Gideon squinted into the mirror. Bolo tie, straightened. Jacket, square. He’d even considered tying his cape over his shoulders a few times, but he drew his hand away from the shimmery fabric once more. Better to be formal rather than flashy. He was trying to make a good impression, after all.
Bail was much lower than he’d expected it to be, given that he’d been stuck in a so-called maximum security facility. Maybe it was because he’d just been charged with fraud rather than, say, killing a man, or maybe it was because they just didn’t have the heart to keep poor li’l Gideon cooped up forever, but either way, it left him able to book quite a nice hotel.
One google search for “sherbet fountains” led Gideon to the proud United Kingdom - England, specificially - and if he was looking for someone in England, where better to start but London proper?
Unfortunately, London had many suburbs. Fortunately, the zoom and precision of Google’s satellites was bar-none.
He glanced down at the list on the dresser. Forty-three addresses. There were forty-three houses that Google Maps said had flowers lining their walkway in just the sort of way that Gideon remembered in the suburbs right around London. By no means was it ideal, but it was a much better place to start than nowhere at all. Certainly, too, that may not lead Gideon directly to Mabel, but the adult in the window had smiled when they’d seen her. They weren’t upset that these kids were just loitering on their property; it was a good chance that they knew them. Or at least, knew who they were. And perhaps where to find them.
Besides... that writer in the window merited a visit anyway, now didn’t they?
Gideon straightened his bolo tie once more. He grabbed his cape after all.
* * *
11:43am. Day Three.
Gideon jogged across the street stiffly, his jacket bouncing on his shoulders. It was much warmer here than he’d anticipated - certainly moreso than Oregon at this time of year. He may’ve even gone so far as to compare it to home in January.
Wonder ‘f that’s a sign, he mused as he checked his list one more time. Clerkenwell... Clerkenwell... These Brits really didn’t like using street signs, did they. He wasn’t one to complain, of course, but all this walking was pretty--
Wait. There it was.
It looked different than Gideon recalled it looking from the map - somehow bigger, and less shack-y. The camera was unforgiving, but maybe his mysterious writer’d had some renovations done. Or maybe it was the wrong house. Again.
Gideon slowed to a stop in front of the place, and frowned down at his list. This was certainly the place on the list, but close-up, it looked... Unfinished. It was asymmetrical in a way that didn’t seem professional, not to mention the exposed boards over what was likely the attic window. Would a writer who was clearly so dedicated to their craft, so careful to tend so much flowing, black hair, with so much wisdom behind their clear blue eyes really live in such a dump?
Just before Gideon turned away, his eyes caught the glint of a metal hook, a swinging sign. A sign?
Adrian Daray Demonologist
... Daray?
Now confound it if Gideon hadn’t seen that name somewhere before.
He cleared his throat, tugged his cape straight, and took a confident step--
PYANG
He let out a clipped shriek as the blast peppered the grass beside him, and he scrambled away from the sound. When a second and third shot nearly destroyed his hair, he stared up at the boarded windows in horrified understanding.
Someone was shooting at him.
He barely had time to dodge the fourth shot, before the fifth punctured his cape, and the sixth bit the gravel behind him.
