Chapter Text
“You promised! ”
The childish shriek echoed through the woods and I picked up my pace. Whoever Nicky was yelling at - and I had a pretty good idea who she was yelling at - didn’t respond, or responded too quietly for me to hear. That was a bit worrying. It was a bit worrying that Nightingale had found her first, period.
Nicky wasn’t handling Sky’s death well. It was all well and good to say that she had eternity ahead of her and would learn to live with grief eventually, but right now she was a little girl and very upset. She’d taken to having tantrums and running off alone. Not that I could blame her; after everything in Skygarden, if I’d thought I could get away with that behaviour in my 20s, I’d have seriously considered following her example.
As it was, we had been contacted by Oberon, who’d somehow known we were investigating a former Little Crocodile in East Finchley (dead end, literally - he’d died three years ago in his sleep), to help find her and round her up. Seeing as how we were in the area and all.
Not that there’s much that can harm a goddess in Highgate Wood. It had been part of the huge, ancient Forest of Middlesex up to a thousand years ago, but deforestation had started in the thirteenth century and left it a pleasant enough park, if you like that sort of thing. If there’d been any magical being who wanted humans and human-shaped river goddesses to pay for the tree-cutting, we’d probably have heard from them already.
Still, it was getting dark and Oberon presumably wanted to get back to whatever he did when he wasn’t babysitting child goddesses sometime before midnight. Me and Nightingale, meanwhile, were part of The Great Family-Friendly Metropolitan Police (Because We Care), and were thus always keen to reunite lost children with their guardians. Even when the lost child in question was the scariest thing in a 10-mile radius.
But I’d secretly hoped that me or Oberon would have found her first. The last time they’d met, Nicky had not been happy with Nightingale. I doubted she’d completely got over it within a few months. Judging by Father Thames’ example, genii locorum had a tendency to get stuck at Stage Two: Anger.
Now that I was closer, I could hear Nightingale calmly explaining that we’d put those responsible for Sky’s death in jail, and that the justice system had blablabla.
Oh no, I thought. He’s trying to rationalise with her.
Nightingale had told me that he’d been the youngest in his family, and presumably posh boarding schools, war, and Indiana Jones escapades didn’t train you well for dealing with small children. I, as an only child with enough younger cousins to fill up half a moderately sized school, knew that there were multiple tactics you could use to defuse a tantrum situation: from the healthy slap my mum had often threatened me with, to distraction via bribery with candy. Rationalisation wasn’t one of them.
“But they’re not the ones who really did it,” interrupted Nicky, either showing a more sophisticated grasp of the Nuremberg Defense than I’d expected of a 6 year old, or just wanting to be contrary. “You haven’t found their boss. You haven’t made him pay for killing my friend!”
“Peter and I are attempting our best to rectify - ah, to fix - that,” said my governor. “As I promised, we will find him and bring him to justice as quickly as possible.”
“So you’re going to kill him soon?”
There was a little too much hopefulness in that childish voice, and it made me feel a bit sick. Lesley’s words rang in my ears. I remembered Dr. Walid’s report about the man who drowned on dry land.
Nightingale hesitated in his reply. I was very aware that until recently, he wouldn’t have. Non-magical lackeys were one thing. Them he was more than happy to arrest. With rogue magical practitioners though, it was just easier to go in, metaphorical guns blazing and death squad with literal guns as back-up. But the old Folly was learning new tricks - or rather, I could admit with a touch of pride, I was teaching it new tricks - nowadays. We were trying to stay off the path of indiscriminate carnage. Of course, that’s not always the response the victims’ friends and family want to hear from the long arm of the law.
“No,” Nightingale said finally. “As police officers - ”
But Nicky had heard enough.
I burst out of the trees and into their meadow just as her face screwed up tight and her little hands balled into fists. I glanced over at Nightingale quickly. He didn’t look quite as confident and smooth as he’d sounded. He was facing the goddess head on, but he stood a little hunched and his fingers were clenched bone-white around his cane. His own gaze flickered briefly to me and he gave me a very slight nod, before he turned once more to fully weather the goddess’ fury. Nicky took in a huge breath.
“I don’t want a police officer!” she howled. “You promised! You promised as a soldier! Life for life, blood for blood! I don’t want a police officer, I want a soldier!!”
A wave of magic crashed over me so hard I almost staggered back out of the clearing. It was a pure tidal wave of wrath, and loss, and blood, and I thought for a moment I would drown to death on dry land too, drown in a magic river of red. It felt every bit as bad as when Nightingale had disarmed that demon trap in Soho, and I wasn’t halfway across London this time either.
Everything felt muffled, as though I’d gone swimming and my ears were full of water. I resisted the urge to tilt my head and bang on my temple until a stream of water poured out of them, like a Looney Toons character. Luckily, it gradually cleared up on its own.
When I finally looked up, I saw that Nicky was swaying just a bit. She didn’t look angry anymore. Instead, she looked a little guilty, and a little panicky, and extremely uncertain about whether she should be looking guilty and panicky at all. Whatever it was she’d done had obviously not affected me, so I turned my own slightly panicky face to Nightingale.
He wasn’t flopping on the floor, gasping for air, which was a relief. Instead, he was frowning, and his eyes were closed. Before I could ask him if he was alright, his eyes shot back open. He pulled himself up straight. Very straight. Not that Nightingale usually had rolled shoulders or anything, but this was the posture I recognised from when he had been upbraided by Seawoll or was about to face down something terrifying. I automatically sidled over closer to Nicky, and chanced a brief glance over my shoulder for extra propriety. There was nothing but trees, of course.
I looked back at Nightingale, who was staring at me and Nicky with an odd expression on his face. His eyes raked over us, and alarm, dismay, and pity flitted over his face one after another.
Alarm, I got. Even dismay made sense - I myself was a bit dismayed at the prospect of figuring out how to properly deal with a child goddess who’d just attacked an officer of the law, even if we were both unharmed. But pity?
Then, to my other utter surprise, he dropped his cane, put his hands in the air, and gave us an encouraging smile.
“Bitte haben Sie keine Angst! ” said Nightingale. “Ich bin ein britischer Offizier. Seid ihr aus einem KZ geflüchtet? Werdet ihr verfolgt? Leider kann ich euch nicht zu, ah, zur Sicherheit begleiten. Aber ich habe eine Karte von der Gegend und ein bisschen Essen für Ihre Tochter.”
All of that was, of course, lost on me. All I got was that it was German, and maybe British officer. Sorry, not everyone has a classical education and can speak twenty languages. I gaped at him, then shot a glance at Nicky to see how she was taking this. She seemed to have forgotten her tantrum altogether for the moment, which was good news (distraction - it works!). Unfortunately, she was not one of those useful goddesses who understands all tongues spoken by mortal man. She was as puzzled as I was.
Nightingale cursed softly under his breath - when I think back, this was the moment when I truly understood something was wrong; I couldn’t remember a single time I’d heard him swear before - and switched from German to a Slavic language. I vaguely recognised it from my mum’s business acquaintances, also known as a good third of the cleaning staff in the Greater London area. Polish, I’d wager. (Though not a lot of money.) At our blank looks, he switched to French, then, a bit desperately, to another language which sounded a lot like German. With each switch he obviously struggled more when putting the sentences together, and grew more frustrated at our continued incomprehension. But he kept his smile up all the same.
I interrupted him before he could switch to something like Ancient Aramaic and truly frighten me.
“Sir, I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I said, because it seemed the sort of thing you said when your governor apparently forgot all knowledge of English after being hit by a magical attack.
Nightingale startled and lowered his hands.
“An Englishman!” he breathed. That’s when the goosebumps really started crawling. He hadn’t forgotten English - he’d forgotten I could speak English. “But I’m sure we would have heard…”
He frowned, then visibly reassessed us.
“I’m Captain Thomas Nightingale, of the 2nd Parachute Battalion,” he said. If he was lying - and he could very well have been; I had no idea where he'd officially been assigned - he was doing it very smoothly. “What’s your name, soldier? Which unit are you attached to?”
“I, uh… I, sorry, what? ”
Not my best efforts, I know.
“I’m not about to shoot you for desertion,” snapped Nightingale. “Not when it was to rescue a young girl. Foolish, but brave. How far are the others from here? I’ll accompany you and talk to your CO on your behalf, if I can, but we have to go now. What unit are you in?”
By this point, I had basically figured it out. I am a detective after all (or would be, if I passed my exam). I’m also a magical almost-detective, which means sudden amnesia of the past seventy-odd years frightened me, but didn’t leave me saying,This simply cannot be happening, what is going on?! It was happening, and what was going on was that Nicky had wished for a soldier. She’d got one.
Of course, the problem was that knowing what was happening didn’t mean I knew what to do about it. I opened my mouth, not actually sure whether I was about to go with a placating lie or the honest truth.
Nicky cut in first though.
“I don’t need rescuing by Peter!” she said. She sounded genuinely indignant, albeit a shade quieter than normal. I doubted she’d followed what was happening, and she looked altogether exhausted, but she’d certainly understood that bit.
I nearly groaned out loud as bewilderment widened Nightingale’s eyes, and he shifted to a battle-ready stance. We’d clearly been downgraded again. First it had been Poor victims of the Third Reich, treat with care, then Idiot IC3 soldier loses head upon seeing young female IC3 victim and deserts army to rescue her. Now it was Why the fuck are two black Brits, wearing weird-ass clothing, one of who is a child, traipsing through the Black Forest?
“Who are you?” said Nightingale harshly.
And again, I was interrupted before I could answer.
“Peter is your apprentice, Nightingale,” Oberon said in his calm way as he strode into the clearing next to Nicky.
A part of me relaxed: now, the adults were here. A part of me tensed more: Oberon’s gaudy sword was still on his hip and I didn’t miss how Nightingale’s eyes narrowed further at the sight of it. The final part of me giggled hysterically: this was probably more black people than 1940s Nightingale saw in a month.
I’m pretty sure the only reason he didn’t just blast us all with a fireball and leave it to God and the Germans to sort us out was that no self-respecting SS officer would ever have come up with such a moronic lie. An incredulous laugh bubbled to his lips as he glanced between me and Oberon.
As his assessing, skeptical gaze swept me over head to toe, I stiffened. Nightingale - 2010s Nightingale that is - often told me it was a different time back then, and I can't deny that. But there’s a huge difference between feeling sorry for someone you think’s a victim of Nazis and actually thinking of them as an equal. I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d be able to look my governor in the eyes quite the same way if I had to carry the certain knowledge, in the back of my mind, that seventy years ago he would have treated me like dirt.
Luckily, I didn’t have to find out. Nightingale proved to be genuinely decent. All he said was, “This is ridiculous, I don’t have an apprentice. I don’t even know this man.”
“But you know me,” said Oberon.
That was news to both me and Nicky. Oberon had to give us pointed stares to stop us from asking the hundreds of questions this raised. Nightingale looked considering, though he didn’t relax.
“I do remember you,” he said slowly. “Late twenties, Newcastle? Alberich - no, Oberon?”
“Yes.”
Oberon must have made an impression, if Nightingale remembered him over a decade later. Or - I revised my earlier statement: maybe this was more black people than 1940s Nightingale saw in a year.
“And the girl?”
It had been a good impression too: Nightingale was wary and still frowning, but he looked less ready to incinerate us all if we breathed wrong.
“Goddess of a young river,” said Oberon.
Nightingale accepted that too. Now that he was looking for it, he could probably sense that she was a genius loci. He inclined his head to her, and she nodded back silently. Running away, then her tantrum, then the huge wave of magic, and finally the sheer bizarrity of Nightingale The Soldier had clearly taken its toll on her. Noticing that, Oberon settled, cross-legged, onto the ground, and pulled her into his lap. She promptly turned her head into his shoulder and fell sleep. Clever. Oberon was clearly much less of a threat now - doubly clever.
That just left me.
“So: a fae, a goddess, and my supposed apprentice. Is this some kind of jest, Oberon?” said Nightingale. “I’ve never seen… Peter before, and there’s no time to train an apprentice during the war.”
“It’s not a trick, sir,” I finally spoke up. I’d been thinking about how to convince him. “And I can prove it. You can read my signare, can’t you? You told me you could see who trained me based on that.”
“Did I also teach you not to be fool enough to let an unknown wizard cast an unknown spell?”
Unless we fought in, say, Halo, any duel between me and Nightingale would end with me being crushed like a bug. It was a bit flattering to hear him imply otherwise. Though of course it wasn’t really my governor saying that, just a stranger borrowing his voice and face.
“I’ll just be casting a werelight,” I said meekly. “And you can, ah…”
I trailed off. I wasn’t quite sure how to say, You can threaten me with Oberon’s stupid sword, if it makes you feel better, because throat-cutting is still faster than formae and I’m pretty sure the only way you’ll agree to this is if there’s cold iron touching my neck. It wasn’t the sort of thing you usually had to say to your boss-slash-mentor. This is the sort of trust exercises companies should really be doing. Do you trust your boss with seventy years worth of amnesia to not slit your throat with a sabre? Alternatively, after seventy years worth of amnesia do you trust your employee not to fireball you? If you’re both alive after an hour, congratulations, you have a fantastic office environment!
Because I was pretty sure no version Nightingale knew what trust exercises were, I nodded awkwardly towards the sword instead. Luckily, both he and Oberon got the gist.
Oberon shifted Nicky as he drew the sword, then passed it to Nightingale hilt first. He looked utterly calm, the bastard. Maybe in the eighteenth century offering someone to possibly chop your head off had been all the rage. Meanwhile I think my crazy idea made Nightingale even more wary of me, and I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t enough that an unknown black man with a working class accent was claiming to be his apprentice, oh no, he had to be an idiot as well. Nightingale gripped the sword with terrifying ease.
I took a deep breath and bared my neck.
As the cool metal touched my skin, I realised for the first time what so many of the animal protagonists in my children’s books must have gone through. I’m sorry if I ever doubted you, Hazel-rah. Baring your neck and feeling a claw against it isn’t fun.
I cast the most basic, least flashy - let alone explosive - Lux I knew how.
It was enough.
The werelight reflected oddly in Nightingale’s eyes. I put it out and the breath he drew in was a sharp hiss. The swordtip wavered terrifyingly for a moment. I licked my suddenly very dry lips. But he must have had the same thought; the sword withdrew immediately, then clattered down next to the cane.
“Who - who are you?” he said.
“I’m Peter Grant, sir. Your apprentice.”