in lab coats stand in front of a sealed in setup.

“You think we got it right?” one youngster asks.

“I know it’s not that hard-to-get the fungus spores,” is the dismissive answer from the second.

The third in the group is a young woman, “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this?”

“Oh, come on, it’s just an experiment. Professor Mayers is all for those.”

“This could go so wrong. And it’s illegal,” the woman again.

“Yeah, no joke. No one will trace it though. And they cut the funding. Again.”

“Still...”

Crowley shakes his head and mumbles, “Humans. Always learning—especially what they shouldn’t.”

With that he walks past the door, the female of the trio looking up startled.

He rounds a corner, toolbox still in hand, and stops in front of a placard reading “Rosewood Lecture Hall.” In smaller letters underneath it’s added: “In honour of Sir Sebastian Rosewood, whose vision forever shaped the future of British Medicine.” The toolbox clanks as it’s set on the floor. Crowley smirks at the gold lettering and knuckles the plaque twice. Shaking his head he smirks, “Funny, isn’t it? The worst monsters always get a memorial.” Then he wedges a slim flathead screwdriver under the plague’s polished edge. The screws loosen with a faint squeal. They come out with the wall plugs attached and he pockets them with practiced speed. White plaster dust floats to the floor for the four holes left in the brick wall. He slides the plaque into the toolbox and tilts his head towards the students down the hall.

The pair stand near the water fountain. The taller one nudges his friend and points at the empty patch of wall above the now-bare mounting screws. “Oh, did they finally pull it down?”

His friend, in a puffer jacket, sips from a bottle and shrugs. “Yeah, guess the backlash got to them—even Mayers is pretending it’s overdue. They say the guy ran a torture ward, not a hospital.”

The taller student’s nostrils flare. “So, who’s next up for sainthood? If they ask me, it ought to be someone who didn’t vivisect prisoners.”

Crowley picks up his toolbox, then offers, “I heard they’re putting it to a student vote. Can’t be worse than Rosewood.”

The smaller one nods, “Yep, about time we get a say. I have an idea or two myself.”

“Well then, you better get the ball rolling. Wouldn’t want anyone to steal your thunder.”

 He elbows his friend, “Let’s put it on the UNI-Net. I bet we’ll get a thousand hits till the first lecture.”

Crowley tips his head and heads down the hall, checking his watch.

While exiting the old wooden doors at the entrance he adjusts his glasses in the floodlights, “Let’s see how my old friend is getting on.”

A black cab drifts to a halt beside the burial ground’s metal railings. Aziraphale steps out, fussing with his black umbrella. Its wooden handle is carved like a chess piece. He pays the driver with exact change. Then he produces an arrangement of white lilies from the backseat. Unfolding the umbrella, he heads to the ugly iron gate under the dim light coming from a single lantern. When he presses the rusted iron handle down, it doesn’t budge. After a wave of his hand the gate whines on its hinges.

He enters, shoes pressing into gravel, and walks the overgrown aisle between lichen-choked stones. Rain beads on the lilies’ waxy petals where they stick out from under the umbrella. Running his eyes over the grounds he searches for a marker—any sign of remembrance. He finds a patch of raw earth. Nothing seems to want to grow there. Aziraphale kneels and arranges the lilies with delicate precision.

A shadow detaches from the wall of the caretaker’s hut. Jack Donovan approaches, his raincoat dark and wet at the cuffs. He halts three strides from Aziraphale and glances at the flowers.

“How lovely meeting you here. I was just checking in with my darlings. Bringing flowers for my whores?” he sneers at him.

Aziraphale puts two more flowers in their right place, before he gets to his feet. His voice is soft but with a steel edge beneath, “These women aren’t yours. They’ll never be.”

 “Everything here belongs to me. Even the dead know it,” is Jack’s mocking reply.

That gets him a head shake and another soft edged statement, “I know they have endured quite enough suffering, during their lifetimes. Not to mention in their deaths.”

Jack shrugs his shoulders, “You call it suffering. I call it leverage.”

Aziraphale doesn’t bother to answer this time. Then, behind the railings, Crowley appears. As he approaches, his boots hiss in the thin layer of snow. The frost steams away in a widening circle around him, leaving slick black earth showing through. He stalks up the gravel path, toolbox swinging in precise arcs. Besides Aziraphale he stops and sets down his toolbox with a rattle. Jack Donovan’s gaze flicks downward. A frown appears between his brows – a look of uncertainty crosses over his features. Then his eyes bore into Crowley’s. The men face each other across the lilies, shoulders squared.

Crowley bares his teeth. Steam rises from the ground under his boots. The surrounding snow hisses and recedes in a neat radius, exposing cold, black earth. He speaks in a low tone, “I call you a cockroach, Jack. And I’d suggest you scuttle before you get stamped out.”

Jack holds Crowley’s gaze for a moment. His pupils widen. He adjusts the collar of his raincoat and looks past Crowley at Aziraphale, then at the glistening lilies. Spitting on the ground he growls, “Pft, this place is nothing special. Have your fun with these whores gents.” He turns sharply and stalks back toward the gate. His footsteps leave shallow prints in the melting slush.

Aziraphale takes a look at his watch. Then he kneels to brush away the last of the old leaves from the raw earth. He straightens, umbrella balanced on his shoulder, hands clasped in front of him. While Crowley opens the toolbox, lifts out the plaque, and balances it on one palm. He looks sideways at Aziraphale, who stands motionless. His lips moving in a quiet prayer:

I see you, who were wronged by society.

You were denied justice, kindness and even a proper burial.

Your suffering was needless and not yours to endure.

You are not forgotten. I can’t give you justice. But I will remember you.

Go in peace. Be at rest.

Crowley steps forward, holds the plaque chest-high and speaks clearly: “You go on to hell.” He throws it down through the ground right as Aziraphale’s prayer ends.

The lamps around the burial ground flicker, then snuff out, leaving the cemetery in a blue-washed twilight. Wind rattles the iron gate and shakes loose a few withered berries from a nearby yew. The first flakes of snow drift down, gathering in Crowley’s hair and dusting the shoulders of Aziraphale’s coat.

Aziraphale bows his head, both hands folded atop the umbrella’s carved handle. His voice is audible in the hush, “No one mourned them properly. I suppose that falls to me now.”

Crowley closes the toolbox, “You’ve given them their peace.”

He approaches his friend from behind, rests a gloved hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and waits. Aziraphale straightens and looks at the lilies, then back at the patch of earth. He turns to Crowley, who gives a small, approving nod.

Crowley gestures toward the gate. Together they walk the graveled path, Crowley’s steps melting the thin crust of snow, Aziraphale’s umbrella tilted against the flurry. The gate shrieks on its hinges as Crowley opens it, and they step onto the pavement.

The Bentley’s lights come on and Crowley opens the passenger door, “Let’s pick up the witch and take a look at her work.”

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous · → Next

I had to step away from Tumblr for about a week, so this update is a little later than planned—thank you for your patience 💛

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Crowley just hums at that, long fingers tapping a rhythm on the vintage steering wheel.

“Jack’s a real bastard, Aziraphale. It’s not your fault. But what do we do now?” you try to get back on track. Sitting in the backseat, looking down at Henry.

The opening notes of “Bohemian Rhapsody” drift through the Bentley’s interior as it glides through midday London traffic, weaving between red double-deckers and black cabs with supernatural precision.

“We get lunch at Hachiro’s and then figure out how to take Jack’s powerbase out,” Crowley states calmly.

A fond smile appears on Aziraphale’s lips, “Hachiro’s? You’re spoiling me old friend.”

“Don’t worry I’ll let you pay for your expensive fish rolls.”

The words sink in slowly through your fog of hunger and lingering adrenaline. “Take his powerbase out? That’s impossible!” you burst out, voice bouncing off the Bentley’s pristine leather interior.

Crowley just shakes his head, “No, it’s not. You’ll see.”

Shaking your head, you decide to argue that point later. You’re hungry and still a little cold.

And that’s how Hachiro’s served the first drive through meal in its 50-year history. A thing you’d never thought possible. Aziraphale was apparently a very welcome guest there. Henry however...not so much. And since it was too cold to leave him in the Bentley—takeaway it was. Even if it hadn’t been as straightforward as that. It had in fact taken quite a long argument between Aziraphale, Crowley and a small Asian male in Japanese to find a solution to the “Henry problem”. You nearly got dizzy from all the bowing. But finally, they’re back, and the Bentley drives off towards the bookshop.

The Bentley glides to the curb on Whickber Street as the afternoon sun reflects in the shopfronts. It’s a picture of peace that feels surreal to you after this morning’s confrontation. Crowley is parallel-parking like a man with nothing to prove—soft and tidy. All the while Aziraphale clutches the sushi boxes to his chest as if the fate of the world depended on not dropping even a single grain of rice.

There is a blue “Closed” sign hanging in the shop’s window. Aziraphale unlocks the door and casts a look at it, but doesn’t turn it over. Inside, he makes a show of locking the door, dropping the sushi on the cluttered counter, and retreating into the stacks. Dust and must. The shop smelled of paper and leather. But today there was an overlay of wet asphalt and bitter smoke. So, you concentrate on Crowley’s cologne instead. A smell that curls around in a way that you find comforting.

Aziraphale returns and sets the table with plates and... chopsticks. You quietly make your way to the kitchen to get yourself a fork and a knife—pausing mid step to reconsider.

 “Uhg, Aziraphale? I’m not that familiar with chopsticks. Is it alright with you if I grab some real cutlery?”

“Real cutlery? I am certain you mean western cutlery—like a fork and a knife, Dear?”

“Yes?”

“I would absolutely gladly teach you how to use chopsticks properly. But it was a rather revealing morning, so go ahead with my blessing.”

You exhale at having avoided that pitfall, “Thank you!”

“Good to see you’re not sulking, old friend,” Crowley sounds almost relieved?

“Why would I? You know, I still think diplomacy is undervalued these days. People expect violence to solve everything, when it rarely solves anything.”

“Well, in all fairness—it occasionally does.”

“Occasionally...yes.”

The sushi dissolves on your tongue. It’s delicious and no doubt expensive. Hachiro’s didn’t have a reputation for being affordable. But the taste is worth every pound. And you didn’t have to pay for the treat. Talk about an umami deal. There’s a nudge on your leg—it’s Henry.

You laugh, “No Henry. No way. This is human food. There is fish in there—yes. But just... no.”

Aziraphale coughs, Crowley chuckles. Then he gets up and swiftly takes Henry back to his spot, informing him sternly, “You heard your witch. Besides you already had two mice today. If you behave, I’ll bring you a fish next time.”

“So, about our little Jack problem. He borrows magic from the city’s history. From its darkest, most painful places to be precise,” Crowley prompts, after you’ve finished your meal.

That description makes you shudder. No wonder you felt like he’s surrounded by something evil—for lack of a better term.

“This is a sacrilege! It has to be halted and prevented from happening again. Using London’s pains and grievances like a storehouse’s wares...” Aziraphale shakes his head.

“But how?” you barely get the question out, still wrapped in your memories.

“By finding the sites and cutting off his access,” Crowley states. As if it’s a matter of cutting of a stray thread on a piece of clothing.

“And how do we find these sites? He won’t have placed markers on them!” You’re tempted to slam your hands on the table in the face of Crowley’s calm confidence.

“No, but magic isn’t random. It follows rules—some stricter than others. For a continuous power flow he would need something,” Aziraphale explains in a soft voice.

“Any idea what that could be, Dear?”

You bite your lip and twiddle your fingers thinking the options through aloud, “An old object—he’d need to keep it on him”

A headshake from Crowley, “I would have sensed that.”

“Well, that leaves a real historic site. But he would have to visit it daily.”

“That seems highly impractical. Is there another possibility maybe?” Aziraphale prompts.

“A network...a sigil network. And it has to be rather small. Too much of a drain while it’s inactive otherwise.”

“Small.” He nods. “In witch magical terms that means a triangle. Centred around the garage possibly.” Aziraphale looks towards the stairs.

“I’ll get us a couple of historical maps. These should help us narrow it down further.”

Aziraphale returns with three rolls: parchment, onion-skin and glossy-finished A-Z of modern London. They land with a thud on the table you cleared. Together you smooth the brittle maps until the city’s veins and bones stare up at you.

Crowley, standing at your shoulder, leans in with his hands braced on either side of the table, like he’s steadying himself at the edge of a precipice. He’s more interested than he lets on, and you can feel the tension twist out of him in little bursts of static.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, tapping at a spot just south of Fleet Street, where the city’s old bones refuse to stay buried. “Under the old nunnery. There’s no official record, but in 1863 according to verbal reports there was a burial ground. Well, more of an unmarked grave. For society’s outcast women who died wasting away.”

“What you mean died wasting away?” you narrow your eyes at him.

“He’s saying they died from the complications of abortions. Their pregnancies were a dirty little secret, just like the old midwifes treating them and their deaths. All unsuitable for Victorian society. Amazing times,” it’s Crowley who elaborates.

You wished he hadn’t. After swallowing you admit, “Talk about pain, suffering and despair. Sounds like a perfect place for Jack Donovan to draw from.” You have to shake off the thoughts of these women. “How close is it to the garage?”

With a small pin, Aziraphale marks the garage. Then he measures the distance with a ruler and nods, “About a mile give or take a few meters.”

“So, within this radius we have to find two more fitting places.”

Crowley leans in, his glasses reflecting the faded city grid. “Start with hospitals, asylums, or prisons. Somewhere with blood. Pain. Ideally both.”

You scan the map. “That narrows it down to every fifth building—including the university.”

He taps the map, where the university sits, “Hm, they had a couple doctors made for hell. But they're feeding the worms now.” He’s rubbing his hands at that.

“But they could still be remembered there. With a plaque or something similar to honour their achievements—despite the horrors they committed. Do you recall their names?”

“Head of the bunch was a Sir Sebastian Rosewood.”

Pulling out your phone, you search for Sebastian Rosewood doctor university of London. It takes a bit of scrolling through the Wikipedia article about him, then, “Seriously...” you shake your head. “Aziraphale is right. There is a plaque at the Rosewood lecture hall in the university.”

“That’s two down. One to go. Told you this was easy.”

“I’m starting to hate this city,” you mutter in reply. Grateful Crowley spared you the details of what that doctor had done. The abandoned women still stuck with you. But how did he know they went to hell? Guess everybody has to believe in something—even if it is hell claiming the bad guys.

This time Aziraphale places two pins, one at the burial ground and one at the university. When he takes the ruler to pinpoint where the third site should be—he shivers visibly. His plump fingers trembling against the parchment. His eyes close.

Crowley steps into his space. “The bunker,” he whispers, voice like gravel. His thin lips press together into a bloodless line, and he lays a hand on Aziraphale’s tweed-covered arm, fingers splaying protectively.

“That bunker... all those people running for shelter... and we...”

“We were busy elsewhere that day, my friend,” Crowley murmurs. “Besides this was a completely unforeseen tragedy. Neither heaven nor hell had anything to do with it.”

“And yet hundreds lost their lives,” you hear Aziraphale’s voice tremble. This is too much. You retreat over to Henry running your hand over his warm, smooth scales.

In the dead of the cold night, you stare at the tarnished brass plate: 173 dead... but not forgotten. This should be a memorial—not a bleeding scar. And it would be after you’re done here. Your breath forms ghostly clouds as your lips press together. After this afternoon’s revelations you’re determined to stop this Jackass. You check your watch, still half an hour left to midnight, the witching hour. Time enough for the other two to get into place.

Crowley would take care of the plaque at the university—whatever that means. How he’ll slip past security guards and late-night students is beyond you. Universities rarely sleep.

The unmarked grave with its centuries of sorrow is in Aziraphale’s soft hands. He had mumbled something about it being about time the heavens did something for these poor women.

Synchronized action is the linchpin of your plan. If one site falls before the others, Jack would sense the magical disturbance like a spider feeling vibrations in its web. He’d have time to reroute the power, activate replacement sites or even intercept whoever lagged behind.

So, you settle against the cold brick wall to wait. Your fingers numb despite the gloves. You’re going over the steps to poison the well of his power in your head like a mantra. Quietly thanking Crowley for this little hidden knife in your plan. No one should use the dead to fuel their power.

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous · → Next (coming 05.04. around 7 pm CET)

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

You stop, palm flat against the plaque, the cool metal leeching what little warmth you have left. Your breath fogs before your lips, coiling upward in ghostly ribbons. You listen. Not for footsteps, not for the echo of security boots on tile, but for the deeper current of the place.

You read the plaque quietly aloud:

In memory of

173 men, women and children

who lost their lives on the

evening of Wednesday 3rd March 1943

descending these steps to Bethnal Green

Underground Air Raid Shelter

The letters on the plaque swim in front of you as you add, “You deserved better. You should have lived. You should have grown. You didn’t deserve to be remembered only as a number.” All of them were here that fateful day, and all of them left a memory behind.

There is a moment when the tile underfoot seems to shift. It feels like the ground is remembering a pressure it once bore. You are alone but not. The air thickens. You let the familiar thrum of potential gather under your skin, but you don’t channel it into a working. Not yet. Instead, you let it build and hold, compressing your own unease as a buffer.

You get moving, brisk and businesslike. Walking along a short, deliberate path down and then back up the shallow run of steps – on the exact axis of the old disaster. Shaking your head at the bottom of the steps. Making it look as if you’d changed your mind midway. Every third step, you pinch a twist of ground clove from the smallest pouch inside your coat. The brown dust is almost black in the harsh electric light. It trickles from your fingers, invisible against the dark tile but carrying its own gravity.

Back in front for the memorial, you pause. Your still numb hands perform the motions with the steadiness of long practice: a small twist, a scatter, and a gentle outward flick fan the powder.. This time it’s mugwort, feathery and pale, a dull confetti in the yellow light. It floats to the ground and becomes part of dirt already on the floor.

You feel it, not with your body but your awareness of magic in the world. A subsonic tremor, sharp as a wire drawn taut between your ribs. The overhead lights blink once, then twice, casting everything in an overexposed glare. You freeze with your hand still hovering from the last herb scatter. Something is moving beneath your feet. Something that has nothing to do with memory or grief and everything to do with a system designed to protect itself. You sense the sudden backflow of energy as the flow holds, like a wave right before rollback. The fine hairs on your arms stand up.

A cold, oily sensation invades your sinuses. It smells faintly of ozone and beneath Jack’s aftershave –sharp, expensive and artificial. You recognize his magical signature, aggressive and territorial, like a dog pissing on a streetlamp to reclaim territory. The station’s long, tiled staircase amplifies the effect, turning the pressure into a physical force that hammers in your ears.

Pressing your feet to the floor to steady yourself, you cast a look around. People noticed something’s off: one person draws their coat tighter, a woman grabs her companion’s hand and a suit clad business man visibly shakes out his body. No one is focusing on you though.

The next step is delicate and rather obvious, so you decided not to hide it. You pull a grave light from your pack and unscrew the lid, before setting it down along the wall. Now comes the Rosemary and the Bay. You place two branches of each beside the candle, letting them cross in front of it. Thankfully it’s the right time of year that even without a flower they pass as decorations.

You rub your hands together and take a deep breath, glad you opted for a long automatic lighter instead of traditional matches. With your hands numb and Jack’s magic pressing against your own, you flick the switch of the lighter and bring it down to light the grave light, saying, “The dead aren’t for anyone to use. Their memory is to be carried on by the survivors and honoured by those that followed them.”

The candle flickers then brightens as a gust of wind comes up the stairs. The energy rushes into the ground and sends a warm echo through the air. An older woman moves back up the stairs to look at the plaque and the arrangement beneath it.

“I’d forgotten...,” she whispers. “I’d forgotten it was here...” She reaches out and gently places her hand on the last line of letters: “NOT FORGOTTEN”

You move back from the station entrance and settle down against a wall to rest for a bit. It’s like someone put a spotlight on the memorial. Nearly every person passing the plate looks at it. Quite a few stop to read and some bow their heads as snow begins to fall.

With your eyes closed you lean against the wall as a faint warmth passes you. It’s an odd, familiar trickle, not quite magic and not quite light. You look up and see Aziraphale bowing his head, his hands folded and his lips moving as he stands before the memorial. One day you’re gonna ask him what he is. Crowley’s dark figure hovers a couple steps back to his right holding a black umbrella. Scanning the streets you locate the Bentley parked in a loading zone across the street.

A moment later Aziraphale’s prayer is done and he takes the umbrella back from Crowley as both come over to you. And it’s Crowley, who addresses you, “Nice piece of work you did there. I bet our little, blotted Jack felt that one in his bones.”

“Yeah, that should have been done a while ago. I take it everything went to plan at your sites too?” You have to fight to keep your eyes open.

“Like clockwork. Though the wannabe king tried a showdown at the burial ground.”

“Why was he there?” your voice pitches in irritation.

Crowley shrugs his shoulders, “Coincidence? Or it was the site he was closest to, when he felt your interference. Not that it matters.”

You take a closer look at Aziraphale now. He’s not usually this quiet or this pale. So, you ask despite just wanting to get home, “Everything okay with the two of you?”

“Sure. Let’s get back to Aziraphale’s bookshop. You two should get some sleep,” he dismisses your question.

“I’d rather go home,” you can’t help your whiny tone. You’re tired and fed up with the events of the last few days.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Crowley waves you off and herds you over to the Bentley. You don’t have the energy left to fight him. The Bentley’s lights come on while it’s playing “You’re My Best Friend” softly.

The memorial shown is the Bethnal Green Underground Disaster memorial, marking the 1943 tragedy in which 173 people lost their lives.

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Crowley just hums at that, long fingers tapping a rhythm on the vintage steering wheel.

“Jack’s a real bastard, Aziraphale. It’s not your fault. But what do we do now?” you try to get back on track. Sitting in the backseat, looking down at Henry.

The opening notes of “Bohemian Rhapsody” drift through the Bentley’s interior as it glides through midday London traffic, weaving between red double-deckers and black cabs with supernatural precision.

“We get lunch at Hachiro’s and then figure out how to take Jack’s powerbase out,” Crowley states calmly.

A fond smile appears on Aziraphale’s lips, “Hachiro’s? You’re spoiling me old friend.”

“Don’t worry I’ll let you pay for your expensive fish rolls.”

The words sink in slowly through your fog of hunger and lingering adrenaline. “Take his powerbase out? That’s impossible!” you burst out, voice bouncing off the Bentley’s pristine leather interior.

Crowley just shakes his head, “No, it’s not. You’ll see.”

Shaking your head, you decide to argue that point later. You’re hungry and still a little cold.

And that’s how Hachiro’s served the first drive through meal in its 50-year history. A thing you’d never thought possible. Aziraphale was apparently a very welcome guest there. Henry however...not so much. And since it was too cold to leave him in the Bentley—takeaway it was. Even if it hadn’t been as straightforward as that. It had in fact taken quite a long argument between Aziraphale, Crowley and a small Asian male in Japanese to find a solution to the “Henry problem”. You nearly got dizzy from all the bowing. But finally, they’re back, and the Bentley drives off towards the bookshop.

The Bentley glides to the curb on Whickber Street as the afternoon sun reflects in the shopfronts. It’s a picture of peace that feels surreal to you after this morning’s confrontation. Crowley is parallel-parking like a man with nothing to prove—soft and tidy. All the while Aziraphale clutches the sushi boxes to his chest as if the fate of the world depended on not dropping even a single grain of rice.

There is a blue “Closed” sign hanging in the shop’s window. Aziraphale unlocks the door and casts a look at it, but doesn’t turn it over. Inside, he makes a show of locking the door, dropping the sushi on the cluttered counter, and retreating into the stacks. Dust and must. The shop smelled of paper and leather. But today there was an overlay of wet asphalt and bitter smoke. So, you concentrate on Crowley’s cologne instead. A smell that curls around in a way that you find comforting.

Aziraphale returns and sets the table with plates and... chopsticks. You quietly make your way to the kitchen to get yourself a fork and a knife—pausing mid step to reconsider.

 “Uhg, Aziraphale? I’m not that familiar with chopsticks. Is it alright with you if I grab some real cutlery?”

“Real cutlery? I am certain you mean western cutlery—like a fork and a knife, Dear?”

“Yes?”

“I would absolutely gladly teach you how to use chopsticks properly. But it was a rather revealing morning, so go ahead with my blessing.”

You exhale at having avoided that pitfall, “Thank you!”

“Good to see you’re not sulking, old friend,” Crowley sounds almost relieved?

“Why would I? You know, I still think diplomacy is undervalued these days. People expect violence to solve everything, when it rarely solves anything.”

“Well, in all fairness—it occasionally does.”

“Occasionally...yes.”

The sushi dissolves on your tongue. It’s delicious and no doubt expensive. Hachiro’s didn’t have a reputation for being affordable. But the taste is worth every pound. And you didn’t have to pay for the treat. Talk about an umami deal. There’s a nudge on your leg—it’s Henry.

You laugh, “No Henry. No way. This is human food. There is fish in there—yes. But just... no.”

Aziraphale coughs, Crowley chuckles. Then he gets up and swiftly takes Henry back to his spot, informing him sternly, “You heard your witch. Besides you already had two mice today. If you behave, I’ll bring you a fish next time.”

“So, about our little Jack problem. He borrows magic from the city’s history. From its darkest, most painful places to be precise,” Crowley prompts, after you’ve finished your meal.

That description makes you shudder. No wonder you felt like he’s surrounded by something evil—for lack of a better term.

“This is a sacrilege! It has to be halted and prevented from happening again. Using London’s pains and grievances like a storehouse’s wares...” Aziraphale shakes his head.

“But how?” you barely get the question out, still wrapped in your memories.

“By finding the sites and cutting off his access,” Crowley states. As if it’s a matter of cutting of a stray thread on a piece of clothing.

“And how do we find these sites? He won’t have placed markers on them!” You’re tempted to slam your hands on the table in the face of Crowley’s calm confidence.

“No, but magic isn’t random. It follows rules—some stricter than others. For a continuous power flow he would need something,” Aziraphale explains in a soft voice.

“Any idea what that could be, Dear?”

You bite your lip and twiddle your fingers thinking the options through aloud, “An old object—he’d need to keep it on him”

A headshake from Crowley, “I would have sensed that.”

“Well, that leaves a real historic site. But he would have to visit it daily.”

“That seems highly impractical. Is there another possibility maybe?” Aziraphale prompts.

“A network...a sigil network. And it has to be rather small. Too much of a drain while it’s inactive otherwise.”

“Small.” He nods. “In witch magical terms that means a triangle. Centred around the garage possibly.” Aziraphale looks towards the stairs.

“I’ll get us a couple of historical maps. These should help us narrow it down further.”

Aziraphale returns with three rolls: parchment, onion-skin and glossy-finished A-Z of modern London. They land with a thud on the table you cleared. Together you smooth the brittle maps until the city’s veins and bones stare up at you.

Crowley, standing at your shoulder, leans in with his hands braced on either side of the table, like he’s steadying himself at the edge of a precipice. He’s more interested than he lets on, and you can feel the tension twist out of him in little bursts of static.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, tapping at a spot just south of Fleet Street, where the city’s old bones refuse to stay buried. “Under the old nunnery. There’s no official record, but in 1863 according to verbal reports there was a burial ground. Well, more of an unmarked grave. For society’s outcast women who died wasting away.”

“What you mean died wasting away?” you narrow your eyes at him.

“He’s saying they died from the complications of abortions. Their pregnancies were a dirty little secret, just like the old midwifes treating them and their deaths. All unsuitable for Victorian society. Amazing times,” it’s Crowley who elaborates.

You wished he hadn’t. After swallowing you admit, “Talk about pain, suffering and despair. Sounds like a perfect place for Jack Donovan to draw from.” You have to shake off the thoughts of these women. “How close is it to the garage?”

With a small pin, Aziraphale marks the garage. Then he measures the distance with a ruler and nods, “About a mile give or take a few meters.”

“So, within this radius we have to find two more fitting places.”

Crowley leans in, his glasses reflecting the faded city grid. “Start with hospitals, asylums, or prisons. Somewhere with blood. Pain. Ideally both.”

You scan the map. “That narrows it down to every fifth building—including the university.”

He taps the map, where the university sits, “Hm, they had a couple doctors made for hell. But they're feeding the worms now.” He’s rubbing his hands at that.

“But they could still be remembered there. With a plaque or something similar to honour their achievements—despite the horrors they committed. Do you recall their names?”

“Head of the bunch was a Sir Sebastian Rosewood.”

Pulling out your phone, you search for Sebastian Rosewood doctor university of London. It takes a bit of scrolling through the Wikipedia article about him, then, “Seriously...” you shake your head. “Aziraphale is right. There is a plaque at the Rosewood lecture hall in the university.”

“That’s two down. One to go. Told you this was easy.”

“I’m starting to hate this city,” you mutter in reply. Grateful Crowley spared you the details of what that doctor had done. The abandoned women still stuck with you. But how did he know they went to hell? Guess everybody has to believe in something—even if it is hell claiming the bad guys.

This time Aziraphale places two pins, one at the burial ground and one at the university. When he takes the ruler to pinpoint where the third site should be—he shivers visibly. His plump fingers trembling against the parchment. His eyes close.

Crowley steps into his space. “The bunker,” he whispers, voice like gravel. His thin lips press together into a bloodless line, and he lays a hand on Aziraphale’s tweed-covered arm, fingers splaying protectively.

“That bunker... all those people running for shelter... and we...”

“We were busy elsewhere that day, my friend,” Crowley murmurs. “Besides this was a completely unforeseen tragedy. Neither heaven nor hell had anything to do with it.”

“And yet hundreds lost their lives,” you hear Aziraphale’s voice tremble. This is too much. You retreat over to Henry running your hand over his warm, smooth scales.

In the dead of the cold night, you stare at the tarnished brass plate: 173 dead... but not forgotten. This should be a memorial—not a bleeding scar. And it would be after you’re done here. Your breath forms ghostly clouds as your lips press together. After this afternoon’s revelations you’re determined to stop this Jackass. You check your watch, still half an hour left to midnight, the witching hour. Time enough for the other two to get into place.

Crowley would take care of the plaque at the university—whatever that means. How he’ll slip past security guards and late-night students is beyond you. Universities rarely sleep.

The unmarked grave with its centuries of sorrow is in Aziraphale’s soft hands. He had mumbled something about it being about time the heavens did something for these poor women.

Synchronized action is the linchpin of your plan. If one site falls before the others, Jack would sense the magical disturbance like a spider feeling vibrations in its web. He’d have time to reroute the power, activate replacement sites or even intercept whoever lagged behind.

So, you settle against the cold brick wall to wait. Your fingers numb despite the gloves. You’re going over the steps to poison the well of his power in your head like a mantra. Quietly thanking Crowley for this little hidden knife in your plan. No one should use the dead to fuel their power.

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