Chapter Text
The sky would open up any time soon, he was sure of it.
Anthony Lockwood stood upon a concrete ledge, one foot in front of the other, tearing his eyes away from the vast night and towards the altercation just a ways below his perch. Lucy was there, her dress shimmering in the dusting of moonlight. He followed the glow to a glint of metal, a blade that pushed her back towards the ledge. Lucy turned now, faltering upon realising his position, the escape plan she knew he was formulating.
“No. Lockwood!”
She continued towards him even through her hiss of protest, eyes darting between Lockwood and their pursuer. He registered the fear in her glances, and it made him sick to think he had a part in causing it.
“Lucy, he’ll kill you!” he heard himself shout, voice crackly and thick.
For a boy whose pride was his ability to weasel and worm his way out of the tightest pinches, it irked Lockwood to concede that he had run out of ideas. It was hard to excuse his own recklessness this time, because here was Lucy, trusting him to get them out alive. He was no longer alone, and he had nary an intention of getting her caught in the crossfire between him and his pursuit of some morbid atonement.
He felt Lucy tug on his hand, hoisting herself onto the ledge to stand beside him, putting both of them safely out of reach of the Golden Blade and his polished weapon.
The man in question seemed satisfied with himself, a smirk wrinkling his hard-set features. Lockwood had to admit, he’d otherwise have loved the drama of this tableau - the mysterious pursuer with his chin raised at an angle, aligned with the tilt of his rapier, sharp lines converging in the direction of his cornered targets and poised to win this bout.
Lockwood watched the Golden Blade’s eyebrows furrow slightly as he regarded them, eyes darting between them and the ledge. It was like he could hardly piece together what they were doing, where they were going.
Where were they going?
He chanced a peek downwards. There was the night, an abyss beyond them. There were the city’s crests and plunges, revealed only through slivers of moonlight. There was the malleable surface of the Thames, rolling ripples reflecting the spattering of ghost-lamps below.
Come on , the smooth darkness seemed to coo at him. Come where you belong .
And hadn’t he wanted to, not too long ago?
He could pry the urge from the shallows of his sleepless nights — times he’d find himself standing above the city, watching London pass him by. He would peer across whatever rooftop he was on and catch shadowy figures in the distance rushing towards their warmly-lit homes, out of the graze of the dark. A part of him ached for the normalcy of it all — of returning home to the aroma of a fresh roast and the crackling of a fireplace, leaving the night behind a set of iron defences. But that part could only exist behind closed eyelids, in dreams of being five again, on a family beach vacation with checkered picnic mats and soggy cheese toasties and his swim trunks with the cartoon ghosts on them. With his parents, their faces phasing in and out of clarity, as if his brain struggled to piece their features together from his sparse recollections. Jessica would be there, her appearance marginally more tangible, warning him against wading too deep into the water. And he’d go anyway, Jessica’s piercing scream cutting off as a towering wave swallowed him.
Those dreams always ended the same way— a cold rush engulfs Lockwood, and when his eyes open against the sting of saltwater, he finds himself alone. He can feel the thrumming of his heart in his ears, pumping to the beat of fear, cognizant of the fact that he’s scared . Scared he’s going to drown, scared nobody’s going to find him out in the ocean, scared he’s never going to see his family again. He’s treading against the rolling currents, searching fruitlessly in all directions for some mercy until he loses feeling in his legs. He swallows salt and spits and winces with every inch he sinks, thinking I don’t want to die like this till the glaring sun disappears from view.
He would wake up gasping and choking for air, surrounded by the empty sea of his parents’ old bed, marred by the memory of their long-gone warmth. In the darkness of a dead hour, he’d wonder if his younger self, the small voice still begging for another breath of fresh air, would hate what he’d become.
That was a time before Lucy Carlyle — when he had nothing but himself to live for, and that wasn’t very convincing. Revenge drove him, sure, but the enemy was a horde of undulating dead-undead apparitions, and he was acutely aware of that. No amount of slashing through ectoplasm could patch up the weeping gashes of his heart, scored by the daggers of guilt.
Those nights, the ledge of some closed-off roof was the only thing standing between him and the bottom of the Thames. The solution would become too clear, a knotted mess of conviction suddenly stretched taut. But before he could stretch a leg out, his coat would flap with a particularly strong gust of wind or he’d feel raindrops dotting his face and be forced to seek refuge in a stairwell, tiding the rain over on a stuffy landing and berating the child that flailed and screamed for life.
How odd, the way he seemed to cling on to the living world. Or perhaps it clung on to him, watching death spit him out time and time again, then heaving him upright and whispering Your time has not come, even if you want it to. He’d once thought that was a curse, but not so much anymore.
A spot of coldness tapped his cheek. Thunder in the distance, a lightning bolt near. The night had decided to weep.
Lucy’s hand was in his, panic evident on her face as she pulled him closer to the edge.
Would she have talked him down, if she’d stumbled upon him one of those nights before they had met? Would he have asked her what she was doing up on a closed-off roof past midnight? Would she have shot back with the same question? Or might she have, sensing his precarious position atop the parapet, desperately told him that he had so much to live for? Asked, with all the apprehension of a well-meaning yet regrettably uninformed stranger, what his family might think?
What about them ? He’d ask stranger-Lucy, perhaps not fully registering her presence. They’re gone. And God knows Anthony Lockwood died with them.
Not-stranger-Lucy squeezed his hand, yanking him out of the thought, an urgency in the way her eyes met his. He could hear the Golden Blade beginning to advance, spurred on by their apparent inaction. Lucy nudged them forward again, a silent plea for him to get it together.
It was time to go.
In any other circumstance, it would’ve been nice to catch a snapshot of London in its finest hour (by Lockwood’s accord, of course). The muddied hues of ghost-lamps, house lights, and stars alike shrouded the skyline in a cloak of dancing shadows. One could even catch the decorative lights on Tower Bridge glimmering despite its current desolation, where once there may have been throngs of tourists enjoying the nighttime breeze. It was harder to appreciate the view when all Lockwood could focus on was willing every muscle to jump into the emptiness, letting gravity wrench the city away.
At least they were safe now, as they launched themselves into the dark. At least he could see Lucy’s form, a midnight-blue spot in his peripheral vision, alive and herself and probably angry at him, but alive nonetheless. That was all that mattered.
And then there was the gunshot that ripped through the sky, the sudden squelch of flesh as a bullet lodged itself in her back, and her choked gasp.
The first thing Lockwood registered was Lucy’s grip loosening on their held hands. He tightened his hold in response, watched his other hand reach out against the swift assault of air to cup her cheek and inspect her face. Blood pooled in her mouth, wind splattering warm trails of red across his palm as she coughed.
Lockwood craned his neck as best he could to see where she had been hit, tamping down that mix of nausea and adrenaline that had begun to curdle in his stomach. A gleam of silver caught his eye, snugly embedded in Lucy’s back, right behind where her heart might be. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t deny that the wound was fatal, couldn’t ignore the dark plume that had begun diffusing around the bullet, ravaging the pristine silk, clouding its vibrancy with muted hues. Every prayer that surfaced in Lockwood’s mind — that the Golden Blade had missed, that the bullet had merely grazed Lucy, that they were going to get out of this alive — was left unheard, cloaked by the same awful fabric of death that had swaddled him since birth.
Lucy seemed to be falling faster, further away. Lockwood tugged on their hands, trying to hold her closer and slow her descent, to catch up to her, as if his meagre force mattered against the brutal pull of gravity. As if anything he did would change the fact that Lucy Carlyle was dying right in front of him.
Here was his light, plunging into the dark.
Lucy’s mouth parted slightly, almost unnoticeable amidst their descent, as if she had something to say but couldn’t quite force it out. It reminded Lockwood of when he’d given her that necklace and she’d refused to accept it, fearing that she would lose something so precious. But she kept it safe, that part of him, and she kept him safe — his late night visits above the city had dwindled when George moved in, of course, but never halted like they did for Lucy. He found himself spending nights in the house instead, sharing silent reading sessions in the library or exchanging cups of tea over the thinking cloth, making sure to fix Lucy’s with four spoonfuls of sugar. Lockwood was even beginning to register a semblance of that warmth he recalled from nights spent cozying up by the fireplace with his family, an unfamiliar but recognisable sensation, mending his heart and its haphazard sutures.
Of course , he thought to himself, and maybe the universe, as the stitches began to rip again.
Of course you’d take her too.
Fate never favoured the Lockwood family, and their youngest was no exception. Lockwood had built up quite the reputation for his catalogue of ghosts, an unnerving repertoire. Every new death simply became another memory to spur his restless nights, another apparition he would see out of the corner of his eye, and turn around to miss — but there would never be another Lucy Carlyle, with her steely gaze that cut right through his proud demeanour and careful facade. Lucy, whose last memory of him was how he’d pushed her away, left her stranded by the entrance of his cold, dead heart. Lucy, who held on to him and begged him to breathe, who saw the boy in the stairwell and stayed regardless.
She should have left.
Lockwood felt the air forcing out of Lucy’s lungs in shortening bursts, warmth skimming his palm, till she was more panting than breathing. He felt her jaw tense against his hand, still firm on her cheek. Amidst the lashing of hair against her face, he could barely make out her expression, the way her features had shifted — she was smiling at him, lips bloodied and lopsided. Lucy seemed to be regarding him with a gentleness that he could not pick apart, that he knew he did not deserve. A flicker of moonlight crossed her eyes, illuminating the tears welled up and blinked heavenward. That was where she was going, where he could not follow.
And so Lockwood smiled back; a watery, trembling thing, steeped in his apologies, ones she would never get to hear. Ones he would try to hold in clenched fists and plastered-on smiles and elaborate lies, that would burrow into old scars and eat at the flesh till he was a rotting, decayed husk. Till death might stumble upon his crevassed frame and finally, finally , take him in.
Lucy’s face contorted, her smile downturned now, eyebrows furrowing. Then one, two, three chokes made their way out, each one dying faster in her throat, along with a gurgling that would etch itself into every one of Lockwood’s nightmares.
Perhaps later, when they’d hit water, Lockwood would find himself hoisting Lucy’s ragdolled figure upon his shoulders. He’d kick them both to shore, and set her upon the riverbank. Maybe her eyes would be open, twin pools of blue-green gazing up at an unforgiving God, watching the sky as it opened up to mourn. Maybe her tears would finally fall somewhere he could follow, embedding themselves into the jutting pebbles and misshapen rocks, making her mark till the next tides washed them — and her — away. And maybe the heat would rise in his cheeks, a growing fire threatening to overflow, as he watched the familiar spectral haze begin to envelop Lucy’s body.
Lockwood remembered burying his parents. Jessica had clutched his hand as they watched an old priest recite passages from the books of Ecclesiastes and Isaiah, adages of life and death and time obscured by the pattering of rain against two slabs of granite. Years later, he’d looked away from the same preacher’s sympathetic gaze as a fresh headstone graced the plot, feeling too vividly the loss of a reassuring hand in his, and the glare of that last vacant patch of dirt. It beckoned like penance and tempted like sin, sought to leach the warmth from the scraps of his spirit, lived in the crevices of every last-ditch plan. Waiting, patient and eager, for him to make restitution for all the lives he’d outlived — his parents, Jessica, Agent Cutter, Lucy.
Lucy. He’d have to bury her, too. George might even have to bury them both. Lockwood saw little hope that he could live much longer in a world without her, anyway, especially not with the knowledge that she had trusted him, and he’d given her hand to death.
Maybe in the afterlife, she would forgive him. If he was lucky enough, he could catch up to Lucy before she crossed the gates to heaven, hold her face in his hands and offer her everything she deserved, that they were damned never to have in this lifetime. Just a sentence, a beat, to see her face and spill every desire he’s kept locked up between fingers brushing and shoulders bumping. Make up for every time he stopped himself from tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, or helping her into her coat, or letting her pass out against his shoulder on the ride home from a rough case.
He could say so much before he was inevitably dragged in the other direction, far away from her bright lights and gleaming clouds, towards whatever worn-out fate awaited him. After all, there was no spit that could pierce, no hellfire that could burn like the notion of Lucy being a mere memory. Of having to live in place of her, when he was certainly undeserving.
The Thames, closing in on them now, would absolve him.
Lucy’s body stiffened, her eyes glazing over. Lockwood took a deep breath, pulled her close, and shut his eyes.
“Lockwood?”
He could not breathe. Then he was breathing too much, the air too clear. He was lying on a soft surface, one that moulded around his body, shallowly cocooning him. He scratched at it, recognising the familiar texture of sand. A seagull gawked, and then the cork in his ear popped, shrieks and laughs and tides crashing into his senses. A weak wave washed up to his calves, then receded, tickling at his socked ankles. The sensation was enough to put feeling back into his limbs — instinctively, a hand went up to shield his eyes. He opened his eyes to glare at the sun. A teenage boy glared back.
“Taking a dip?” the boy said, shifting his glasses up with his middle finger (a subtly rude gesture, or sheer unfortunate coincidence, Lockwood did not know). His head of curly hair was silhouetted by the sun behind him, and through the hard shadows Lockwood could vaguely make out an amused expression on his face.
George .
He knew that. Facts clipped through his mind, like flash paper burning — my name is Anthony John Lockwood, Esquire. The boy peering down at me like he’s seen a funny-looking toad is my best friend, George. I met him at the Archives a few weeks ago. He moved in with me. We live at 35 Portland Row, where I run Lockwood & Co with him. We need a new employee.
And Lucy Carlyle is dead.
Who the hell is Lucy Carlyle?
George extended a hand, sighing at the lack of response. Lockwood heaved himself up and out of his sand-bed, taking in the beach in all its mid-summer glory. Groups of children running amok were probably responsible for all the yelps and shouts he’d heard, and he swore he saw a seagull flying away with some kid’s hotdog. For some reason he had a dress shirt and trousers on, though they were stuck to his skin now, soaked by the ocean to the point they might dry into salt crystals. But that was hardly his biggest worry, what with the new, nagging thought very keen on making itself known in his head.
Lucy Carlyle is dead.
He didn’t know any Lucy Carlyles, but the thought made his stomach lurch uncomfortably.
“George,” Lockwood started, regarding the similarly ill-dressed boy in his long-sleeved flannel shirt and jeans, “do we know anyone named Lucy Carlyle?”
George raised an eyebrow at him, then scoffed.
“I’m sorry, you disappear in the middle of the night, I basically turn over the Thinking Cloth to see your message, and I find you washed up on a beach in Brighton. You’re sure that’s the first thing you want to say?” he crossed his arms, giving Lockwood a once-over as if attempting to direct him to his current state.
A gust of wind blew past them, and Lockwood held back a shiver. George was right — he didn’t even remember how he got all the way down to Brighton, or why for that matter. Even if he tried, he couldn’t seem to get past that thought. Lucy Carlyle is dead. I killed her .
That was new. A nauseating blow of woe struck Lockwood in the stomach.
George was a stride ahead of him, treading his way cautiously through the sand, grumbling something about sand in his shoes and ungrateful posh kids. Lockwood could only follow, his waterlogged socks and trainers weighing him down.
“Alright, I’m sorry, George,” he called out to the boy gesturing wildly ahead of him with his back turned, “And thank you for coming to get me, but—”
“That’s more like it. You know, you really ought to tell me when you’re taking day trips. I didn’t even know you had a company policy for holidays and off days—”
“George.”
“Can I even claim the train ticket I bought to come down here? This is technically a business expense, you know, ‘saving my boss from himself’ or however you want to file it.”
“George.”
“What?” George turned with a huff, putting his hands back into his pockets. Lockwood could see his face more clearly now that it was no longer backlit by the sun. He was frowning, his face scrunched up in annoyance either at the sun blaring overhead or at his friend’s questionable behaviour.
Lockwood surmised that it was the latter. George crossed his arms, tapping a foot expectantly.
“I don’t know where I’ve been. I don’t know how I ended up here. I only know that I woke up thinking of someone named Lucy Carlyle, and this…this urge to find her.”
For a brief, hopeful second, the look of surprise that crossed George’s face suggested that he might know a Lucy Carlyle. Perhaps he could dispel the gnawing guilt that had settled in Lockwood’s heart, or even bring him to Lucy and prove that she was very much still alive. They could dismiss his strange thought as a lapse in the universe’s maths, a wrong idea planted in the wrong person’s mind, and move on as per usual.
But then George’s eyes narrowed, and he took a small step towards Lockwood, untucking his hands.
“Are you feeling alright?” He put a hand on Lockwood’s forehead, checking to see if he was running a fever. George hissed at the cold skin, hand darting back to his side. “Maybe you have hypothermia or something.”
“I feel fine. So we don’t know anyone named Lucy Carlyle?”
“Not that I know of. And if you don’t remember knowing her, I certainly wouldn’t either. Our social circles are so overlapped they’re basically one circle on a venn diagram.”
Lockwood felt his shoulders sag, even though he barely realised he was holding them up. If they didn’t know Lucy Carlyle, that meant two things — either she was still alive, and Lockwood had to run very far away from anyone named Lucy from this point on, or she was already dead, and he could have killed her. Neither option seemed too appealing, considering it was impossible to know if any stranger on the street would be the Lucy Carlyle.
Lockwood rubbed at his temples, a thrumming suddenly becoming very prominent in his head.
“Do you know why you’re looking for this Lucy person? Did your fever dream tell you?” George seemed to sense Lockwood’s conundrum, even if he was just being patronising.
Giving the curse a voice was harder than Lockwood cared to admit, and he was sure George would call him some variant of insane. But the burrowing creature in his heart told him this was necessary, that they needed to find out if this Lucy person was still alive, if only for the sake of distancing himself from her. And then there was the kick of sorrow every time Lucy Carlyle is dead crossed his mind, like a part of his body was getting chewed out. If anyone was going to help him figure this out, it was George.
“Yeah,” said Lockwood. “She’s dead, and I killed her.”