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Chapter Text

June 2014

Sometimes I look back on that month and wonder just how things managed to go so spectacularly wrong. Not often though, because if I spent all my time wondering about how various innocuous beginnings in my life turned into utter shitshows then there wouldn’t be time to get anything done.

I was in the middle of smacking a chimera in the face with my extendable baton when the live band for this particular shitshow started to tune up. Not many people get to start a sentence like that – one of the many exciting bonuses of being the only official wizarding apprentice in London. Me and Nightingale were in what felt like the bowels of hell, also known as the burning basement of an abandoned car factory in Silvertown. We were there because of the lengthy and extremely irritating process known as getting a straight answer out of Zach which had finally resulted in him admitting that, perhaps through an informant in the Quiet People, he had maybe heard about one of the Faceless Man’s chimeras who was wanted for murder possibly hiding out near London City Airport. Not a sentence any of us had ever wanted to hear, but at least the association between a murder suspect and an international airport meant this time we would have plenty of back-up in the form of the Belgravia homicide team, a standby medical unit presided over by our official Folly physician Dr Walid, no less than three Metropolitan police armed response squads and fifteen mean, lean firefighters led by our department liaison Frank Caffrey. We probably could have had the army there too if we really wanted, but we already had enough badassery and firepower to invade a small city-state. I don't know; you’re involved in one tower block blowing up and suddenly everyone starts treating you like a walking health and safety violation.

We had gone inside and made our way down to the sub-ground level where we found the chimera, which is what we were expecting, and then we found two more chimeras, a bunch of heavily armed fae and a goddamn practitioner, who we certainly weren’t. Nightingale had taken two of the fae straight out with some fifth order combination beginning with terra iactus impello that ripped chunks of concrete out of the ground and smacked both fae into opposite walls. The practitioner had responded by chucking an obnoxiously pink fireball at my head and then after that things got pretty crazy.

Nightingale was still duelling the practitioner and most of the room was on fire by the time I’d gotten around to the chimera we had gone in for: a muscular woman with legs like a goat and a lizard’s tail who had bitten a man’s face off in Bloomsbury last week. My baton had just impacted with the side of her head when I heard it: a thud, a grunt, and a soft, pneumatic hiss like an aerosol being released.  I spun around and saw the last fae, a small wiry little figure who had kept out of sight in the shadows, had leapt onto Nightingale’s back and was spraying a cloud of something from a canister right into my governor's face. Nightingale flailed and fell back, and the fairy guy dropped to the ground and hared off. I didn’t have time to do anything because the lizard/goat/woman/thing was shrieking and punching me in the head. I kicked her off me as hard as I could and, while she was scrambling back up to her feet (hooves?), I TASERed her in the chest. Gentlemanly? No. Fucking effective? Hell yes. I managed not to wince in sympathy; I knew exactly how much 50,000 volts hurt.

“Nobody move,” I yelled at the room, as the chimera twitched out the last of the voltage. “You’re all under arrest.”

Well, that had to work sometimes, right?

I wasn’t sure if any of the fae or other chimera were still conscious but no-one moved, apart from a certain ethically-compromised practitioner who had taken my order to stay still as an invitation to roll over and stand up.

I could see Nightingale was on the floor, though as he was a) still moving and breathing, and b) not screaming in agony, the illegal wizard was my number one priority, above my injured boss or the scarpering fairy that had tried to do him in. The hedge wizard had been knocked back by Nightingale’s spell but was climbing back up on his feet. I rugby tackled him straight back down again, kicked him on to his front, bellowed the police caution in his ear and topped it all off with my new anti-magic handcuffs. They’re less like standard issue rigid speedcuffs and more like the kind of old fashioned manacles you might see Johnny Depp wearing in an increasingly terrible piratical movie franchise. But given that Nightingale had hand-forged them himself and they were going to stop anyone shooting any more fireballs at the back of my head, I was not complaining.

The one disadvantage of their hand-crafted nature, apart from the merry hell a pair in a jacket pocket  played with the line of Nightingale’s tailored suits, was that we only had one pair each and the chimera was behind me and she was still conscious and probably seriously pissed off.  Just as I was wondering whether a pair of normal speedcuffs would provide any greater obstacle for her than wet tissue paper, I heard a solid clunk   and - problem solved.  I turned to see Nightingale was up on his knees, locking his own set of cuffs firmly onto the chimera’s wrists.

I breathed out. Two dangerous magical felons in cuffs. Five more unconscious or lying very sensibly still, and probably not dead. So far, so good. But multiple, unrestrained hostiles, one fleeing suspect and the fact that the roof was on fire? Less good. Nightingale suddenly clutching his throat and then slumping to the ground? Bad. Very bad.

I dropped the ethically challenged wizard on his face and stumbled over, pulling my airwave out of my stab vest and thumbing it on. I shouted a few things into the handset for Seawoll to deal with – one suspect fleeing on foot to the upper levels, multiple casualties in the basement which might also be a little bit on fire - and then shoved the radio back onto its clip and turned to Nightingale. He was hunched forwards, wheezing loudly, breaths audible even over the crackle of the flames. I could see silvery white dust coating his skin and hair. It didn’t look like pepper spray.

“Are you all right?”

Nightingale coughed and scrubbed his sleeve across his face, but nodded. The radio crackled as the back-up above mobilized and I heard that the fleeing fairy had been spotted and a voice I recognised as Sahra Guleed announced she was in pursuit. I turned back to the burning room. I wanted to get Nightingale out of here, but I couldn’t leave the prisoners. They might have just been trying to kill me but I’m a copper. You get used to it. Besides, civilians are my responsibility – even more so now that I’d arrested them.

I raised a hand to cast aqua impello on the small fire on the ceiling – it was a bad idea with the amount of magic I’d already used in the fight, but what choice did I have? - when there was a sound like distant thunder, a stab of bright torchlight and Frank Caffrey accompanied by three firefighters came crashing downstairs in full fire and rescue gear like stocky Kevlar-coated guardian angels.  Two leapt straight into action with hand-held fire extinguishers while Caffrey headed straight to me and Nightingale.

“Seawoll is on his way,” he said, helping me pull Nightingale up to his feet and shoving him towards the stairs. “How many down here?”

“Five,” I said, and pointed to the cuffed prisoners, “Plus these two.”

“There’s uniforms upstairs,” Frank said, “We’ll radio  when it's safe for them to come down and handle the rest of this bunch. You get your perps, and your trouble magnet-" He gestured over his shoulder towards Nightingale, “- out of here.”

We hauled the illegal wizard and reptile/goat/woman onto their feet and I pushed them in front of me up the stairs after Nightingale, holding onto their cuffed hands in each of mine. They both seemed compliant but I wasn’t optimistic. One cop to two arrestees is bad numbers and I wasn’t sure if Nightingale would be with it enough to help if they got it into their heads to jump me. But I wasn't hanging around in a burning basement to wait for backup, it was already hard enough to breathe.

At my shoulder the radio sang again. The fairy had given Guleed the slip somewhere. There were officers at all the exits. Fire was under control. Backup required in the basement.

Nightingale made it to the main machining hall before collapsing, coughing, against the wall. I glanced towards him, and the illegal wizard seized his opportunity with both cuffed hands. He threw himself backwards, breaking my grip, before lunging at Nightingale.

I reached after him and yelled “Stand still!” in my scariest voice, not because I thought it would work but it’s a standard Police tactic – something primal in a suspect’s head often reacts to the sound of a big scary authority figure screaming at you even if your conscious mind is telling you to ignore the pigs and carrying on running. No such luck with this one though; I'd already started diving forward to grab him again but the chimera in my other hand was weighing me down like an anchor. But suddenly the practitioner was wrenched fully out of reach, spun about and slammed face first into the floor.

“Oh no, you don’t, you little shit,” snapped Stephanopoulos, as she pressed him into the concrete, and then knelt on his cuffed hands until the illegal wizard gave a groan, coughed, and went limp. The cavalry had arrived.

Stephanopoulos managed the practitioner while three more uniforms kindly took the chimera off my hands. All the detainees were propelled firmly towards the factory doors and out into the courtyard where a riot van, aka the bad boys’ playbus, would be waiting to take them away.  One problem sorted. Now there was just my boss to manage.

I grabbed Nightingale’s arm and threw it over my shoulders to follow them. He was still coughing and could barely get his legs under him enough to walk. That was not good.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Come on, sir,” I gasped out as I dragged him towards the distant headlights. “Time to get out of here.”

We just made it outside before he collapsed for a third time onto the cold dark concrete. I decided enough was enough and started yelling for help.

“Falcon officers! I need paramedics here, and water.”

Someone shouted back and I saw distant movement, so I just hoped they were on their way and turned all my attention on Nightingale. He was propped up against the wall, still coughing and wheezing. I pulled off his tie and loosened his collar, trying to free his airway. Beneath the silvery powder, Nightingale's skin looked disturbingly ashen and his eyes were very wide.

Someone appeared at my side, pressing a plastic water bottle into my hands, so I grabbed Nightingale’s shoulders and tilted him forward,  sloshing the whole bottle's worth over his head and face. Anything to try and wash away the white particulates sticking to his skin and hair. The person crouching next to me, some PC I didn’t know, was already cracking the top off a second bottle and I grabbed it gratefully, this time using it to try and flush out Nightingale’s eyes and mouth. Mucous membranes were where toxic substances did the most damage, I knew that much. Nightingale was doing his best to help, choking and spitting, but his breathing was worsening by the second. Nothing seemed to be working. What the hell was in that canister?

In the distance, I heard a familiar voice and then Dr Walid was crouching down next to me, two paramedics at his side.

“Peter. Can you tell me what happened?” He asked in his usual unruffled way, grabbing Nightingale’s wrist. The paramedics were opening medical bags and setting up gas cylinders.

“One of them sprayed something, some chemical, on Nightingale,” I gasped, feeling close to panic. “From a canister. White powder. He started coughing and now he-“

As if hearing his name, Nightingale suddenly spasmed and then lurched forward, gasping and hacking. Something warm splashed onto me. I thought at first Nightingale had just thrown up on me but then I glanced down and saw bright red blood splattered across my hands. It was streaming out of Nightingale’s mouth and down his chin.

“Jesus Christ,” said the PC who was standing by. “It’s a fucking Seeburn.”

Even the most junior police trainee knows Seeburn , or more properly, CBRN, stands for. Chemical, Biological, Radioactive or Nuclear; as in, the four main nasties that shithead terrorists might decide to dump onto innocent civilians to make themselves feel important. In this instance, the first two options, chemical or biological, were most likely; something nice and family-friendly like anthrax or chlorine gas or novichok. It was with that thought that I finally figured out just how deep into the shit we might be and a coldness of undefined panic flowed straight from my blood into my chest.

Everyone had frozen in place around us, and I knew exactly what the rule said about approaching casualties in a suspected CBRN incident and that was that you didn’t. The job of first responders was to identify the danger, control the scene and call in the big boys ASAP, all without putting themselves or their colleagues at risk of contamination. The last thing anyone needed in a situation like this was everyone wading in and creating more casualties.

But either Dr Walid hadn’t read the same operational manual that I’d read, or he’d decided that he didn’t give a shit. Either way, he didn’t hesitate a second longer; leaning forward to slap an oxygen mask over Nightingale’s face and turn on the cylinder in one smooth move. The other paramedics quickly followed his example. One of them crouched at Nightingale’s side taking his vitals while the other was leaning in close to me, asking questions. I was too distracted to answer though because on my left, Walid was taking into the radio. I heard him calmly identify himself and inform mission control that he had multiple casualties who appeared to have been victims of an aerosolised chemical or biological agent. He required a treatment area to be set up under hazardous material protocols or failing that the immediate medical evacuation of multiple persons to an appropriate facility for decontamination.

I was about to ask “multiple casualties?” when my lungs seemed to seize up and I coughed, hard, hand going to my throat. It wasn’t panic after all, I finally realised. It was just that my breathing didn't seem to be working quite right.

Across the courtyard, in the direction of the riot van, I heard a third person start to cough.

Radio control issued an acknowledgement and then, after a moment of silence, the airwave on my vest went bonkers as Walid’s words triggered a full scale major incident protocol. I let the acronyms and short bursts of tightly coded procedural instructions stutter past like grapeshot, but I knew well enough what would be happening.  All personnel and civilians would be removed from the building and isolated. Three layers of major incident cordons would be established around the incident location. Nearby buildings were to be evacuated. An anti-terrorist unit would shortly be inbound.

I dragged my attention back to my immediate surroundings. Nightingale was lying down now, on his side. He coughed again and I saw blood spray all over the inside of the O2 mask. I reached out to help but my arms swam before me and I could barely breathe at all now. Someone in a paramedic’s uniform was giving me instructions, pushing on my shoulders until I was lying on the floor. Weird black spots were flickering across my vision.

I turned my head at a familiar voice and Walid was there, kneeling at my side.

“Just relax, Peter,” he said, and clamped an oxygen mask over my own face. “Relax. Breathe. It’ll be okay.”

I like Dr Walid a lot, and as far as I know he’s never told me a lie. But right at that moment I was 100% sure that he just had. 

Research notes: Anthrax

Anthrax is a biological agent most deadly in its form of pulmonary anthrax. It infects through contact with bacterial spores. It can't be aerosolized and isn't transferred from person to person. Once inhaled, pulmonary anthrax presents with flu-like symptoms including fever, chest pain, fatigue and dyspnoea. If identified and treated promptly it has a 45% survival rate. If not treated, the infection descends into pneumonia with fever, shock, breathlessness, and death within 48 hours in 85% of cases.

Chapter Text

Eventually, of course, Walid was right. But in the short term it was the scariest few hours I can remember that didn’t involve the Royal Opera House or the underside of a platform at Oxford Circus tube station.

One thing to be said for the events of that night in general; it formed a very effective surprise training drill for the Met’s Major Incident Procedure Manual. Everyone who had been in the building or come into contact with someone who had been was evacuated to a specialist facility within 20 minutes of Walid’s radio message. The factory itself was isolated and searched by HazMat teams. Those of us who were already sick were airlifted to the Secure Infectious Disease Unit at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead and went through a fairly unpleasant decontamination process and then quarantine. I didn’t see Nightingale again for a couple of days as we lay in our creepy sci-fi isolation tents and they pumped us full of antibiotics, though I heard him and the illegal wizard coughing nearby so I knew they were both still alive. I was glad I hadn’t been in the room when he found out they’d destroyed all our clothes, including his favourite coat. Still, at least for the moment all the HazMat measures had worked and any potential outbreak seemed to have been contained.

I learned they’d evacuated the entire airport too. That was a tiny bit embarrassing.

Dr Walid had somehow managed to wrangle his way back into the RFH to wait out his own quarantine by the end of the first eight hours – that man has the gift of the gab like no-one I’ve ever met. Just look how he gets his hands on an MRI whenever he wants. But regardless, the medical team needed his esoteric advice - no-one could figure out quite what it was that our missing fairy friend had dosed us with or what exactly it was going to do to us. Based on the rapid onset and the fact that Nightingale was spraying blood everywhere whenever he coughed the medical team had started out thinking they were dealing with some sort of lung damaging agent, like Phosgene. But that, I learned, was a colourless gas not a powder, didn’t tend to cause immediate irritation to breathing and none of us had dermal burns. So then they changed their minds and started investigating pulmonary anthrax.  But that didn’t fit either, because, as far as Walid knew, no-one’s ever developed an anthrax aerosol, and besides, even inhaled, anthrax usually takes days for symptoms to show, not seconds. And what Walid and the team were seeing in our lab tests didn’t make any sense either; any B. anthracis bacteria present had somehow mutated rapidly on contact with our blood so as to be unrecognisable. No chance of getting any of the pure toxin either - no-one had found a canister at the scene, and I had managed to wash too much of the stuff off Nightingale to get a sample from his skin or clothes.

Initially I was well enough to listen to all Walid's theorising. As luck would have it I hadn't actually breathed in all that much of the stuff, and neither had the ethically-challenged practitioner (who I learned was named Ethan Everett). Nightingale, of course, took the brunt. But within another twelve hours all three of us were as sick as dogs with high fevers, extreme shortness of breath and a lovely array of weird purple lesions on our chests and arms, and I stopped paying attention to what Dr Walid was saying because I was fairly confident we were all about to die.

But we didn’t. Somehow, the antibiotics and antitoxins started to work, and we began to improve. My fever broke first, and then by day four the lesions had noticeably faded. Everett’s started to vanish the following day, and Nightingale’s by day six. My boss was still coughing, but at least Walid had been able to reassure me that it was just run-of-the-mill anthrax-induced pneumonia rather than the fact his lungs had been melted or something. It turned out the blood Nightingale had been hacking up at the factory had come from numerous abrasions in his airway caused by macroscopic shards of something gritty in the particulate he’d inhaled  - metal or plastic probably. Though it must have hurt like hell and had been bloody terrifying to watch, he was apparently healing quickly and without any complications. Apart from the pneumonia that is, but as chest infections had been a delightful recurring gift of Christopher Pinkman’s bullet over the past few years, that at least was familiar.

I’d seen Nightingale a couple of times across the ward, and I’d twice been allowed to wave at my parents and Bev through a plastic screen when they’d come to visit but apart from that wordless communication I’d had to rely on getting all my news of the outside world from Walid. Still, it was reassuring to know that, for all the insinuations that everyone at Belgravia would be much happier if all the occupants of the Folly were to suddenly drop dead, the Met had taken our hospitalization as seriously as they would a potentially fatal attack on any copper. I’m sure the fact that the attack had also resulted in the evacuation of an international airport may have had something to do with it. Seawoll had apparently been spitting tacks and most of the Belgravia nick had spent the last week turning the city over searching for the supply line for the toxin, interrogating the chimera I’d arrested, tracing the background and associates of Ethan Everett, and attempting to hunt down the still missing perp. 

Miriam Stephanopoulos had been dealing directly with the more time critical aspect of the investigation. The moment the site was cleared by HazMat, her team and the K9 unit were sent in to fingertip search the entire factory complex in the rather desperate hope of finding something that would help the hospital identify the toxin we’d been poisoned with in enough time for the information to save our lives. Thirty-one hours in, a PC on a double shift spotted an aerosol canister stuffed into a scrubby half-dead buddleia four streets away from the factory. There was enough left in the container for the lab to finally run some detailed samples and determine that the agent was indeed a strain of anthrax although it had been somehow weaponised and chemically altered to make it more potent and faster acting, and no-one knew how or who by. That second question was at least quickly answered, because when Walid handed me the sealed evidence bag containing the canister, the slash of the Faceless Man’s razor sharp signare was scalded onto the vestigia like a brand. It didn’t seem like so much of a coincidence any more that the only three of us who fell sick were practitioners.

But regardless, the fact that there were only three patients and that no further outbreaks or casualties were reported was hailed as a triumph for the disaster planning of the joint emergency services. The media had apparently decided that the event in which two police officers and a suspect were hospitalised was a tear gas attack on the airport. There’s no changing their minds about some things.

We remained in quarantine for five more days after most of the symptoms cleared because no-one wanted to take any chances with magically weaponised anthrax. That gave Dr Walid plenty of opportunity to stuff everyone into an MRI and play another round of Pin The Hyperthaumaturgial Degradation On The Brain . Fortunately, that seemed to be one area in which we didn’t need any medical treatment, and with our brains declared intact we were all discharged with a slightly grubby bill of health and a mandatory week of medical leave for me, and three weeks for Nightingale on account of his lingering pneumonia. I did suggest to Walid that perhaps my governor ought to stay under hospital care for a few more days – he looked about as healthy as an extra from the Walking Dead. But Walid just shrugged and said that given how much Nightingale hated hospitals, he’d be better off at home.

Once all the paperwork was finally completed it was late on Saturday evening, fourteen days after we had first walked into that factory in Silvertown. All I wanted to do was get back to the Folly as fast as possible and fall face first into my own bed, but there was still the small matter of overseeing the incarceration of one Ethan Everett to the safety and comfort of a Falcon holding cell at Belgravia. He’d been both manfully silent and fully compliant during our medical stay; no doubt being at death’s door for a few days limits your interest in playing silly buggers. But I didn’t have any more confidence than Nightingale that he would now just willingly toddle along to Belgravia nick to face charges of, at minimum, assault on a police officer, and if he was really unlucky, terrorism and attempted mass murder. Right now Everett was sitting quietly in his plastic hospital chair between Nightingale and me but I'd spotted that he was gently sweating. He was still wearing the anti-magic shackles I’d clamped on him all those days ago in the warehouse but despite his apparent acquiescence I was under no illusions that he wasn't going to try something sooner or later. Besides, the shackles weren’t completely magic proof – they were good enough against anyone of my ability level, but they only proved a temporary irritant to Nightingale, who had still managed to produce a fireball in them after a couple of hours and some minor swearing. Tough, but not impossible.

I was resigning myself to the fact that, as the only two Falcon capable officers in the city, medical leave or not, either Nightingale or me were going to have to go with prisoner transfer bus, and as Nightingale was worryingly pale and still coughing, it was going to be me. Besides, what are junior officers for?  But then Stephanopoulos and Guleed, river deities bless their precious hearts, appeared with a team of three armed response officers and a fully insulated former cold-goods delivery truck, now converted into a temporary SAU hold and transfer unit. Its designation was FPT1, standing for Falcon Prisoner Transfer vehicle, although it had apparently it had already picked up an alternative nickname; the Freaky Perp Tank. I let Nightingale try and argue Stephanopoulos and Guleed out of sending us home, but even he gave up after no more than a minute. Everett was summarily locked into the back of the van, we checked that the things seemed as magic proof as possible and we waved them off.

Finally, Dr Walid drove Nightingale and me back to the Folly. We were all exhausted and I wasn’t sure I’d ever been this grateful to see the looming shadow of the coach house as we drove in through the gates. Nightingale exchanged a few quiet words with the two paratroopers guarding the kitchen entrance from the mews and they saluted and melted away into the night. I didn't see Caffrey anywhere.

Molly met us at the kitchen door with Toby, and I thought for a moment she might hug Nightingale, but she merely took his replacement coat with a little half bob of a curtsey, threw me an annoyed glance and pointed us towards the dining room. Dr Walid stayed for dinner, some sort of chicken I think, and we ate in companionable silence, too tired to think much beyond plate -> food -> fork -> face-> repeat. And, in Nightingale’s case, also cough.

About five minutes after Molly started taking the plates away, Guleed called to say Everett was processed and safely confined within his 4m by 4m magic-proof box at Belgravia nick, next door to the chimera. I wasn't the only one to breathe a sigh of relief to hear the transfer had gone without a hitch. Walid headed off home soon after and Nightingale and I retired to the soporific half-light of the reading room. I knew I really should find my backup phone and call my Mum and Bev, or even start wading through the thousands of emails I'd no doubt have. But I just didn't have the energy yet.

“Well,” Nightingale rasped and then paused to cough a couple of times with a wince. His voice sounded like someone had been rubbing his tonsils enthusiastically with sandpaper. I guess that’s what breathing in a lungful of metal shards will do to you. He sipped his peppermint tea, and continued. “That was certainly new, even for me.”

“Causing a terrorism scare?" I asked. "Getting magical anthrax poisoning? Or the murderous goat-komodo dragon-hybrid?”

“All three,” he said, with a small smile.

“Never a dull moment on the front lines of modern policing,” I summarised, with a yawn.

“Quite. Let's never do it again.”

“Agreed. Well, unless you need anything, sir, I’m going to bed. I’m expecting DCI Seawoll to be banging on the door in the morning with a metric shit-ton of paperwork.”

“Hmm,” said Nightingale, who stood up as I did. “Though as neither of us is likely to be declared fit for duty for at least a week, you will, of course, decline his kind offer. Sleep well, Peter,” he said, and then added. “You are also excused from Latin.”

Nightingale thought he was hilarious. I rolled my eyes as he had his back to me, but I couldn't help but feel relieved to hear him sounding more like normal again. The way he had looked lying on the concrete outside that factory, convulsing, blood streaming from his open mouth… Well. I did not need to be seeing that mental image again. Ever.

Nightingale wandered towards a stack of 50-thousand-word, leather bound tomes presumably for some light bedtime reading, as I turned towards the door and called back:

“Night, sir.”

“Goodnight, Peter.”

There was a brief wash of signare and a flicker of light behind me as Nightingale conjured a werelight, presumably to read the book titles better in the gloom. The light was just as suddenly snuffed out and I glanced back in time to see Nightingale dropping like a stone, a stack of books thundering down beside him.

“Sir!”

There was no way I could have made it across the room before he hit the deck, but I was at his side only a couple of seconds later. I quickly checked him over; he was out cold but he seemed to be breathing okay and nothing was obviously broken. His skin was cold, though, and his pulse seemed a little slow.

“Sir?” I called again, loudly, right in his face. ”Nightingale?”

He didn’t react. If he had just fainted he should wake up as soon as his body was flat and the blood got back to his brain. My first aid had taught me that much. But he wasn't coming round, and that meant something was wrong. I didn't bother shouting for Molly; if she was close enough to hear, she'd have heard the crash of the books falling and come to investigate. Instead I focused on trying to bring Nightingale round: yelling,  shaking his shoulders and finally resorting pinching the soft lobe of his ear and the back of his hand, but there was no reaction. 

Suddenly Molly was there, pushing the scattered books clear and helping me roll Nightingale over into the recovery position. I left her spreading a blanket over him and then took Nightingale's mobile when she offered it, jabbing at Dr Walid’s mobile number. He answered on the second ring, the rumble of distant traffic and passing sirens telling me he was still on the road.

“Peter? What’s happened?”

“Nightingale just passed out,” I said. “He’s breathing fine but I can’t get him to wake up.”

There was silence from the other end which I filled with images of Walid doing a handbrake turn across a dual carriageway.  

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes,” Dr Walid said. “Raise his legs, keep him warm and take his bloody tie off.”

It was more like 15 minutes before Walid reappeared, but that was still pretty impressive given he must have been most of the way back to Finchley and this is London traffic we’re talking about. It was enough time for me, even in my exhausted state, to conclude that it was almost certainly the werelight that had led to Nightingale’s unconsciousness. Neither of us had done any magic since the fight in the factory – not only did Dr Walid take the mixing of injury with magic extremely seriously but hospitals were full of the kind of very vital machinery that you did not want to be spontaneously turning into sand.

I explained all this to Walid while he was checking Nightingale over. He too tried shouting, shaking, and pinching, and had finally escalated to rubbing the knuckles of his right hand firmly up and down Nightingale’s sternum, something I am assured is extremely painful. Nightingale groaned and then coughed a little.

“Thomas?” Walid said.

Nightingale looked about, groggily, and then suddenly flailed his arms.

“Aye, take it easy. Come on, Peter, help me sit him up.”

We dragged Nightingale up into a sitting position against the bookcase. He looked really out of it and was holding tightly onto my wrist, as if he was concerned about falling over again.

“All right, Thomas. Are you with us?”

Nightingale nodded, staring at Walid. “What happened?” he rasped.

“Are you okay, sir?” I asked. “You tried to cast a werelight and I think you fainted.” Nightingale turned to look at me but didn't respond.

“Do you have any pain anywhere?” Walid prompted.

“My chest,” Nightingale admitted. “Throat.”

“Aye, do they hurt more or less than before?”

Nightingale seemed uncertain. “About the same?” he hazarded.

“Nae pain in your head anywhere?” Walid persisted.

Nightingale shook his head. I shifted uncomfortably; throughout the entire conversation Nightingale had been holding my arm and staring at me like I was some puzzle he couldn’t figure out. It was more than a little bit weird. I was happy enough to extract my arm and move back and loiter with Molly in the doorway as Dr Walid started a battery of tests. The tests included everything from having Nightingale walk in a straight line, hold his arms out with his eyes shut, reciting tongue twisters, naming random objects around the room and listing off the dates of various British monarchs. All the while Walid stared into his eyes and ears with a pen-torch and took a hundred other readings. The doctor seemed to have run out of tests before he was satisfied though, and he stood, considering.

“Well I cannae see anything wrong,” Walid said. “Not for certain. You dinnae seem to have given yourself a stroke in any case.  But I’d like to run another MRI to be sure...”

Both Nightingale and I groaned at the same. We’d only just escaped the hospital; the thought of trekking all the way back there at this time of night was not appealing.

“I truly feel fine,” Nightingale replied, quiet, almost subdued. “I am just extremely tired. Can’t we at least wait until morning?”

Dr Walid considered for another moment and then gave in.

“Fine,” he said. “But I am still no’ happy. I'd feel better if I could bide nearby in case something else happens overnight?”

He turned to me and I turned to Molly.

“Molly, do you think you could make up one of the spare rooms for Dr Walid...?”

She nodded and disappeared in a whirl of black skirts.

Nightingale smiled, gratefully. “Thank you, sergeant.”

Eventually we got Nightingale upstairs and to his rooms. He seemed a little unsteady but there was no sign of any further fainting, and by the time we reached the second floor he was starting to get irritable in what was a relieving return to form. I let Walid deal with reading him the riot act – No magic, call any of us if you feel in the slightest bit ill, no magic, don’t get up and wander about on your own and, once again and this time with feeling, NO MAGIC.

I went to bed. I was so tired I didn’t think that I’d dream but I did. The Faceless Man and Lesley both danced through my unconscious mind laughing like Mr Punch while bits of Skygarden rained down around us. Jaget Kumar was trying to get me to join a band while Toby had taken on a Labrador puppy to be his ghost-hunting dog apprentice. Once I dreamed that I was lying in bed and Nightingale was standing in the corridor and was staring at me through the open door to my room. But when I opened my eyes, the door was closed and he was gone.

Research notes: London City Airport

Two years after Peter and Nightingale caused the evacuation of London City Airport due to a suspected chemical attack, there actually was an incident in which tear gas was released in the airport terminal. 27 people were treated in hospital and hundreds of others experienced temporary blindness or itching. The airport was evacuated and numbers of flights cancelled. Although an arrest was made, there was never any confirmation that magical practitioners were involved.

Stroke

Field tests for identifying stroke and vascular damage are designed to identify changes to balance, clarity and comprehension of speech, one-sided weakness and memory loss.  The sooner medical treatment can be received, the better the outcome for the patient.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong. I could feel it as soon as I started to become aware of myself. The world seemed oddly distorted as if I were watching something happening terribly far away. My limbs were leaden. I tried to move my hand but it felt so disconnected from my body that I put too much effort in and was surprised when my arm flailed and smacked into something solid.

I didn't want to move, but hands held my shoulders and spun me dizzily up. Distantly I heard distorted echoes of voices murmuring sentiments and vague comforts.

 I opened my eyes and saw two ghosts.

That they should be here together was an impossibility. They belonged to different ages, different lives. My mind swam with incomprehension but I repelled it, staring at the ghosts. I repeated their names like forma in my mind that it might somehow make them less unreal. Peter Grant. Alastair Wilson. Alastair was speaking and perhaps I nodded.  He looked, I thought, tired and old, though Peter was as young and full of life as when I had first met him. Whatever had brought them here, resurrected them as ghosts or visions or hallucinations of my fevered mind, it at least had not harmed them.  Peter’s arm passed before my eyes and I grasped his wrist to test its substance. The flesh had matter beneath my fingers, warm and pulsing with life. He did not feel like a ghost. The touch grounded me enough to speak although I did not really remember afterwards what was spoken.

They asked me questions then, endless questions, and I thought that I answered though the words flew out from my mouth and fluttered off across the room like birds before I could comprehend what I had said. Alastair though did not seem to notice my abstraction and perhaps part of my mind was still operating like it should through this strange dissociation and knew just what to say. What was left at me could only stare at my ghosts.

At last we went upstairs and they left me alone, to sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to muster the energy to get undressed as the ghost of Alastair had ordered. The strength never came, and instead I lay back and the blankets flowed out from underneath me like melt waters, spreading out to the edge of the room and beyond. I lay suspended in a shadowy ocean, strange currents moving beneath me at unfathomable depths. There were spectres here too, but everything seemed so quiet, breathless and mournful. 

The Folly was so silent that I was suddenly afraid. I felt desperately, horribly alone. I went out onto the landing and opened the door next to my own, quietly. Inside there was someone asleep on a brass bed; I saw gingery hair painted grey by the darkness, if not yet by age. I heard soft breath. Breath meant life, and I was not alone. Relief was almost palpable and I closed the door silently. But no sooner had it closed than the fear returned and I passed to the next door, opening it before I could stop myself. A shadowed figure inside sat at a desk, writing. He had his back to me. I closed the door quickly before I could disturb him. Smithy had hated to be disturbed while he was working. In the next two rooms Woodley and Sharnbrook were both asleep but Archie Tabbot’s room was empty.  I could not remember what he looked like.

I drifted down a flight of stairs and there were still more doors. I saw Old Man Booker, and Charlie, and the Toskin twins who had all occupied the same room, years apart, overlapping in their space like sheets of colourless glass. I opened doors and I closed doors and suddenly I saw another man asleep in brass bed. He slept on his back, arms thrown wide like he was claiming the whole world for his own. His skin was dark, painted with soft night-time shadows and he was snoring slightly. He seemed so at home in this space. He belonged here, in this place, at this time. He was an actuality in a night of ghosts and spectres.

I closed the door softly and walked away. He belonged here, while I felt lost, dislocated, out of time. If he was real then maybe it was I that was the ghost after all. Lost in this house, trapped between the ages. The night seemed so black around me and I stumbled on a step. I cast up a werelight to show the way, but instead of illumination, it brought only darkness.

Research notes: Abdul Haqq Walid - Part 1

Dr Abdul Haqq Walid was born Alastair Hamish Wilson on 22 June 1962, in Crieff, Perthshire. His interest in medicine was clear from a young age, where he was often to be seen 'physicking' his brother or two sisters or practising his bandaging on the family cat. 

Though not aware of it for many years, contact the supernatural was threaded throughout his life. At the age of five, he and his seven-year-old brother Donan became lost during an unusually early snowstorm. They were found quite by chance two days later, safe and surprisingly hale, in an old drover’s hut on the moors, some ten miles from home near Loch Freuchie. Alastair remembered little of what had happened, but Donan reported several times that a tall lady with black hair had taken them to the hut out of the snow and fed them milk from a pail. Little more was said of the incident, but the boys’ grandmother often went to the hut afterwards and left milk and hard cake in a stone dish as an offering for the ghillie dhu which had saved them. 

Three years later, during a family holiday at Nairn, near Inverness, eight-year-old Alastair was exploring by the sea when he met a young woman sitting in the dunes and crying. Being the kind-hearted soul that he was, Alastair tried to comfort her. Her name, she said, was Isobel, and she was lonely. All her friends had gone. Alastair made a point after that to go out every day at dusk to meet her there by the sea. In return, Isobel would tell the most amazing stories. She knew about the fairy folk that lived under the Downie Hill at Auldearn, where the King and Queen of Elfhane feasted with their court. She entertained him with tales of witches who flew through the lands at night on enchanted corn straws, shooting elf arrows into the sky, stealing ale and spoiling crops; of the spirits, clad in yellow and green, who attended to the devil when he walked in the hills; of spells the local women used to cure fevers and mend broken bones, or charms that would transfer sickness from a baby onto a cat or a dog. When the time came for Alastair to go home, Isobel wept anew and it was only when he promised to return did she finally let him go, telling him to stay away from Gallowhill and ‘the man with the pin’.  Two years later when the Wilsons went back to the area, Alastair went out to the dunes every day, but he didn’t see Isobel again. 

But there were other strange happenings. Alastair saw faces in the windows of old castles and lights out on the moors at night. Sometimes he caught snatches of something other when he walked by the lochs and streams or near to certain people - hints of song, the smell of cattle, or the taste of whiskey and blood. His Grandmother said he had a touch of the sight. Alastair suspected he was just the only one paying attention. 

David Drummond, the third Lord Madertie and, as Alastair later learned, one of the last magicians to still be practising prior to Newton’s Great Classification, collected a large archive of books on theology, witchcraft, demonology and astrology. These books remain on public display at the historic Innerpeffray Library, and it was here on a school trip at the age of fifteen that Alastair first discovered that there actually existed literature on the fairies, ghosts and creatures of cryptozoology that his Grandmother had made sound only as folk tales. He visited the library every evening after school for six weeks, during which time he discovered a book of bound papers from the Laird of Park, which contained, in full, the confessions of Isobel Gowdie, who was trialled for witchcraft in 1662. After being tested by the Witch Pricker and bring forced to make a full confession she had been found guilty, hanged at Gallowhill, burned, and her ashes scattered in the sea at Nairn. 

Reluctant as he was to conclude that he had been speaking to her ghost all those years ago, throughout the rest of his late teens Alastair was left with the inescapable feeling that there was more going on . Parents and teachers put this down to standard teenaged angst, but for Alastair, the sense of dissatisfaction that something was being kept from him, just out of sight, could never quite be settled. 

In 1980, Alastair moved to London to study Medicine and Surgery at University College London. There were certainly closer medical schools, and good ones too, but Alastair remained determined to make a clean break from Scotland, hoping to find a way to fulfil the nagging sense of incompleteness which had followed him for much of his life. The course was attended by a vast array of different students from backgrounds he had never encountered before, and soon Alastair made a variety of friends. Two of these were dentistry students from Indonesia, Arif and Gus, who were quite happy to bring him along with them to the mosque when he expressed curiosity.

In was there he first saw Nadiya Samara, and thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. Nadiya was also a student at UCL, studying clinical psychology, and the pair formed a firm friendship, preceding their eventual marriage by nearly a decade. In the meanwhile, Alastair continued to attend mosque for two years before he came to the realisation that through Islam he was able to achieve a measure of peace which he had never experienced before. Once that realisation had occurred, the decision to convert was a natural progression, and so 1982, when Alastair was twenty, he returned to Crieff, intending to break the news to his family in person. He doubted that either of his parents would truly be upset by his decision - the family had attended the kirk every Sunday but he had always suspected that was out of habit and for the town gossip rather than any true Christian devotion. But changing his name - that was something that Alastair knew his father would find hard to accept. Leaving the Wilson name behind was going to be taken as a personal blow. But Alastair was determined, and so back to Scotland he went. 

He first saw the man at the train station in Dunblane. Dark haired, dark coated and walking with a silvertopped cane, Alastair would have thought him a punk or a goth making a statement if not for the tie and the neat parting of his hair. The man also got onto the bus for Crieff, but after that  Alastair completely forgot about him because that’s when he picked up a newspaper and read about the murders. First, animals had started dying. Then people had been going missing, one after another. A local farmer, a young priest, and then a twelve-year-old boy. The body of the priest had been found last week in the hills east of Loch Earn, and on Monday the farmer’s body had turned up in a deserted hollow near Loch Tay. The boy was found on the moors twenty hours later, and yesterday his grieving mother had seemed to go mad, writhing and spitting, before dropping to the ground, dead. No officer on the case would say how any of them were killed. This morning a six-year-old girl was declared missing.

The man’s name, Alastair eventually learned, was Thomas Nightingale and he was a Police Detective. That he was also seemingly a wizard became apparent later, after Alastair joined the search parties looking for the missing children and they ended up in the same search group. It was twelve hours after that that Alastair had found himself alone, trapped up against a rocky crag on the moors on Creag Ruadh at midnight while a great black stag with rabid red eyes writhed and twitched its way towards them, and Nightingale had appeared and somehow produced a searing light out of thin air. The stag shuddered and convulsed, and a formless black shape had massed out from its corpse and scudded off into the night like a wisp of fog.

Alastair had said “What the hell was that?” 

Nightingale had brushed off his coat, and said: “That was a brollachan. A particularly nasty one, too.”

“No,” said Alastair, “That light. What the hell was that ?”

“Oh,” said Nightingale. “A naval flare. Happened to have one in my pocket; thought it might come in handy.”

No, it bloody wasn’t , Alastair had thought, but he had kept the observation to himself for several more days while the madness unfolded, madness which included four crime scenes, two more terrifying encounters with the brollachan and a completely illegal visit to the police morgue in Perth that they somehow got away with because Nightingale was a DCI and told everyone Alastair was a qualified pathologist. The final showdown involved a strange, and frankly quite heretical, ritual involving strings of herbs, a lot of muttering and chanting,  enough stolen road salt to bankrupt Perth and Kinross Council come winter, and finally Nightingale incinerating the exorcised brollachan into non-existence using nothing but his hands.

Later, when Nightingale had been preparing to return to London and Alastair had been contemplating the fact that facing his dad seemed a lot less terrifying now, he had realised this could be his last chance to get the truth. And so he turned to Nightingale and asked: 

“That was magic, right? You can do magic, can’t you?”

Nightingale had hesitated and finally said. “Yes. I can do magic.”

Alastair nodded. “Okay.”

Nightingale looked slightly amused. “That’s it? Just 'okay'?”

“After what I’ve seen over the past few days,” Alastair said, “magic is by far the least problematic explanation.”

Once he knew what he was looking for, he found the address of the Folly rather easily, and once he was back in London, Alastair decided to go and see the place for himself. Nightingale had looked briefly astonished when the terrifying maid had shown Alastair into the cavernous atrium, but got a hold of himself quickly and presented Alastair with a tour of the vast empty building followed by a police file containing images of a freshly mummified corpse. 

“I would be interested in hearing your perspective on cadavers in some of my other cases too,” Nightingale had said some hours later after Alastair was preparing to leave with an armful of fascinating looking books. “If you would be agreeable and don’t find it too distasteful. Oh, and you can call me Thomas.”

“Not in the least distasteful,” Alastair had reassured him. “I’d be delighted. And from now on you can call me Abdul. Abdul Haqq Walid.” 

Neither of them were particularly surprised when, six months later, Thomas offered to teach Abdul magic. It was even less of a surprise that Abdul turned him down. 

“For me, it’s enough to know that it exists,” Abdul had said. “That there is an explanation somewhere. I’m content enough with that.”

And he was content, and he didn’t regret his decision. He was very pleased to hear, nearly 29 years later, that Thomas had finally taken an apprentice, and he was also very, very relieved. 

And perhaps just the tiniest bit jealous.

Chapter Text

Unlike his namesake, Nightingale is an early riser. Even after all-night stakeouts, he’d still be down for breakfast hours before I managed to drag myself out from under my duvet. The latest I think I’d ever seen him up was 9am, and that was after three sleepless days and nights chasing a pack of ghouls through Smithfield meat market.  Don’t ask.

I didn’t know Dr Walid’s sleeping habits, but I was still surprised to find I was the only one, apart from Toby, who was down for breakfast. Molly glared at me in her usual fashion when I appeared in the dining room and huffed off to the kitchen. I ate more than usual, partly because I wanted to sample a bit of everything on offer as a delightful remedy to a fortnight’s hospital food, and partly because I was, for once, actually enjoying the sometimes eerie silence of the Folly.  Hospitals are surprisingly noisy places. Being able to just eat my breakfast and scroll through the last fortnight’s news on my phone in peace was a welcome change.

Dr Walid’s absence at least was explained by a note he’d left on the atrium table. Apparently a group of east London gang-members had decided that knifing each other was a fun way to spend a Saturday night and he had been called in to consult on the surgeries for several abdominal stab wounds.  He’d checked in on Nightingale before he’d left and my governor had appeared to be sleeping comfortably, but if when he woke up there was any further fainting or strange neurological signs I should call an ambulance immediately and then call Walid.

But by quarter to ten there was still no sign of Nightingale and I was starting to get a little concerned. 

“Did Nightingale eat already?” I asked Molly when she came in to start clearing away tureens of leftovers. She just shook her head. 

“Oh. Maybe he got called out somewhere early this morning, then?” but Molly shook her head again, and pointed out the jag’s keys still hanging in the little key box mounted on the wall by the kitchen door. So if my governor had gone out, he hadn’t taken the car. And frankly, given the way he had looked yesterday, I doubted he would have made it far on foot even if he’d wanted too. 

Eventually I cracked and headed up to the third floor to knock on the door to Nightingale’s rooms. Given the circumstances I found myself in when I first came to the Folly - me being a young bloke at the start of my career now housesharing with a very senior officer who also happened to be old enough to be my grandad’s dad - there’s already enough awkward moments in our day to day life without me wanting to go anywhere near Nightingale’s actual bedroom. But even our native British stoicism and constitutional incapability of handling anything close to emotion couldn’t outlast Nightingale getting shot in the back. And when Nightingale had then decided to check himself out of hospital three weeks early and against medical advice it pretty much put pay to any hopes I’d harboured of keeping a safe distance, particularly given the number of times he’d worked himself into exhaustion clearing up after Punch, and Molly and me had ended up carrying him up from the library and putting him to bed. Once you’ve seen someone half undressed and borderline delirious, it’s hard to unsee; that’s all I’m saying.

Whether I was willing to play nursemaid or not turned out to be irrelevant because there was no answer. When I threw caution to the wind and peeked in, he wasn’t there. I checked the mundane library but no sign there either. Neither was he in the magical library nor the teaching labs nor the coach house.

Now I was really beginning to feel alarmed. I wondered if perhaps Nightingale had suffered some kind of fatal brain haemorrhage and had fallen into a cupboard in one of the Folly’s hundreds of rooms and we wouldn’t find his corpse for five months. I turned my random door opening into a proper search strategy. The upper two floors weren’t used by anyone but Molly so I banked on being able to leave them ‘till last. I would start on the third floor and check every room on the way down. That was the plan, of course, until Molly just appeared in front of me, sighed silently, and marched down to the atrium. I followed meekly behind and she pointed firmly at a door across from the library that I’d never been in. I thought I remembered Nightingale on my very first day calling it the lecture theatre.

Now, I’m not exactly sure what use the Folly had for a lecture theatre, even in its heyday. As far as I’ve been able to pin down from Nightingale, who is remarkably vague on the subject, apprentice wizards at the Folly were largely receiving one-on-one tuition from their assigned masters, or at the least were working in small groups. But I’d also guessed that the Folly must have performed some functions of a university, or maybe a technical college, with practitioners housed here undertaking other aspects of research and ‘scientific enquiry’ alongside training up new apprentices. Maybe there were guest speakers, or lunchtime lectures, churning out to junior wizards such classics as “My Favourite Latin Declensions”, “Categorising the ‘subhuman’”,  or “Fifth level spells, for fun and profit.”

I stopped speculating and opened to door. You may have noticed from my random guesses above that I never made it to university, let alone anything nearing an Oxbridge level of education, so I wasn’t exactly a frequent attendee at anything that could usually be described as a lecture . I’d been along to a few talks in my time from local interest groups like historical societies or archaeologists, held in church halls or, in the latter case, usually the pub. And of course there were the numerous training courses and classes at Hendon, and more recently, the kind of conferences that only happen in modern, multi-functional suites designed to house a five-hundred executives or the occasional soulless wedding. But when I opened the door off the atrium and stepped cautiously in, I realised that the room in front of me was exactly how I thought a decent lecture theatre ought to look. 

Back in the day it would have seated perhaps one hundred of the Folly’s best and brightest wizards. There were seven curving rows in steep tiers, each formed of one long dark wooden bench with a little sloping table attached to the back of the seat in front. This was presumably for note-taking or at least pretending to take notes while having a cheeky hangover nap. Students can't have changed that much. Bisecting the curving tiers was a central aisle which stepped down to the main presenting floor. There was a long solid wooden lab bench in the centre of the floor, decorated with one or two burn marks. A speaker’s lectern stood in the corner, and behind was a large blackboard. Just like everywhere in the Folly, the vestigia lay thick and deep, like an undisturbed snowfall. Here it was like cigarette smoke and pencil sharpenings, a spark of inspiration, dust and boredom and bruised pride. There was furniture polish too, but I think that was just Molly.

Nightingale was seated at one narrow end of the presenting bench on a high lab stool. There were a set of papers spread out across the wood and he seemed to be staring at them with a sense of mild hopelessness. As I came down the shallow stairs he looked up.

“Ah, Peter,” he said, and he sounded pleased. “Good. Is Abigail back then?”

I was taken aback.

“Abigail only comes on Saturdays, sir,” I reminded him. Not only was that yesterday, but Abigail hasn't been up at the Folly for weeks, not since this whole business started.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Nightingale, though his smile had faded and he seemed kind of confused.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, and when he didn't answer, followed up with: “What’s that you’re working on?”

Nightingale sighed and pushed the papers away. I suddenly realised, with little start, that he was down to just his shirt sleeves and waistcoat. I'd seen him informally dressed before, in polo shirts, blazers and the occasional hospital gown. But it wasn't exactly common. I was even more surprised by what he said next.

“Alexander has come up with a theory.” 

Nightingale looked down at the papers again, frowning.

“He...has?”  I asked, dumbly. Seawoll couldn’t even bring himself to say the word magic most of the time. I couldn’t exactly picture him suddenly spouting magical hypotheses, except for ones involving exactly how painfully the Folly could go and fuck itself.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Nightingale was saying. “ Not another one . But this time he is certain there’s something in it. He says he’s found a link between the dwindling of Genii locorum and key positions of particularly notable gas holding stations. He calls it an obscurance. I said I’d read over his notes for him, but to be perfectly frank, it seems like gibberish to me. Here, you take a look. It’s more your area of expertise than mine.”

I walked over towards the bench as Nightingale hopped down from the chair. He took his jacket off the seat back and slipped it on, moving aside to let me past. I leaned in to look down at the desk.

I wish I had been surprised by what I saw, but I wasn’t. The papers were all blank. Every single one.

Something really weird was going on here, and the scary thing was, I couldn’t tell if the weird thing was me or Nightingale.

I turned at the sound of a door clicking shut.  While I’d been distracted, Nightingale had gone.

Research notes: Casterbrook and magical education in Britain

The system of magical education in place in Britain up to the mid 20th century comprised elements of both school-based education and a system of apprenticeships. Students of magic attended Casterbrook boarding school between the ages of 11 and 16, where they received a classical education and began the basics of magical forms. At 16 years of age, the boys transferred to the sixth form, also part of Casterbrook School where they were able to specialise in certain subjects, such as science or languages, as well as continuing their magical studies. It was during this period that students were expected to write to Master practitioners based at the Folly or elsewhere in Britain, or in very exceptional circumstances abroad, and request apprenticeship. Particularly advanced students may begin undertaking fieldwork at this stage, assisting with maintaining the Agreements and the King's Peace, under the supervision of a school master or another practitioner of at least Second Order.

Upon leaving Casterbrook in their 18th year, students then entered their apprenticeships, receiving first-hand instruction from their master. Most masters took on only one student, but it wasn't unheard of for multiple apprentices sharing particular research interests to be tutored by a single master wizard. This last stage of magical tuition, the apprenticeship, would enable the student to be guided through learning the most difficult higher order spells, as well as the opportunity to travel, undertake fieldwork and play an active role in the life of the Folly and its associated institutions.

Once able to demonstrate their competency, the student was instructed in the art of staff forging, and the receipt of their staff marked their graduation, the completion of their formal education and their status as a fully authorised Newtonian wizard. Although traditionally this process was said to last 10 years, in practice this was usually much shorter. Fulfilling broadly the same educational niche as a bachelor's  degree, apprenticeships commonly lasted around three to four years, but could still last as long as eight depending on the aptitude, or lack thereof, of the practitioner. Thomas Nightingale notably completed his apprenticeship in the highly accelerated time of twenty-six months, and was quickly considered to be a Wizard of the First Order. At least ten years of subsequent active service and further demonstrations of skill were required before a practitioner could be considered a Master Wizard.

Chapter Text

Sometimes I like to come and sit with Sir Isaac. I know it is foolish but it helps, I find, just to look on his likeness and remind myself where everything began. That, at least once, somebody saw some sense in it all and that it is upon the rock of Newton’s great conviction that these walls were built. It reminds me that as much as I feel adrift, the ground here is solid. Here I can stand.

I was lost in my own thoughts when someone called to me. I turned, distracted, and noticed a young man striding across the atrium. He was taller than I, with black tightly curled hair and his skin was quite dark; I thought him perhaps an Arab or an Egyptian. He seemed to be wearing tough workman’s trousers and boots, though both were clean.

“Can I help you?” I asked, a little surprised that he had made his way into the building without anyone observing it.

He stopped walking suddenly and eyed me with a certain wariness. “I really, really hope we are going to be able to laugh about this later,” he said, almost to himself. Then, to me, he said; “Sir, you know me. I’m Peter. Peter Grant? We were literally just talking, downstairs in the lecture theatre. You asked me about Abigail.”

“I am afraid you are confusing me with someone else,” I said. Perhaps the boy was touch slow, though he seemed earnest enough. “Look,” I added, kindly. “If you are here to make a delivery, it might be better to go around to the door in the stableyard. I’ll show you where you can find one of the kitchen staff.”

The lad rubbed a hand over his short fuzz of hair. “Wow,” he said. “You think I’m the Help. You are going to be so horrified when you remember you said that. Right now though, I have no idea if intermittent memory loss is a symptom of a stroke, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m going to call Dr Walid; just...don’t go anywhere, sir.”

“There’s not much point calling Abdul, I’m afraid. He said he was consulting on a surgery - several nasty stab wounds, I believe.  I don’t expect he’ll be free for hours yet.”

“Wait, you remember that?” asked Peter. “And Dr Walid too?”

I raised my eyebrow, curiously. “Are you feeling quite alright? Of course I remember Abdul. He only left a few hours ago. Honestly, Peter. I may be over a hundred years old but I’d thank you to remember I am not senile quite yet. Now come on, we don’t have all day.”

I set off at a pace towards the east stairs and the library. Behind me, I heard him pulling out his phone and speaking into it in quick, quiet sentences. I didn’t pay any attention. No doubt it was the answering machine. I had other things to concern me.

We headed into the library; Peter firmly on my heels.

“I’m reasonably sure I know what the problem is here,” I told him as we made our way through to the appropriate section. “And fortunately there is a quantity of literature on the subject.”

I turned to the shelves, fetching down Polidaris, van Steen and Hodgekin’s Cryptomorphia . “Can you reach the Xanthopoulos volume? Thank you.”

He bought the book over, slowly. “You think you know what’s going on then, sir?”

“I should say the cause at least was pretty straight forward,” I assured him, flipping through the pages. “Though the solution may be more problematic. I recall there were a number of very similar incidents at the turn of the century in Scotland.”

“Turn of which century?” He asked, and I quickly glanced up to see if he was being facetious.

“The nineteenth.” I said, when it seemed to be a serious question. “But I hope to be significantly more prepared than they were. Banshees are not something to be taken lightly.”

“Banshees.” He said, and then sighed. “I get it. You’re not talking about a cure for this , whatever this is, are you? You’re having another hallucination. Or a dream or a psychotic break or... something. Come on, sir. Wake up! For fuck's sake, you just remembered me!”

I frowned, wondering if he was perhaps drunk. “Jeremy, I assure you that this is the only viable explanation and you had better take it seriously. We have very little time to plan our movements and, though they may not be vampires, banshees can still be very dangerous, especially in groups. You don’t want to end up like poor Freddie Ellis.”

Though the unfortunate Ellis had died in 1911 (I was still only a week into my first term at Casterbrook at the time), his name and fate quickly gained the notoriety of the fascinatingly gruesome amongst the boys, being retold year after year like a ghost story. I was surprised that Jeremy had not come across the name, but his expression changed from exasperated to morbidly curious.

“Why, what happened to him?” he asked.

“I believe they found most of his head,” I answered, shortly. “Now. I think our best course of action is to try and trap the banshee in a mirror-lined box before we destroy it. This is why I borrowed you from your master, of course. I need an assistant to bind her in the box with relligo while I hold her. This will of course become more complicated if there are more than one...”

Jeremy’s face took on a look I recognised.

I frowned. “You had better tell me.”

“I don’t know that spell yet,” the younger man said.

I stared. “Your master assured me that you were competent enough to do this task. It has to be relligo. ”

“Okay, then teach it to me,” said Jeremy, sounding rather irritated.

I rubbed a hand over my brows, getting frustrated myself. “I don’t teach, Jeremy, you know that. And even if I had the skill or the inclination to do so, we don’t have the time.” I sighed, wondering what to do. It was clear this young man was not suitable for a job this complex. But they told me he was the most skilled of the recent Ambrose House arrivals and just required field experience.

“Perhaps this isn’t a good idea,” I told him. “I am certain that I can manage on my own.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” said Jeremy, in his odd way. “You just said the, uh, procedure takes two. There’s no way you are leaving me behind. How about you do this relligo thing and I’ll hold her down using aer congolare and scindere ?”

“That-” I said, ready to dismiss the absurd suggestion. Then I stopped myself, thinking. “That is a rather radical proposal. It lacks elegance but it could work, I suppose. In theory.”

“Okay, good,” said Jeremy, and actually took hold of my shoulders. “We have a solution to your banshee problem, whatever the fuck a ‘banshee’ actually is. So now you have to listen to me. This, whatever you are seeing, is not real. I have no idea who this Jeremy is or was, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t black. Look at me! I’m not him. You’re caught in some old memory and you have to snap out of it. You aren’t about to go police some mythical creatures in nineteen-whatever. It’s twenty-fourteen. You have to wake up.”

I felt a strange sensation as if caught in a warm breeze and, for a moment, the young man’s face before me blurred. Then his words sunk in.

“Twenty-fourteen...” I said, and glanced at my watch. He was right; it was nearly quarter past the hour. “Damn! Our train is at 20.52. Quickly now! I hope you have packed your things. We’ll go through the rest of the plan on the train.”

Research notes :   Banshees

A Bean Sidhe - or banshee - is a form of revenant, particularly known to manifest around sites where children have perished. Its screams, while believed in folklore to warn of a death in the family, are often actually the cause of it, as the sound is believed to resonate at frequencies capable of damaging human tissue. Frederick Ellis was one of the most infamous cases; an incautious wizard who tackled such a spirit alone and without the appropriate precautions, and was trapped by a banshee with a cry so powerful it was said that his entire body exploded. The truth is lost to history, but it is likely to be somewhat less lurid. Fortunately banshees have become gradually rarer during the 20th century, and now sightings are all but unknown.

Jeremy Wardle

Jeremy Wardle arrived at the Folly in 1933, under the tutelage of Rupert Bainbridge. The masters at Ambrose House had described him as an 'unremarkable' and 'pedestrian' student with little ambition. The early part of his apprenticeship went largely without note, although it would later be observed that he was in the same school year as Geoffrey Wheatcroft, who later taught magic illegally at Oxford. It is unknown if they were friends.

Eight months into his apprenticeship, Jeremy accompanied Thomas Nightingale, by then a newly minted police sergeant, to Scotland to assist with the capture of a banshee which had recently attacked a number of groundskeepers on a certain royal estate, killing one. Sergeant Nightingale, while harbouring some concerns as to the skills and ability of the young Jeremy, had agreed to take him along for some fieldwork experience at the insistence of the boy's master, who was rather infirm and was at that time laid up with scarlet fever.

Unfortunately, Nightingale's doubts turned out to be well founded. When the one banshee they were expecting turned out to be a nest of three, Wardle panicked. He did survive the experience and was eventually released from hospital into the care of a convalescent home in Wiltshire. Wardle never returned to the Folly, however, and gave up magic for good.

Nightingale, who was already resisting pressure from others at the Folly to take an apprentice, believed the events proved all his own self-doubts to be valid. In a letter addressed to the then Master of the Folly Alfred Booker, Nightingale stated quite firmly that, circumstances having proven he had no aptitude or patience for teaching, he would therefore not be taking on a student, now or ever. Fortunately, extraordinary circumstances over 80 years later proved him wrong on both counts.

Chapter Text

The Metropolitan Police have numerous procedures in place for dealing with the confused, the distressed and possible outbreaks of mental illness amongst London’s population. A lot of those techniques involve trying to find out who we’re dealing with, whether they are intending to harm anybody, and whether if we dump them on the NHS, the NHS will just dump them right back on us an hour or two down the line. Because, of course, it often takes years just to correctly diagnose mental illnesses let alone actually begin treatment, and neither is usually successfully achieved in a piss-soaked gutter in Soho at three in the morning. I’d been given guidelines on how to deal with workplace stress, looking out for signs of depression amongst co-workers and I once even did a course on mental health first aid. All of which was doing sod all right now except to throw up huge glaring red flashing signs in my brain informing me that something was seriously, seriously wrong with Nightingale. And I had no idea what to do about it.

Dr Walid, my first and frankly only port of call, hadn’t answered. I’d left a voicemail on his mobile and a message with an F1 that answered his desk phone, hoping I didn’t sound as desperate as I was starting to feel. I was so far out of my depth here and the waters kept rising.

We’d just left the library. I'd been handed an armful of books and now, as Nightingale was ushering me towards the front doors, I suddenly realised that he was actually intending to leave the Folly. I had this horrible mental image of him running to catch this imaginary train and falling straight under the wheels of a passing Uber or a motorbike courier which hadn’t been there in nineteenth-thirty-whatever. I couldn’t let him leave the building, not when he didn’t seem to know what century it was right now. I tossed the books he’d dumped on me onto a side table and darted after him.

Nightingale had already pulled on his coat from the coat stand and was almost at the Folly entrance. I hurried after. 

“Nightingale, stop.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. I physically put myself between him and the doors and grabbed his arm.

“Sir. You have to stop. This isn’t real, okay?”

He stopped and looked down my hand gripping tightly to his upper arm . Then he slowly looked up at me. His expression was cold and alien and, frankly, terrifying.

“Let go of me.” He said, in such a tone of icy detachment that for a moment all my brain could do was blubber that this was someone who could blow up tanks with his mind and my fingers tried to let go of their own accord. I stopped them and held on.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “But it’s really important you don’t leave. We have to wait until Dr Walid can get here. You’ve got to listen to me. Everything you’re seeing at the moment – it’s not real. We only just came out of hospital and maybe you're still sick, I don't know, but you're definitely hallucinating. The year is 2014. I'm your apprentice, Peter Grant. Please wake up.”

While I was blathering, Nightingale looked down at my hand on his arm and slowly took hold of my wrist. I thought for a moment he was going to twist it, to try and break my grip, but he just held on to my wrist with his fingers pressed in under the thumb as if he was taking my pulse. Then he stared forwards into space, gave a soft sigh and blinked about half a dozen times. Then he said;

“Peter?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s me, sir. Are you okay?”

“What-” He stopped and looked around the atrium, blinking again.

“It’s going to be alright,” I said firmly, hugely relieved. “You’ve been having hallucinations or flashbacks or something. Try and stay with me. Do you know where you are?”

“The Folly,” He identified almost immediately. He was still holding my wrist.

“Good. And I’m Peter. Do you know what day it is? Or, uh, what year?”

Here, he paused. Looked all around the room for guidance and seemed not to find any.

“Nineteen-” he started, then gave up with a shake of his head.

“It’s all right,” I said. I was about one minute from freaking out but I was at least slightly encouraged that he could remember me at all. “You’re just a little confused right now.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said and had to pause as his breath caught in a rattling cough. “I’m afraid that I feel rather unwell.”

Which I took to be standard Nightingale understatement for I feel so bad my brain is about to explode and I will shortly die. Alarmed, but trying not to show it, I guided him over to one of the elegantly upholstered atrium armchairs.

“Just sit here for a minute,” I said. “For one thing, you probably haven’t eaten or drunk anything all day. I’ll ask Molly to-”

There was a swish of cloth and Molly was instantly at my elbow almost scaring me to death. I wondered how long she had been loitering nearby, watching us. I gestured to Nightingale and kept my voice low.

“Can you get him some tea and a bit of toast or something? He probably hasn't eaten anything since yesterday.”

It wasn't like I actually thought low blood sugar was the problem here but whatever was causing this, toast probably couldn't make it worse. Besides, it's standard operating procedure of the British emergency services when faced with some unexplained weirdness - get a cup of hot sweet tea into everyone and wait for the alibis to start falling apart.

Molly didn't nod in response to my instructions but she did fix me with an intent stare that was clearly questioning.

“I have no idea,” I said, tiredly. “I’m guessing this has never happened before?” For all I knew this was some latent psychological condition of Nightingale’s, triggered by another near death experience. Stress, maybe, or plain old psychosis. Or maybe this was the price of his unnaturally long lifespan. Maybe it was dementia.

Molly shrugged, cast a worried look at Nightingale and glided wordlessly away.

The man himself had dropped his head onto one hand and seemed to be staring blankly at the white marble floor. He wasn’t in danger of dashing off at that second, in fact he looked exhausted, so I made the most of the fact he was sitting still and tried Dr Walid again.

He answered.

The doctor sounded satisfied but tired, although as there was no concern in his tone he clearly hadn't got the half-panicked message I'd left for him earlier with the F1.

“ Peter, thanks for checking in. Sorry I disappeared on you last night but duty called. I've just this moment walked out of theatre. Two of the longer surgeries completed now at least...hope Molly will forgive me for skipping out on breakfast. So how are the pair of you? Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“Actually, there is,” I answered, turning away from Nightingale and walking a way across the atrium. I wasn't sure quite how lucid he was right now; no need for him to hear all of this just yet. “I left a message but…there's something really wrong with Nightingale. I don't know what to do.”

“Is it his breathing? What are the symptoms?”  Walid’s gentle brogue  switched seamlessly into no-nonsense medical mode as he plied me with questions.

“I don't know what's wrong, but the cough's no worse so I don't think it's a relapse. He's just acting really weird - he doesn't remember me.”

Walid's voice had an air of deliberate calm about it; careful measured tones designed to quell panic. “All right Peter; this could be serious. How long has it been since you called the ambulance?”

“I didn't,” I admitted, wondering if that has been a mistake. “But he's not showing any signs of a stroke...it's more that he keeps forgetting, well, everything. Or he's having some kind of delusion, I don't know. He remembered me just now but I just spent the last hour trying to persuade him that we're not going banshee hunting in 1933.”

“ Peter, a third of strike survivors suffer some degree of memory loss,” Walid told me and I felt my heart sink. “I'm sending blues and twos out to you right now. Is he reporting any pain or weakness? Is he alert and  responding?”

I felt guilty. What if my delay in getting the medics out had caused Nightingale more damage? But, and I know I'm not a medical professional...this still didn't seem like a stroke to me.

“He's here, you can talk to him yourself,” I told Walid, “Hang on a sec.”

I turned back towards Nightingale. He was still sitting in the armchair, staring unseeing down at the floor. He gave a start, looking up when I spoke to him. “Sir? Dr Walid's on the line, he wants to talk to you.”

Nightingale fumbled the mobile slightly as if he wasn't very familiar with using one, but then put it to his ear. The half of the conversation I could hear didn't sound like it was going in Dr Walid's favour.

“Hello?...I'm quite alright, I have no idea what the fuss is about...No...A slight headache, a little chest pain but that's all, Alastair, I promise you...That is completely unnecessary...Then I shall refuse to admit them; I am Master of this institution after all.”

Alastair?  Now what the hell was that about, I wondered.

But before I could find out, Walid apparently said something to Nightingale that made him finally go silent.  I glanced back at the lack of sound to see my governor staring up at me, phone still to his ear. He had the same look on his face that he'd had that morning, like I was a stranger he had never seen before. It wasn't reassuring.

I could hear the faint murmur of Walid's voice from the phone but whatever he was saying Nightingale didn't reply, just stared and stared, like he was trying to pick me out of a line up. Then, with a start, his gaze broke. His whole attention shifted suddenly, like he had focused in on some far off sound; it was just like Toby hearing the distant noise of his food bowl being placed on the floor. But much, much scarier.

“Sir?” I asked.

“Do you hear that?” He asked, still tense.

“Hear what?” I couldn't hear anything unusual, except for possibly a faint hum from somewhere. Distant roadworks probably.

Nightingale was looking upwards now, towards the dome of the atrium.

“They're too close,” he said, sounding tense. “Right overhead!”

Then there was a faint noise from outside, probably a van door being slammed shut or minor fender bender. Nightingale flinched like the noise was a gunshot or he'd just heard a demon trap go off, and before I could do anything, he was on his feet and running towards the front door.

“Nightingale!” I yelled, dashing after him. “Stop!”

I was too slow, of course, and ahead of me, Nightingale crossed the atrium in a few strides, threw open the front door and darted outside. I put on a burst of speed and sprinted out after him, only to come to a skidding stop as I almost ran straight into Nightingale’s back. He was frozen on the top step of the front stairs, looking to the east across the pleasant green oasis of Russell Square with a look of utter devastation on his face.

“Oh God,” he whispered, never taking his horrified gaze off the horizon.

“Sir,” I said, breathing hard. “Sir, you need to come back inside.”

“Oh my God. The hospital…they hit the hospital.”

That humming sound was louder now, more like a low wailing whine. Two women jogging past the statue of the Duke of Bedford on the other side of the road gave us strange looks.

“It’s alright,” I told Nightingale, “There's nothing there. Nothing's happened, I promise. Please, come back-”

Nightingale didn't seem to hear me at all, still staring at some distant horror. His expression was so haunted that somehow I knew precisely what he was seeing, and my imagination painted the scene: the blackout, wail of the sirens, the percussive blast rattling teeth and windows as each bomb fell, then the gout of flame billowing up; screams and terror staining the night...

Suddenly, Nightingale started moving, stumbling down the stairs. I ran after him and to my dismay, I could feel the forma building in his mind. Nightingale reached the bottom of the stairs and ran straight out into the road.

“Nightingale!” I yelled, and bodily tackled him, throwing my arms around his upper body and hauling him back onto the pavement. A passing Audi swerved a little and the driver yelled something along the lines of fuckin' pisshead!

Nightingale was trying to pull out of my grip, but the forma had burst like a soap bubble and I didn't sense him building the spell again.

“Let me go,” he said, still staring across the square. “Let me go, David, we can help them, I can-”

“Nightingale. Thomas. ” He turned his head sharply; at this point I'd try anything to get his attention, and the use of his given name seemed to have worked.  “There's nothing you can do. It's too late. It's too late. We can't do anything.”

“No,” Nightingale said. “No.” But his struggles to pull away lessened. Finally, he dropped his head and slumped, defeated. I got his arm over my shoulders and somehow managed to haul him back up the steps, away from that vision of horror he'd been seeing, and into the Folly to safety.

Molly was hovering just inside the door. The moment we were over the threshold, she ducked under Nightingale's other arm and between us we managed to get him into the atrium. Molly made a beeline back towards the armchairs and I let her take the lead, as we eased Nightingale back into the nearest chair. He was silent again and this time didn't respond when I called his name.

There was a sound from somewhere  though; a barely audible voice, and when I glanced down I saw my phone lying on the marble where Nightingale had dropped it, and the call was still active. 

“Dr Walid? Are you still there?”

“I'm here, Peter.” I wouldn't say he sounded rattled but he didn't sound calm either. He wasn't the only one. “ Is everyone okay?”

“Yes, we’re all back in the Folly,” I explained. “I think Nightingale thought someone had bombed the hospital. He was trying to help.”

“Did he do anything? Any magic?”

“No, he started building a spell but didn't finish.”

“That's good,” said Walid, sounding relieved. “An ambulance will be with you in just a few minutes, and until we find out exactly what's happening here, we…”

But I’d stopped listening because I had a sudden mental picture of a farmhouse wall peeling apart like a banana skin and realised how serious what just happened outside could have been, even more so than my boss running into traffic. Nightingale has sniper-like focus and control - it's part of what makes him such a powerful practitioner. But if he started hallucinating and throwing magic about… If he'd got as far as the hospital and thought people were trapped inside he could have inadvertently destroyed the entire building while trying to help. And what if this got worse; what if he hallucinated that some random passerby was actually a vampire, or a nearby car was a tank? What if he thought I was Lesley, or the Faceless Man? If he injured someone while out of his mind, I know he’d never forgive himself. And I’m usually all about forgiveness, but if he fireballed me, I’m not sure how forgiving I’d feel either.

“You have to cancel that ambulance,” I told Walid.

“Peter, Thomas needs help right now, and these things are time critical.” Walid argued, as I knew he would. “They're nearly with you.”

“I'm sorry but if there's any chance he could see the paramedics as a threat, I can't let them in here,” I explained. I was watching Nightingale as I spoke. Molly was crouched at his side, hissing softly and trying to press a teacup into his limp hands. Nightingale's thousand-yard stare didn't even flicker.

“Nightingale's not in his right mind now. It would be like sending an ambulance crew into a room with armed gunman in the middle of a psychotic break. I'm police - I can't allow that. It's too dangerous. Besides, whatever is going on here…I don't think it's a stroke.”

Walid was silent for a second and then quietly he agreed. “ Aye. You're right, Peter, of course. But I cannae get to you for some time - I have to go back in to theatre in ten minutes and this could take hours...You and Molly are going to be facing this alone.”

“Can't be helped,” I said, trying to sound calm and in control. “We've made it this far. And if this isn't a medical condition, if this is something else… If magic is doing this......well, we're in the best place to find out how and put a stop to it. Maybe we're over the worst of it anyway. Maybe it'll start getting better from this point on.”

Boy, was I wrong.

Research notes:  Hospitals and the Blitz

The hospital which Nightingale saw being bombed during the Blitz was probably the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital which stands a stone’s throw from Russell Square. When the air raid siren sounded, nurses in London maternity hospitals would prepare for bomb blasts by closing anti-splinter blinds over the windows to prevent glass and shrapnel flying into wards, moving babies to a gas-proof room, and providing mothers with a gas mask and a cup of tea.

The Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital was damaged by two bomb blasts in September 1940. One caused severe damage to the surgery block, destroying the lift shaft. The second burst a water main which flooded the hospital boiler room. 67-year-old stoker William Pendle prevented a catastrophic explosion by going in alone to switch the boilers off. For his heroic actions, Pendle was awarded a George Medal for gallantry. Through this combination of courage and some extraordinary luck, the hospital suffered no casualties.

Chapter Text

I dreamed about the vestigia.  

That first moment as we had stepped onto the ridgeline and the sensis illic had flooded over us like a smothering tide. It was an almost tangible effluvium of despair and pain, the rasp of a bonesaw, scalpels and leather; hunger, desperation, filth and sickness and human suffering, all awash in a tide of sanctioned indifferent cruelty so repulsive that it almost brought me to my knees. Next came the physical stench; smoke and burnt flesh and death, hanging low on the chill air until the smell and the vestigia were almost indistinguishable. I felt my own gorge rising, and from behind me came the unmistakable sound of someone being violently ill. And it was still another half a mile to the camp. Ugly brick buildings, squatting amidst the skeletal trees, barbed wire and iron gates. One-hundred and forty three gliders. Piles of thin, naked corpses, black against the snow.

I woke with a start, and for a minute could do nothing but cough, fragments of some tormented dream I could barely recall fading away like mist. 

The coughing finally settled, and I looked around and found, rather to my surprise, that I had no idea where I was. There was dark wood panelling, lit by painfully bright lamps, a rich smell of leather and old paper and ink. This seemed to be a small sitting room. The last thing I remembered was sitting on the cool stone floor to speak with the sadhu, breathing in the incense from the pyres and the jungle heat and then… No. That was some time ago, I was certain. It must have been.

I seemed to have been asleep under a thick wool blanket on a chaise-longue. The blanket was navy blue, the chaise-longue upholstered in dark green and it seemed familiar, it all did, but I couldn’t quite place it. This certainly wasn't Madras but neither was it my own rooms at the Foreign Office.

I sat up, slowly, and checked over my person - I seemed uninjured but felt a little feverish, and there was a thrumming pain in my head  and a tight ache in my chest and throat like I was suffering from the remnants of pneumonia. Perhaps I had been taken ill and was returned to England? I had no memory of travelling but certainly I was feeling significantly under the weather. It was probably not malaria; I thought I had been taking the quinine as often as I should, but it was hard to recall.  I fervently hoped it wasn’t tuberculosis.

On the other hand, if I had been taken ill that might at least excuse why I was so inappropriately dressed. Apparently I had laid down to sleep in this unknown  sitting room without my shoes, tie or jacket, and with my waistcoat undone. I set about to rectify my sartorial disarray immediately and that’s when I became aware that I wasn’t the room’s only occupant. 

A small brown and white dog was asleep on a wingback chair opposite. I thought it might be a terrier, the kind used as rat hunters. I have never been very familiar with dogs, although I vaguely recall the reverend keeping some sort of mongrel-type creature which my siblings and I used to take for walks as children. Maeve has acquired two dogs, I believe, since they moved down to Devon, which my nieces reportedly adore. It has been a long time since I last saw them.

Looking around, I was relieved to find my shoes set neatly at the end of the chaise-longue and my suit jacket over a nearby chair back. Of my tie there was no sign and neither could I see my staff, coat, hat, papers, valise or any other possessions. I dressed, and then ran my hands through my hair, trying to flatten it down as best as I could without the use of a comb.

Feeling slightly more suitably attired, I decided the time had come to venture forth; I should very much like to determine precisely where I was, and perhaps find a member of the household here whom I could thank for taking me in. I must have been in quite a sorry state if I was too ill to remember anything of my journey home. As soon as I stood, the small dog woke, leapt down from the chair and came dashing over to my side, yapping. It seemed like excitement rather than anger, so I gave it a vague pat and muttered “Good dog.” The beast was appeased and the noise at least lessened.

The door to the sitting room was standing partly open. I stepped out and found myself in a large library constructed of the same dark mahogany; shelves of leather bound books reaching up to the ceiling on all sides, accessed by long wooden and brass ladders. The room was familiar, painfully so, but I couldn’t place it and there was something not quite right about the place, like I was looking at it though a dream, or was seeing a mirror image of somewhere that I knew. Perhaps it was just the emptiness or the silence that was giving me a prickling sense of unease.

There was a sudden hiss from across the room and I saw that the main library door was open, and a maid had appeared, perhaps alerted by the barking of the dog. She was dark haired, pale, and clearly of the Demi-monde. I remembered a girl like that; her name was…

Her name…

The maid saw me and came hurrying over. I found myself suddenly alarmed by the intensity of her expression and took a few steps back. She stopped short, staring, seeming hurt by my startled reaction.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I told her. My voice sounded awful; like I had breathed in mustard gas. “I’m terribly sorry but I seem to have...that is to say…”

The girl blinked and tilted her head a little. Her black eyes were sharp, boring into me and I knew her, she was...

“Molly,” I said. “You’re Molly.”

A wide smile. My breath caught a little in my chest; I would never get used to the sight of that mouthful of sharp teeth. But the remembrance of Molly had formed an anchor to my spiralling thoughts, because I had only ever seen her in one place, and that was the Folly, on Russell Square. And this room, I now recognised, was the lower library on the ground floor. 

I looked about the room again. It had been some time since I was last here; a row of freestanding wooden stacks had been installed in the centre of the room, filled with more books and journals, and some brightly coloured folders were stacked on top of the card cabinets. These changes were not so significant that I should have been unable to recognise the room though, and while it was familiar it still seemed to me that there was still something not right. Perhaps that was a lingering influence of the fever. Or perhaps it was just the oddly bright lighting or maybe even just the peculiar smell emanating from the small, yappy dog leaping about at my heels. Since when had anyone at the Folly retained a dog?

While I struggled with my own confused dislocation, Molly was looking me up and down with a strange sort of familiarity, as if waiting for me to speak.

“It is good to see you looking well,” I told her, not that she had ever looked different to the way she did now. She frowned but said nothing, tilting her head. I wasn’t sure what that was meant to signify. No-one had ever been able to tell much of what Molly was thinking, but I had always tried to be kind to her when our paths had crossed.

“Well,” I said, eventually. “I don’t want to keep you from your duties. Could you perhaps direct me to one of the Masters? Whoever is available?”

She frowned and tilted her head again. There seemed to be a questioning look about her, but for the life of me I could not interpret it. I did not know her very well, after all.

“Molly?” I asked again, patiently. “Is there something wrong? Are the new bugs teasing you again?”

When the boys arrived from Casterbrook, fresh from the upper sixth to complete the last few years of their apprenticeships, they tended to be over excited and rather full of their own importance. That usually led to trouble for the servants in one form or another, but Molly’s clear status as one of the Demi-monde had made her a prime target of schoolboy pranks and unkindness on more than one occasion. I am certain that should she wish to, Molly could take care of herself. But that would not end well for the apprentices in question, and I was concerned that Molly did not end up having to answer for such actions with the Masters. They would be unlikely to be tolerant of one such as her.

Her face softened a little, as much as I imagined it was capable of doing. She stepped forward suddenly and took a decisive hold on my sleeve. I almost pulled away, startled by the overly familiar action, but Molly was already stalking off, pulling me along behind her.

“Molly,” I said, as we left the library and stepped out into the cavernous atrium. “Wait.” I wanted to look around; again there was that strange feeling of dislocation about the atrium. I was used to seeing it bustling, magicians coming and going, groups of the older chaps settled in by the fireplace, junior apprentices scurrying about on errands for their masters. But all was still. Empty. I couldn’t even see the porter Lanbrooke at his usual booth by the door, and he was an installation almost as permanent as old Isaac. But Molly didn’t slow down long enough for me to investigate, continuing her march across the atrium and through the south door, past the dining rooms and down the broad stone stairs into the kitchen. The dog, I noticed, had followed us.

“Molly, this really is most irregular...” I began, but she let go of my arm as soon as we crossed the threshold, and I stopped speaking as I looked around. It must be early evening given the pinkish light I’d seen filtering in through the glass roof in the atrium, and at this time the kitchen should be bustling with activity as the cook and parlour maids prepared the evening’s meal. Even in the middle of the night, the housekeeper or butler was usually to be found here balancing the books, the laundry maids making last minute repairs to clothing, or the chauffeurs, having snuck in from the coach house, would be huddled around the banked stove, drinking and laughing.

But the kitchen was as empty as the atrium had been, and the library before that.

“Something’s wrong,” I said, feeling like I’d stepped into a strange, disorientating dream. “Molly, where is everyone? What’s happened?”

She didn’t answer, of course, and instead pushed down on my shoulders until I obeyed the unspoken command and sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. She brought over a teapot in a rather ugly purple knitted tea-cosy, a milk jug and a cup from the sideboard, filled the cup, and then placed both items neatly on the table in front of me. Then the girl crossed to the rear door, the one that led out of the kitchen up to the mews, and, with a last stern look in my direction, left the building.

The look had clearly been an instruction to me not to move, so I could only assume she was coming back. I breathed deeply, trying to get a grip of myself. Everything about this situation seemed strange and disquieting, from the deserted Folly to my inability to remember how I had returned here. Not to mention the somewhat unnerving presence of the small dog, who was now snuffling around my feet under the table, making small yapping sounds. I couldn’t tell if this was because I was being guarded or that the dog was in the optimistic hope that some kind of food might drop from above.

Something was very wrong. It was impossible for the Folly to be empty. Even in the event of some critical emergency, such as invasion or a natural disaster so serious the entire magical society were required to counter it, the servants at least would not have abandoned their posts. There should be someone here. And the whole building felt different. I could feel that the wards were still intact but the building felt hollow and lonely, somehow. Almost... wounded .

I coughed, feeling the chills of fever pass through me again. But perhaps there was my answer. If I was sensing something wrong, then perhaps the wrong thing was the one doing the sensing. I didn’t know how I’d arrived here, so perhaps I had not. Perhaps this entire scenario; the dog, the solitary kitchen maid and all these desolate, empty rooms; perhaps this was no more than some fever-borne nightmare. Malarial psychoses, perhaps.

That thought at least was something of a relief. There was little I could do to resolve such a situation until I recovered. The best I could do for now was to bear this strange dreamworld until it was over. I took a sip of the tea. It was a little on the cool side but perfectly brewed.

There was a clatter of footsteps in the yard outside, and I realised that Molly must be returning. I rose as the kitchen door opened, only to see someone new enter; a young man of about my own age with North African features, dark skin, and black hair cropped close to his head. He was wearing strange combination of blue workman’s trousers and a loose untailored hooded jacket several sizes too large and, despite the fact that he had just come in from outdoors, was not wearing a hat.

“Sir, you’re awake!” He exclaimed as he saw me. He spoke like one born and raised in London, no trace of his ancestry about his dialect. “How are you feeling?”

I eyed him a little cautiously. “I’m terribly sorry; have we met before? You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

The lad stopped walking. He glanced to Molly, and then sighed and muttered; “Not this again.” The he seemed to steel himself and stepped forward, palm outstretched.

“I’m Peter,” he said. “Peter Grant.”

"Grant?" I asked, startled.

"Uh, yes. Why?"

“It's nothing,” I said, and shook his hand. He had a warm, broad palm and a sound grip, not too firm.  "Thomas Nightingale."

Grant stepped back and looked relieved, like the handshake had been some kind of test. He sat down on the other side of the table, and I took the opportunity to do the same. Molly went to the sideboard and fetched an extra cup which she put on the table in front of Grant. He poured his own tea. 

I sipped my tea when I found myself coughing once again. My throat was abysmally sore and I found I was shivering slightly.

“So, sir. How...are you feeling okay?” Grant asked.

“A little under the weather,” I dismissed. “No cause for alarm.”

Molly instantly went to a cupboard in the corner of the room and returned with a folded woollen blanket which she placed on the table beside me. I glanced at it with some confusion but left it where it lay.

“Right,” Grant said. “Yeah. Well, you've been asleep a while. Dr Walid - you remember him right? Abdul Walid?"

I shook my head.

"Oh," said Grant, without much enthusiasm. "Well, he's a friend of yours. He should be here within an hour. He’s going to give you a once over, check how you’re doing.”

“I see,” I said. Behind Grant, Molly was now opening and closing cupboards and going in and out of the parlour. She seemed to be preparing some sort of meal. “I hope you don’t mind my asking," I continued. "But is there anyone else here?”

Grant’s open face gave a twist. “Just us, I’m afraid.”

“Where-” I began, and then stopped myself. This was a dream. It was highly unlikely that an explanation would be relevant or accurate.

“Who were you expecting, sir?” Grant asked. “Wait, scratch that. It’ll be easier if you can tell me the last thing you remember.”

“I was in India,” I said. “Negotiating with a local wise man for permission to speak with a river spirit who had been repeatedly flooding a valley outside of monsoon season.”

“Woah,” said Peter. “Okay. That’s going waaay back.”

I wasn’t certain what he meant by that, so I clarified; “I work primarily for the Foreign Office these days. I’m afraid I’m not certain how I ended up here in the Folly.”

“Shit,” said Grant, and I raised an eyebrow at the unexpected profanity; there was a lady in the room after all. Although it had to be said that Molly didn’t seem perturbed by the bad language. Instead she placed a large platter of sandwiches and two different cakes on the table in front of us. I smiled vaguely but my focus was on Grant.

Grant grabbed two sandwiches. “Thanks, Molly. So how old are you, sir?”

I raised both eyebrows for that one. Just what kind of environment had this boy been raised in? “Mr Grant, that is hardly a polite query.”

“Sorry,” said Grant, taking a bite of food. “It’s just been a really long day, the research is getting me nowhere and I’m running out of ways to have this conversation with you. All right, what year do you think it is?”

“Mr Grant-“

“Just humour me, sir.”

“1929,” I said. 

He whistled.

“This is so weird,” he said. “Okay. This is going to sound like absolute insanity, but at least you seem lucid enough to actually listen this time. It’s not 1929. The year is 2014.”

I put my teacup down carefully and stared at him. He shifted uncomfortably, and then said;

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” I answered. “But as your statement is patently untrue, I am trying to work out whether you are insane or attempting to defraud me in some fashion.”

Unexpectedly, he laughed. “Neither. But it is 2014, this is the Folly, and you’re suffering from hallucinations which are making you think you’re in the past.”

“From my perspective you are hallucinating that you are in the future,” I pointed out. “The reality is that I am probably in a sanitorium in Kashmir somewhere dreaming up everything. You, Molly. That dog.”

The dog in question was curled around the back of my ankle, still making a continuous stream of small snuffles and yelping sounds. Were dogs usually so noisy?

Grant gave me a look. “That’s Toby,” he said. “He hunts ghosts. Look, I don’t know if this will help or not,” he said. “But do you ever think, no matter how sick you were, that you could have dreamed up something like this in 1929?”

He reached into his pocket. I tensed slightly, but he only brought out a thin, black metal rectangle, the shape of an oversized playing card. He fiddled with it for a second and then held it out towards me. Cautiously I took it. It was surprisingly heavy, warm to the touch, and imbued with a strange array of vestigia, mostly emotions; excitement, satisfaction, dread, relief, and a swirl of romance and anticipation.

I was about to ask for clarification, when I turned the object over, only to be dazzled by an astonishingly bright mirrored surface, like a colour photograph mounted in front of an electric light bulb. The surface was showing an image of Grant with his arm around a buxom coloured girl dressed in a similar shapeless hooded jacket in red. A grid of small rectangles with colourful pictograms obscured most of the photograph. As my thumb touched the image, it suddenly changed; the picture of Grant and his young wife slid to the side and the small rectangles vanished, as a new array of pictograms appeared. I quickly put the object down on the table, and leaned in close to inspect it. No sound of clockwork or any other mechanism, and no observable wires to carry the power.

"It’s an enchanted photograph,” I said. “I’m not quite sure what the purpose of such an artefact would be, or how the spell and the signare has been concealed but it is certainly impressive spellwork.”

“It’s a phone,” Grant said. “A mobile telephone. It runs on electricity.”

Well that was just decidedly ridiculous. I sat back, pressed my fingertips to my aching temples and had to stifle another round of coughing. I was starting to feel rather put out with this entire experience. David, no doubt, would have walked through fire for a chance to visit the future, to encounter such astonishing devices. But I would rather just have returned home.

Grant said, “Try and eat something, sir.” Then, perhaps because he could sense my discomfiture, he added: “I know this must be a lot to take in, but you’re safe here, and we are somehow going to get this figured out and get you back to normal. You have to trust me.”

“Why?” I asked. “I know next to nothing about you.”

“Good point,” said Grant. “Okay. Well, like I said, my name is Peter Grant. I was born in 1987 in Kentish Town. I'm a Police Constable and apprentice wizard; I like football, architecture and kebabs and we’ve known each other for two and a half years.”

I wasn’t certain if I was more surprised by the knowledge that he was a member of the constabulary or an apprentice practitioner. Both seemed highly unlikely given his colour and mode of speech.

“In the Metropolitan Police?” I queried.

“Yep. You too, by the way.”

“I'm a constable?”

He snorted. “Hardly. Try a DCI.”

“Interesting. I went through with it, then.”

“What's that?”

“I've been considering a change in career, so it seems that at some point I made up my mind. So, by your version of events, I am 114-year-old Detective Chief Inspector in the Metropolitan Police in a different millennium.”

“Yes,” Peter agreed, seemingly unable to comprehend the sheer madness of the statement.

“How could I possibly be a centenarian and still alive? Let alone fail to remember anything at all of the past eighty-five years.”

Grant hesitated. “I don’t actually know,” he said. “We haven’t been able to figure out this functional immortality thing yet. But...you really don’t remember anything at all since 1929? None of this seems in the least familiar?”

I couldn’t help but cast a quick look around the room and then to my hands where they lay on the table. Not that I was willing to entertain this lunacy, but if I was indeed over one hundred years old I would expect to see gnarled, curled joints, sagging skin and liver spots. My hands, however, seemed more or less as I remembered. Although I did notice there was a faded scar on my left thumb that I didn’t recall receiving and my right hand and wrist tingled with a peculiar, aching numbness.

“Sir?” Grant asked again, and I looked up.

“I don’t suppose you have a looking glass, Constable Grant?” I asked.

“It’s just Peter, sir,” said Grant. “Hang on.”

He took the strange device back and ran his thumb over the surface for a few seconds. When he passed it back, I saw it was showing an image of the ceiling, which, as I turned the device to look at the picture, resolved into a mirror image of own face.

“You aren’t going to see any difference,” Grant was saying. “You don’t look 114. That’s the immortality thing again.”

But I could see a difference. The last time I had looked at my own image, I had been just shy of 30 years old. The man that looked back at me from the mirror-like surface had to be in his forties; there were flecks of grey in the dark hair, lines across the forehead and the creases of the eyes, and the cheeks seemed thinner and hollowed out. The man was certainly in dire need of a comb and a razor. The worst part though were the eyes themselves; the blue I expected faded to a washed-out grey, tired and haunted. Eyes that had seen too much.

I put the device face down on the table.

“Sir?” asked Grant again. He was waiting for me to say something.

“I see,” I said at last. “And in this future of yours where is everyone else? Has the Society decided to give up the Folly and move to a new headquarters?”

“Err...” said Grant, and looked decidedly cagey. “That’s a long story, and to be honest, I don’t know many of the details. You don’t talk about it that much. So it’s probably better if we don’t go into it. Have a sandwich, sir. It’s been a while since you ate anything.”

I glanced at Molly. She was hovering nearby, making pointed glances towards the blanket. I was rather chilled, and given that this was hardly formal dining, I acquiesced and pulled the blanket over my legs. Molly smiled and, using a pair of silver tongs, put two sandwiches onto my plate. Wizards are trained into a healthy caution over accepting food from unknown fae or under strange circumstances because of the dangers of being bound by obligation, so I hesitated. This was certainly a strange situation, and this Peter Grant...

“This is still the Folly,” Grant said, patiently. “Your manor - there’s no obligation, or anything like that. We’re on the same side, and even if you don’t remember me, you must know Molly by 1929, right?.”

I gave in and took a sandwich. It was thick-cut ham with grain mustard. Very good.

Grant took his device back, his ‘mobile telephone’ and tapped at the mirrored surface a few times.

“Just checking on Walid,” he said, and I wasn’t certain if he was talking to Molly or to me. “He should be here in ten minutes or so.” He put the device back down. The image on the front had gone dark.

I had been pondering everything I had been told while we ate, and I had questions.

“Constable Grant,” I began.

“Peter.”

“Peter,” I repeated, though the informality seeming strange and uncouth with someone I had only just met. “If you don’t mind my asking, I was wondering where you received your education.”

I privately thought he seemed rather too old to still be an apprentice, although it was not unknown for persons to come to magic later in life. I myself, being rather precocious, had received my staff nearly a decade ago, although other boys in my year, Donny Shanks and Archie Tabbot, I recalled, had both been late bloomers, not completing their apprenticeships until they were 24. Rupert Dance, of course, who never could quite be bothered with education, had languished around as an apprentice until he was 26.

“Sorry?

“The Forms and Wisdoms,” I said. “You must have been classically trained. The Folly would never permit a non-Newtonian magician to hold a position in the Police Force.” He was frowning and I quickly clarified in case I had offended him: “Although, of course I don’t mean to imply that the magical forms and traditions of other countries are in any way without their own merits...”

He laughed a little at my attempts to backtrack. “No, I trained here, in England.”

I was surprised, but pleasantly so. I had never quite understood the restrictive nature of magical education in Britain. Certainly, the teaching of magic should be controlled and regulated, but my recent travels for the Foreign Office had demonstrated to me quite clearly that it is not only the sons of the middle and upper classes who harbour strong magical potential. It could only prove to be advantageous to bring previously maligned groups – females for instance - into the fold of trained and regulated magical practice.

“So Casterbrook are accepting coloured students in the future then.”

Grant cast me a strange look.

“No,” he said. “They’re aren’t.”

“What about women? Or the Irish?”

“‘Fraid not,” said Grant.

I wasn't surprised but I was perhaps a little disappointed. Such is the way of the world. “I see,” I said. “Still, I suppose that would be rather more progressive than one could hope.”

Grant laughed a little. “I doubt many of your peers thought the same,” he said.

“Well, between you and me, a number of the old boys have spent rather too long sitting around in libraries and eating large dinners,” I said, “and not enough time out in the field. The world out there is changing, and we must change with it or risk becoming obsolete. They need something to shake them up.”

Grant sat back and folded his arms appraisingly.

“You don’t agree?”

“Oh, I agree,” he said. “It’s just...well, you’re different. Different to the Nightingale I know.”

Unfortunately I wasn’t able to ask Grant to clarify that statement because at that moment Toby the dog upgraded his low yips and growls to full barks, and a few seconds later there was a knock at the kitchen door.

“That’ll be Walid,” Grant said. I stood up, and he copied me. Molly went over and opened the door.

“Peter, Thomas, Molly,” greeted the newcomer as he entered. “You’re all looking better than I expected.”

“Really?” Grant said, as the man put down what must have been his medical bag, an enormous bright green case almost the size of a tea chest. “‘Cause you'll be delighted to know Nightingale doesn’t actually remember us at all right now. He’s 29 and has just returned from India.”

Dr Walid looked at me. “Is that so,” he said, to Grant. “Ne’er a dull moment, is there?”

Dr Abdul Walid was not what I had pictured. He was a small man, perhaps twenty-five years my senior, with a neatly trimmed beard and thick red hair. Most surprising was his accent, which clearly identified him as a Scotsman, probably from the southern Highlands. The combination of his clear Celtic heritage with that Mohammedan name was quite fascinating. I shook his hand when he proffered it.

“Waleed ,” I said. “That's an Arabic name, is it not? Meaning one newly born.”

“Indeed it is,” the doctor told me, with a wry look. “I converted to Islam during medical school. Hope it's no’ a problem for you.”

“The covenants of a man’s faith are between himself and whatever God chooses him,” I told him, “and certainly no business of mine.”

He grinned at me. “Good lad,” he said. “Well, we had better take a look at you and see what the damage is. Anyone object if I start right away?”

Apparently nobody did because Walid dumped his large medical bag onto the kitchen table and started to unpack various items. Molly set about making coffee now and a different array of sandwiches, while Peter was occupied with the small device he’d shown me. The two men talked while I coughed a few times, discreetly, and shivered under the blanket.

“How did the surgeries go?” Grant asked.

“One of the boys died on the way to the hospital, I’m afraid. It was touch and go for one of the others too, but I think we will manage to save him. Remind me to put a donation in the tin for one of those anti-knife crime groups. They really are doing God's work.  Jacket off please, Thomas.”

That latter instruction had been for me. I hesitated a little, glancing at Molly. Dr Walid tutted.

“Whisht! The lass has been doing your laundry for over ninety years, Thomas, I think she can stand the sight of you in your shirtsleeves.”

I did as I was told and took off my jacket but by the time I looked up Molly had made herself absent anyway, and the dog trotted out after her. Peter was still loitering as Walid started taking medical readings.

“Okay if I stay, sir?” he asked, awkwardly, like he wasn't sure if he should ask at all.

I nodded. It didn’t make much difference to me.

“I presume we know each other in this future as well, Dr. Walid?” I asked, as he was wrapping a cuff around my left upper arm.

“Oh aye. Over thirty years,” he answered. “You call me Abdul.”

“And are you immortal too?”

He laughed. “I very much doubt it.”

“A practitioner?”

“Certainly not. I’ve seen enough cases of HTD to put me firmly off magic for life. I’m more of a consultant. A cryptopathologist is what we've been calling it, as well as being your personal physician, of course. Temperature’s up, you’re running a fever again. And I dinnae like the sound of that cough.”

He ran an array of further tests that required me to walk around with my eyes closed, hold my arms in certain positions and recite a number of odd phrases, Walid scribbling down notes in a small book as he went.

“What exactly is this exercise meant to be achieving?” I asked him after being required to say the phrase British constitution a dozen times.

“Just checking to see if you’ve fried your brain yet,” Walid said, cheerily. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“I’m a little lightheaded.”

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

“Severity? On a scale of one to ten.”

“Two,” I said, and saw Walid write down five.

“Hmmm,” he said, looking over the notes. “Well, next I’d usually test your long term memory but I’m not certain how to do that as neither of us know much about your ill-spent youth.”

“The possessed Bentley,” Peter said suddenly. “I thought 1929 rang a bell. Remember that whole thing with the haunted cars? A crowd of likely lads from the  Folly went over to the Stratford Martyrs’ Memorial to kick some spirit arse and ended up bringing a whole load of bad back with them.”

I shook my head. “There have been rumours about the Martyrs’ Memorial for years - folk stories and the like  - but as far as I know none of it is confirmed and certainly no-one has attempted any form of exorcism.”

“What about Archie Boatright?”

“He’s a good friend of mine,” I answered. “Kind and well meaning, if a little highly strung. Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” said Peter. “No reason. I’m guessing that hasn’t happened yet. Forget I said anything. This is so weird. I keep forgetting that you’re not actually time travelling and panicking about damaging the space-time continuum.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I said. “What’s happened to Archie?”

“Nothing,” Walid said. “Ignore Peter, we’re still trying to figure out what is wrong with you. Now, do you hae any pain anywhere else?”

“My chest aches,” I admitted, reluctantly allowing the subject to be changed. “My throat is a little sore.”

“Is the cough active?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you bringing up gunk,” clarified Grant.

I grimaced. “No.”

“No other pain, or strange sensations? Numbness?”

“Yes,” I said. “Actually there’s pins-and-needles in my hand. I thought it had just gone numb while I was asleep but I can still feel it.”

I held out my right hand, but Walid just nodded, still writing.

“Is it worse than usual?” he asked.

I blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Walid stared back. “You’re right,” he said to Peter. “This is so weird.” Then to me he said; “You have some nerve damage in your right arm, Thomas. Have done as long as I’ve known you. You’ve described it before as numb or tingling, with weakness in the fingers. Does that sound like what you're feeling?”

“Yes, that sounds right,” I said, but Peter was looking outraged.

“How come I didn’t know about this?” he demanded of Walid.

“You didn’t?” said Walid. “Thomas never mentioned it? Well, I suppose I’m no’ that surprised.”

 “Nerve damage! From what?”

“You know he was shot in the war? Well, I dinnae know the full story but it went untreated for some time. Never quite healed right. He was lucky not to lose his arm.”

“Fucking hell,” said Peter, vehemently. “When you're back in your right mind, sir, we are going to have a conversation.”

“I've been shot?” I asked, still startled.

The two men looked at me a little guiltily, like recalcitrant children.

“Aye,” admitted Walid. “Twice, actually. Once in the back, once in the shoulder. Almost did for you, both times.”

It was disconcerting to find that not only were my memories hijacked but even own body was unfamiliar to me, like wearing a stranger’s coat. I resisted the temptation to feel for a wound in my shoulder and kept my hands firmly on the table.

“Old war wounds aside," Walid said, changing the subject yet again. "I’m no’ happy with the condition you’re in. That cough should be clearing up and the fever isnae a good sign. But I think you’re right, Peter. It’s no’ severe enough to be causing this kind of break from reality.”

“I don’t think it’s medical at all,” Peter said. “Well, not totally. I think this is some sort of enchantment. I can’t sense anything, but Toby was registering about 8 or 900 milliyaps when he was following Nightingale around earlier. That’s significantly higher than usual Folly background magic.”

He saw me looking at him as he said milliyaps and winced. I thought it was probably another one of those things that wouldn't be explained.

“So, it's some sort of spell,” Walid mused. “But how did they get to Thomas to cast it? And what's the purpose?”

“I don't know,” said Peter. “But think about it - we know there was something up with that anthrax. If Faceless was involved then we probably should have known better than to think it was all over.”

“Aerosolised spells?” Walid said frowning. “Why go to the effort? Why not just cast normally?”

“Well for one thing you wouldn't have to physically be there. It's like the demon traps. Remote spellcasting.  Once the enchanted material is inhaled, the spell starts.”

“That's no’ what I wanted to hear, Peter,” said Walid. “How do we stop it?”

“I don't know that either,” Peter replied. “At the moment, this is all just hypothesis.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “But would one if you gentlemen mind explaining exactly what is going on?”

They both looked a little guilty again.

“A week ago, we were all in hospital,” Peter said. “We got attacked, poisoned, by a...uh… black magician. We thought the effects were purely physical but now I think you might have been magically attacked too.”

“To what end?” I asked. “And why hasn't it affected you as well?”

“Both good questions, sir,” said Peter. “Wish I had the answers.”

“You're saying this… remote spellcasting is what brought me here to 2014?"

“I'm saying it might be making you, that is to say, our Nightingale, start thinking he's reliving past events.” Peter said. “I thought this morning that you were just seeing totally random images, like actual hallucinations, but it's not that at all. You're reliving actual pieces from your past, and they all happened here, in the Folly. You're jumping about in your own timeline, though this is the longest you've stayed in one set of memories as far as I can tell. And you aren't usually so aware of me, or of what's going on.”

 “How do we fix it?” I asked. “I should very much like to return home.”

The other two looked at each other again.

“I don't know,” Peter said. “It's possible it'll just wear off. I've spent the last few hours in the tech cave researching weaponized hallucinogens but I think maybe we ought to be trying the magical library instead for memory enchantments or something. You don't know any spells that could have this kind of effect, do you, sir?”

“I shouldn't think so,” I told them. “It's not the sort of area Newtonian magic is usually concerned with, even amongst those who tend to dabble. Fae spells and glamours are more concerned with altering reality and perception. Why don't you ask your master if he knows of anything?”

“Ah,” said Dr Walid.

“Right,” said Peter. “Well, I just did.”

I looked at him.

“As in, you.” Peter said. “I'm your apprentice. You recruited me to the Folly.”

I was once again lost for words. Never mind my own aversion to teaching, this Grant was 27 years old, hadn't studied at Casterbrook, and more importantly, seemed to be clinically insane.

“Ridiculous.”

“He's telling the truth, Thomas.” Walid said, mildly. “You both swore the oath in front of the Commissioner and everything.”

“I can't possibly have you as an apprentice,” I said, confusion making my voice terser than I intended.

“Well there's no need to sound quite so repulsed by the entire concept,” Grant said jokingly, but I could see this time he was offended. “Whatever happened to shaking up the system? Sticking it to the man?”

“Peter,” Walid said. “You know he's not in his right mind. And things were different back then.”

“It's not a criticism of you or your heritage,” I aimed to disabuse him of whatever notions he may be harbouring on that front. “I’m sure you are a competent and diligent student. But, well, for one thing I am still some years from achieving Mastery myself. You and I are very almost the same age, and even were that not the case, I certainly have very little aptitude or patience for instruction. You would find me a poor teacher indeed.”

“You do all right,” said Grant. “But look. I'll prove it. I'm one of yours, see?”

He toggled a switch on the side of his mobile telephone and then glanced at Walid, who did the same to a similar device from his own coat.  Then, on Walid's nod, Grant held out his hand and conjured a werelight.

It is impossible for a wizard to detect his own signare. Nevertheless, we are taught that some elements of a signare always pass from Master to apprentice, and a Master will always know the works of his teaching line. I'd never heard the sensation described, nor had I ever felt it before myself, but there was no mistaking this. Peter Grant's magic felt so much like my own that it was as if I had cast the light myself. I had taught him. He was my apprentice.

But before I could say anything, Peter Grant's werelight suddenly blinked out. His hand dropped, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped, unconscious, to the floor.

Research notes:  Illumination

Nightingale finds that everything seems strangely brightly lit; this is because the Folly was not converted from gas light to electric light until two years after he returned from India. This was the second to last time the wards were lowered before the telephone lines were installed in 1940.

Nightingale and the constabulary

Although Thomas Nightingale had considered moving from the Foreign Office to the British Constabulary as early as 1927, it was the events surrounding the attempted rites at the Stratford Martyrs’ Memorial and particularly the suicide of Archie Boatright later in 1929 which made up his mind (see ‘Body Work’). It became apparent to Nightingale that if forces dangerous enough to overpower four highly trained practitioners were still able to roam active and unchecked in England, the King’s Peace was far from assured, and that it was at home rather than abroad where his efforts should be spent. He applied to transfer to the Metropolitan Police four days after finding Archie Boatright’s body, and shortly after began his police career under the guidance of Inspector Murville, then 54.

Ettersberg, Part 1

During the retreat from Ettersberg in the spring of 1945, Nightingale received a bullet wound to the shoulder which remained largely untreated for nearly two weeks. While he survived the subsequent infection and the wound was eventually surgically repaired, some of the nerve damage could not be reversed. The effects of this damage have lessened over time, following a programme of activities to build-up the strength and dexterity, such as woodcarving, but particularly since Nightingale began aging backwards. In the present day it mainly presents as slight tingling and numbness to the right hand and some imposition to fine motor skills, manifesting as “surprisingly inelegant handwriting” and cramp if he forgets to wear gloves for driving. It is believed by Folly physician Dr Abdul Walid that a number of the reported symptoms are partly psychosomatic and therefore manifest more accutely during periods of stress. Until the present day, only Dr Walid was aware of the condition.

Chapter Text

I woke up, feeling like absolute shit. Going out with Lesley and getting absolutely bladdered might have seemed like a mature response in the face of the crushing disappointment of the Case Progression Unit ten hours ago but right now I was regretting every single life decision which had led me to this point. My head hurt, my lungs hurt, my mouth tasted like Gandhi’s sandals and everything was spinning nauseatingly around me. And worst of all, I now had to get up, look presentable, shake hands with Inspector Neblett and accept my fate as a paper-pusher for the rest of my career with a smile on my face. And all the while, Lesley...

Lesley.

Lesley had betrayed us. Betrayed me. She’d thrown in her lot with Faceless and his band of merry psychopaths and she’d stabbed me in the back on her way out. Or TASERed me, at least. She’d lost her face (my fault), lost her career (my fault), learned magic (also on me) and now she was working for the guy who had tried, several times, to have me and Nightingale horribly murdered and didn’t seem likely to stop anytime soon.

That was the thought on my mind when I opened my eyes, so you can understand why the sight of Molly’s face about three inches from my own was enough to have me holding back an unmanly scream. Fortunately Molly moved swiftly away before I embarrassed myself too badly. She gestured across the room and Walid came hurrying over.

“Peter! Welcome back. I was starting to get a wee bit concerned.”

I looked around,confused. I was sure we had been in the kitchen before, but this seemed to be a bedroom, and it wasn’t mine. Apart from the bed I was lying on, the  furniture was all covered by white dust sheets and the air had a musty, dry smell like old paper, skin ointment, chalk and, weirdly, gunpowder. 

I rubbed my aching head, trying to re-orientate myself. “Where are we?”

“One of the ground floor bedrooms,” Walid answered, speaking quietly. “Molly carried you here when it was clear you weren’t going to come round any time soon.”

“It smells like old wizard in here.” I noted.

“It comes complete with an old wizard,” Walid said, and pointed behind me. I looked over and saw that on the other side of the bed from me was Nightingale. He was curled up on his side with his back to me, and seemed fast asleep. Molly was hovering nearby.

I looked back to Walid, who shrugged. “It was convenient to hae you both in the same place, to keep an eye on you.”

Waking up on the same bed as my DCI probably should have warranted some kind of response from my brain, not least panic about impending IOPC investigations, but I was still too busy coming to terms with the fact that I wasn't waking up hungover in the section house in 2012 to worry about anything else. “What happened?” I asked, sitting up a little more and trying to be careful not to disturb Nightingale. 

“You cast a werelight,” Walid said, “and passed out. Sound familiar?”

My heart sank. I remembered what had happened to Nightingale. “Oh shit . It’s spreading?”

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Walid said. “Except for the fact that I’m really starting to question my own judgement in that the pair of you aren’t both strapped to trolley cots in an ambulance right now.”

“Have I been doing anything weird?” I asked. “Hallucinating, talking to invisible people, forgetting random decades...?”

“No,” Walid reassured me. “You’ve been unconscious since you collapsed, about three hours ago. But just to make sure; do you remember what day it is?”

“Sunday the 15th, right? June. Please tell me it’s still 2014 at least.”

Walid nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked tired.

“Well, it's Monday now, but apart from that you don't seem too scrambled.”

“And him?” I said, gesturing to Nightingale. “Any more developments?”

“1920s Thomas stuck around for a bit after you passed out; I think he was just rather befuddled by everything, though he put on a good front. Molly and I got you sorted out and then we found he'd just taken himself off to the library and was placidly reading though half a dozen books in Greek, dinnae seem to be aware of us at all. After that we’ve lived through about forty minutes of a completely different memory before he fell asleep.”

“Another memory? How old was he this time?” I said, half jokingly.

“Seven,” said Walid.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, fervently glad I hadn’t had to deal with that one. Nightingale at my own age had been difficult enough to get my head around, let alone an actual child. It was just too weird to imagine. Still, I couldn't help but be curious.   

“What was he like? As a kid.”

“As you might expect, I suppose. Inquisitive. Thoughtful. Serious. But then again, I gather his father had just died so that might account for the last two.”

Walid saw my expression. 

“Tuberculosis,” he explained.

“Wasn’t he, you know...Scared? To suddenly wake up in a strange place?”

“He was a bit wary at first,” Walid said, “Particularly of me. But he still seemed to get along quite famously with Molly. And it’s just as well you have Toby. I dinnae think I've ever met any child under the age of 10 who would no’ forget every worry they have for the chance to play with a small dog for half an hour.”

Toby, who had been napping in the corner, woke up at the sound of his name and came trotting over in case some kind of meaty treat might be about to materialise. Molly offered him something from out of her apron pocket and Walid scratched his ears. “Good dog,” said Walid, and Toby made a contented snuffling sound. 

I was still trying to get my head around the concept of Nightingale acting like a scared seven-year-old. “ Fuck . I really, really hope he's not going to carry on getting younger.”

“You and me both,” agreed Walid, fervently. “And, just to be clear, you've had no hallucinations yourself? No strange sounds, images…”

“I was having a pretty vivid dream when I just woke up,” I said. “But no, nothing like… like that.”

I then remembered the image my mind had conjured up earlier when Nightingale had run out into the road; the crackle of flames against the blacked-out city, searchlights and brick dust and people trapped, screaming…

“Actually, maybe I saw something once,” I admitted. “But it’s like vestigia - what I saw could just be from my imagination.”

Beside me, Nightingale coughed a couple of times. Walid and I both turned quickly to look at him, but Molly had already seated herself down on the floor beside the bed and was creepily staring at his face from a few inches away. I figured she’d let us know the moment he made any sign that he was waking up. 

I got up slowly, feeling a tired throb of dull pain in my head. I was not looking forward to this getting any worse. “By the way,” Walid said, as I tried to stretch out the crick in my neck. “I've had some time to consider everything that’s happened, and I think you're right. These symptoms have to be connected to the anthrax attack. It'd be too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

“The whole thing doesn't make any sense, though,” I said. “The attack, I mean. Anthrax is a great weapon for terrorising people ‘cause you can shove it in a random envelope, you don't have to be there to inflict it, and by the time your victims have figured out their symptoms aren’t just normal ‘flu three days later they’re already critical. But we were surrounded by cops who immediately knew what to do, and you had us in decontamination in under 40 minutes. If Faceless was trying to do us in then he would have been better to just hire a contract killer with a sniper rifle, or have someone poison the bento. This whole thing just seems so... melodramatic.”

“You do remember this is the fellow who blew up a tower block one time?” Walid reminded me. “By his usual standards this is practically subtle.” 

It was a valid point. “So if these hallucinations are part of the attack,” I mused, still trying to untangle everything. “Then maybe the anthrax was the delivery system, or maybe the victim has to be weakened for the enchantment to take over. ”

“Why?” Walid said. “What's the purpose?”

“I have no idea. A secondary stage of attack, maybe, for if you survive the first?”

I looked over at Molly. She shrugged, hesitated, and then slowly put her hand over her eyes.

“I’m not seeing something.” I guessed. She shook her head. “Or someone's hiding something. Like a cover up?”

“Or a distraction,” suggested Walid. 

Molly nodded. Now that wasn't an encouraging prospect.

I looked at Nightingale again. Despite having slept for a good length of time earlier in the reading room, he seemed to be completely out of it again, still not stirring at our quiet conversation or under Molly's intense scrutiny.  He looked strangely vulnerable, almost more than he had in the hospital bed.

The small group of us were silent. 

“I have no idea what the hell to do now.” I admitted, after a long moment. 

“Well, that at least I can help with,” Walid said. “Thomas gave me instructions, years ago before he took you on, about what to do in the event he was unable to fulfil his duties. We need to inform your higher-ups in the Met that you’re now both out of commission. I know you’re supposed to be on sick leave already, but I think we both know how long that would last if there was any kind of magical shenanigans. This time you will have to make it clear the Folly is absolutely signed off duty, no exceptions. As for the Folly, I dinnae know how any of this warding stuff works, but I got the impression that the Folly would seal itself up tighter than a drum if, God forbid, Thomas were actually to die. The place is more vulnerable when he is incapacitated but particularly when he isn’t in the building, like when you were both in hospital. I think that is one of the reasons he was so insistent on checking himself out against medical advice so soon after he was shot.”

I suppose it made sense that Nightingale had briefed Walid on what to do if he was incapacitated. I was starting to get the impression that, apart from Molly and some of the older mob like Postmartin and Hugh Oswald, Walid had really been the only one Nightingale had trusted for years. He could have left some directions with someone else in the police I suppose, like the ACC, and maybe he had. But before I showed up, Nightingale's relationship with the rest of the police had been strained at best, maybe because he didn’t seem to have submitted any paperwork for thirty years. But regardless he's always been a wizard first and foremost, and a police officer second. He would have turned to other methods to keep the Folly safe.

“What else did Nightingale leave instructions about?" I asked. "Just out of curiosity."

“Well, it is something you should probably know, and quite a lot of it was beyond my ken. But it was also a conversation we had in confidence, so really you should ask Thomas yourself.”

Now that was interesting, but I didn’t push it, just making a mental note to have a pointed talk with Nightingale once he was awake. I needed to know this stuff.

“What if Tyburn gets wind of Nightingale being ill and tries to shut the Folly down again?” I asked. “Do I need to get Caffrey and his mates back here?” 

I really hoped the answer would be ‘no’. Caffrey seemed a decent enough bloke, but just the thought of the paras and their non-descript black van had made me twitchy ever since that time a few years ago in Soho when they'd tried to murder my then girlfriend.

Molly tilted her head, looking thoughtful. Then she shook it, dismissing the suggestion. Walid seemed to agree with her. “No matter how out of commission he is, I think that as long as Thomas is already inside the Folly, any Demi-monde or magical creatures like the Rivers would still have a hell of a job breaking in. Besides, we have no reason to think there’s going to be any trouble here. I think Molly is right - this enchantment or whatever it is seems designed to keep the two of you out of action, so Faceless can have his minions cause chaos somewhere else in the city.”

“That’s not exactly encouraging,” I pointed out. 

“No. But true or not, there’s nothing we can do about that now, Peter. I propose a simple cause of action. I'm going to call the hospital, then Nadiya, and tell them something's come up and I'm going to bide here until this is over.  At least you'll have some medical supervision. And then as soon as that's done we all try and get some sleep while things are quiet so we can handle whatever comes next.”

No-one else had any better ideas, and with Nightingale still out of it, I left Walid and Molly deciding on sleeping arrangements and went out into the hallway with my mobile. Detective Inspector Stephanopoulos answered on the second ring, despite the fact that it was well after midnight.

She wasn't pleased to hear from me.

“ Somebody had better be dead or dying, Constable,” she snapped. “ Or you soon will be.”

Oops. I'd woken the wife up too, then.

 I quickly explained, as best as I could, what we thought was happening - Nightingale was suffering some kind of magical psychosis that we didn't know how to cure. He was currently under medical supervision but we couldn't go to hospital, and there was a chance it was already affecting me too. As such, the SAU had to be stood down, effective immediately. Walid had been right about the sick leave - as I’d learned after what had happened in Soho at the strip club and later on the rooftop the first time Faceless attacked, when the wheels really came off Nightingale and me would expected to act, whatever our active status. Well, not this time.

I had no idea what the correct procedure was for suspending an entire SCD. The Met might be short on  resources but that sort of thing just doesn't happen. It certainly wasn't within Stephanopoulos's job role to handle. But I knew she'd get whatever needed to be done done, and more importantly, she knows how to stonewall when she bloody well needs to.

“Because this can't get out, boss," I told her. “If people find out that Nightingale's down, even temporarily… Well you remember what happened last time, after Covent Garden. And it won't just be opportunist Demi-monde nastiness, not when there's a chance someone deliberately manufactured this to incapacitate us. There could be something big and bad about to go down somewhere else in the city and we're not going to be able to do anything about it.”

That was probably a collection of the worst news to wake a fellow officer up with - vague predictions of dire trouble and a corresponding absence of all specialist manpower. But, of course, Stephanopoulos took it all in her stride, and went to call the people who needed to know.

“You had better do the same,” she warned me. “Who knows where this is going - if there's others involved in the...ah... ‘agreements’ who need to be informed, you'd better tell them, before any more shit hits the fan.”

 As usual, I had no idea what to do about the Agreements. I only know of about five or six of them, and not in detail. Nightingale just doesn’t seem to write any of that stuff down. The whole messy, complicated tangle of debts and arrangements and treaties that the Folly plays an essential role in adjudicating seems to only be recorded inside his head. This scenario was just another example of why that was a seriously bad management strategy. 

In the end I tried not to worry about it, and just called the only person I really wanted to talk to.

“ Hey babes,” said Bev when she picked up. There was a lot of background noise and a beat of music, sounded like a house party. “ They let you out okay? You didn't call; I was getting worried."

“We’re back at the Folly,” I said. “But Nightingale got obliviated, and I don't know what to do.”

“Hang on,” she said. There were voices, rustling and the sound of a door closing. The background noise got quieter. Then she said; “ Did you just say Nightingale got obliviated?”

“Yeah. He doesn't remember me, Walid, or any of it.”

“ Shit. Did he have, you know, a stroke or something? Is it permanent?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. He's just…” and I did my best to explain everything. Bev listened, occasionally asking a question.

“Peter. You guys don't mess around, do you?”

“Sorry,” I said.

“You still remember me though, right?” She was joking, but not completely.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I still remember everything, or at least I think I do. I'm sure it's going to be fine, I just have to figure out what's causing this and how to break the spell before Nightingale completely loses his mind.”

“Do you want me to come over?” Beverly asked. “I'm at mum's.”

I desperately did, but that was probably a terrible idea, and it hadn't been why I'd called.

“Better not,” I said. “Don't know what Nightingale might think when he sees you; he struggled enough getting his head around the concept of me. But I need you to keep this quiet for now, and keep your ear to the ground. Our current theory is that someone did this on us on purpose to take us out of the picture. That means Faceless is going to try something big that he doesn't want us interfering with. Maybe Skygarden big. I need you to keep an ear open in the Demi-monde for chatter. But be careful, okay?”

“All right,” she said. “You too. Keep the old man alive, yeah? He's not so bad. And text me.”

“I will,” I promised. She sounded worried. “Love you.”

“Bye. Love you.”

By the time I got back, the others had come up with a strategy. As I was the most rested of the group of us right now, I agreed to take first watch keeping an eye on Nightingale. Walid went off to grab a few hours sleep in the adjacent bedroom while Molly went off up to her own room to do the same, or whatever it was she did at night. I was to sit with Nightingale and then wake Walid after a few hours, or if I got too tired, or if Nightingale woke up, or if Nightingale got worse or, presumably, Nightingale did literally anything other than snore.

I settled down in the chair at Nightingale's bedside, feeling wide awake. Then, I swear it felt like I only blinked but when I opened my eyes, there was daylight outside. 

Nightingale was gone. 

The bed was empty, covers slightly messed up, and the door was half ajar. I leapt up in alarm. 

“Nightingale?”

I ran to the door and out into the corridor, just in time to see a shadow move around the corner ahead. I dashed after it. Nightingale couldn't be far ahead. As I turned the corner into the atrium, I saw him.

“Sir! Stop a moment. Wait…”

He didn’t slow down or turn, or even acknowledge me at all. Knowing I'd probably regret it, I jogged a few steps to catch up and then I grabbed his arm. Nightingale gave a start, turned sharply and then I saw up close the cold emptiness in his eyes. I heard a snap and a fireball ignited in his hand, inches from my face. It was small, the size of a snooker ball, but brilliant white with an intense heat I could already feel burning my skin. All I had time to do was think this is it - this is the stupid way that I die and then there was a faint pop and the fireball went out. Nightingale leaned back.

“I apologise,” he said. “I didn't realise you were still here.”

“I'm still here,” I reassured him, as soon as I start breathing again. “We're here. You're not alone.”

“No, I suppose not.” Nightingale looked out across the atrium, and then he added. “The old fellows stop by sometimes when they're in town. And Molly looks after me very well.”

And there's Dr Walid, I wanted to say. And the Belgravia team, and Vavara, Postmartin and Bev. And me. There's still me, sir.

But for some reason I couldn't say it. My mouth didn't move the way I wanted it to and suddenly I was saying something else entirely.

“You don't have to stay here, you know,” I heard my voice say.

What?

Nightingale smiled a tiny bit. “But I believe that I do. I need to stay, just as much as it is right that you should go.”

Again, my mouth moved of its own accord and the sound came out, forming words I had never tried to say. “You shouldn't be left here on your own. It's not right.”

I couldn't control my own voice. I couldn't move my hands or my feet, or shout for help. Why couldn't I move? What the fuck was happening?

“If you really believed that,” Nightingale replied, seeming not to notice me silently freaking out, “You wouldn't be leaving.”

“I have to leave,” the thing controlling my mouth said. “Please tell me you understand that, Thomas.”

Strangely, the more I spoke, the more the panic was fading away. I started to feel the fear dissolve, my body relaxing into a comfortable stance, fists unclenching.  This was okay. It's okay. It's how things were supposed to be. 

“Yes,” said Thomas Nightingale. “I understand.”

I heard myself say: “I can't bear it here anymore." 

Thomas looked at me. "I understand," he said again, but I knew that he didn't. He couldn't.

"If I have to stay here one more day," I said, "I'll end up like David." 

Thomas flinched, almost imperceptibly, but I forged ahead regardless. "You don't owe anything any more. You’ve served, just as truly as any.”

Thomas looked away across the atrium. “I took an oath.”

The answer annoyed me, even though I had been expecting it. I was left frustrated by his bullheadedness, guilty at my own.

“An oath to what? Magic is dead, Thomas. I know you can feel it.”

Another flicker of pain crossed his eyes then, but it too vanished just as quickly.

“Nevertheless,” he said, like that was some kind of reasonable argument. He didn't speak of the blasted Black Library and neither did I. There are some secrets too monstrous to acknowledge.

“Thomas.” I said. “I know what it was like. I was there, remember? I know how bad it got. But this - this empty shell of a building, all those memories - they don't have to be all that's left. You don't have to just give up!”

“I'm the one giving up?” Thomas said, coldly, and I knew I'd pushed him too far. But I owed it to them all to try one last attempt.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “Because there's a life outside these walls. You don't have to abandon that. You'll stay here manning the fort alone, like this is the last outpost of the war. But the war is over! Magic is dead, or dying. They don't need you anymore. All the oaths mean nothing. You shouldn't give up on your chance to live, on the chance that there is something more out there to give you purpose than just this...mausoleum.”

I had certainly found the meaning to my life now. More than the Folly or the magic had ever been. I had my darling Julia at home, and little Eddie, who would be walking soon. There was somewhere for me to go, someone who I still needed to be. But without the Folly, without magic… What was there for The Nightingale?

I don't know what I had been hoping for by needling him. That I would make him angry enough to lash out, perhaps, so I could feel more justified in walking away, leaving the madman here alone with his ghosts. But he was just standing there, waiting implacably for me to finish. He was the strongest of us all. A pillar. An unshakable Ozymandias watching over a desert of ruins. But how long before he too wore away to lone and level sands?

“Staying here alone,” I said, finally. “It's going to kill you, Thomas.”

Thomas Nightingale looked at me for a long moment. “Goodbye, Hugh,” he said, and he turned and walked away. I watched him go, all the way across the atrium and through the doors on the far side, deeper into the Folly. He never once hesitated or looked back.

I picked up my suitcase and walked over towards the front door, pushing it open. It was a beautiful day outside, warm and bright. There were birds singing in the square and I fancied I could even hear bees humming nearby. I had made my choice, and I would not feel remorse or guilt for leaving the past behind, for choosing to live. I took one last deep breath and left the Folly for the last time. I walked down the steps, and with each one it was if a weight was lifting off me. I had left at last. I was free of it all.

Julia would be waiting for me at home with the baby. There was a train from Euston at 18.35; if I hurried I could catch it and…

...And the world jolted and fell apart.

Research notes: Hugh Oswald

Hugh Oswald was born in 1921. After education at Casterbrook, he joined the Folly in 1938, apprenticed to 68-year-old Master Practitioner Rhys Howell. Despite the outbreak of war shortly afterwards, wizarding was considered a reserved occupation and apprentices were therefore exempt from conscription, allowing Oswald to continue his apprenticeship. It was during this time that Oswald married his childhood sweetheart Julia Lenox. Oswald received his staff in February 1942, one of the last apprentices to do so, and almost immediately enlisted in the army. He spent the next two years serving in a special infantry division largely in Africa and Italy, before being recalled to London in the autumn of 1944 in preparation for Operation Spatchcock. He was part of the raiding company, led by Major Escalus Wilcox, which infiltrated the labour camp at Ettersberg and raided the storage bunker containing the Nazi research archive. 

He never spoke to anyone about what he saw inside.

Hugh escaped from Germany on board one of the fleeing gliders and accompanied the Black Library back to London in the spring of 1945. After the war, he spent several years travelling between his family’s home in Hereford and the Folly in London, assisting with protecting the Black Library and with the fallout from the Ettersberg campaign. 

Julia Oswald gave birth to a son, Edmund, in 1947, and the following year Hugh reportedly broke his staff and gave up magic, leaving the Folly entirely. The couple later had a daughter, Morwena. Sixty-five years later Hugh Oswald gifted his unbroken staff to PC Peter Grant, the first officially sanctioned wizarding apprentice in just under 70 years.

The lone and level sands

Hugh quotes from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s 1818 poem Ozymandias . The poem was inspired by fragments of a statue of 19th Dynasty Pharaoh Ramesses II and is themed on the collapse of great empires beneath the ravages of time.  A second poem with the same title was published in the same year by poet Horace Smith as part of a friendly competition with Shelley. Smith’s poem ends by imagining future explorers finding the remains of a forgotten London.

We wonder,—and some Hunter may express

Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness

Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,

He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess

What powerful but unrecorded race

Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

Chapter Text

It felt as if the world was tilting to the side. Like I was sliding along the floor, the earth giving way beneath my feet. I stumbled and fell, clutching at the ground, feeling as if I was tumbling into a void through a hurricane and about to be torn into pieces. I didn't seem to fit inside my own body; it was too tall, too broad in the shoulders. The hands in front of my eyes were dark and too big; I felt a sweep of cold terror, an intense burst of tinnitus that left my ears ringing and then gradually I became aware that someone was shouting.

“...eter! Open your eyes! Peter Grant! Right now.”

I felt my lungs give a huge spasm and then I was gasping like a drowning man coming up out of a frozen lake. My eyes opened. It was bright, loud; there were buses and bikes whizzing past, car horns and sirens and that insistent, unrelenting voice.

“I want you to answer me, Peter. Squeeze my hand, right now.”

Hands. My hands. Too black, too large, too...I closed my fists and felt something in my right. Another hand. It squeezed back.

“That's good, very good. You're all right, Peter. Thank you, madam, but we dinnae need any help. I'm his doctor. It's just a funny turn. Just give him some space, please.”

Peter. That's me. Police Constable Peter Grant, at your service. I got my eyes open again and managed to look around. I was outside, slumped on the cold pavement, cars and buses thundering past. Someone was crouched by my side, holding my hand, other figures leaning in; kind, inquiring. I sat up, for a moment completely disorientated. Then I started to notice the details of the buildings and the trees and realised I was sitting on the ground right by the pedestrian crossing on the corner of Southampton Row. It was broad daylight and probably morning rush hour, given the traffic. Last thing I remembered I'd been in the Folly in the middle of the night and then something had taken control of my mouth and my body and taken it for a joyride.

Mr Punch.

“Help,” I tried to say. It came out sounding strangled.

“Easy,” Walid was saying. “You're alright, Peter. You weren't sequestrated if that's what you're worried about. I promise you're okay.”

I took my hands away from my face, out of my mouth. My nose felt normal, there was no blood and my teeth weren't a ruined mess. It couldn't have been Mr Punch. I was okay.

“What the fuck was that?” I managed, breath coming short.

“I dinnae know,” said Walid, quietly, leaning in close. “But do you feel okay to stand up? We're making a wee bit of a scene.”

I nodded, shakily, and a few pairs of hands helped me up to my feet; some well-meaning passers-by had clearly decided that I was clean and well-dressed enough to mean I wasn't homeless or an addict and was therefore worthy of their time. Walid waved them off, clamped his hands firmly round my shoulders and guided me away from the onlookers and the traffic, back towards the Folly.

We were passing No. 57 Russell Square before my foggy, panicked brain finally remembered Nightingale, and I tried to turn back.  

“Nightingale! Where's Nightingale? I have to...”

“He's inside the Folly somewhere,” said Walid, still forcefully steering me along. “I sent Molly after him. Just worry about yourself for now. After all, Thomas is no’ the one that just took off up the street and tried to fall under a bus. Come on.”

We made it up the steps and back inside the Folly with no further incidents, though with my shaky legs and pounding heart I felt like I might hit the deck again at any moment. Walid closed the door firmly behind us before depositing me in an armchair.

“Peter. You still with me?”

“Yeah,” I said, drawing a shaking hand over my head. “Yeah.”

“Can you tell me what day is it?”

“It's...I don't know. Sunday?”

“Hmm. What's the last thing you remember?”

I was leaving the Folly for the last time, leaving Thomas Nightingale to his lonely vigil. I had done all I could for him and now I went to reclaim my life, my sanity, my freedom...

“It was dark,” I said. “I just talked to Bev on the phone. Listen, you have to find Nightingale. He shouldn't be left on his own.”

“He's with Molly,” Walid said, patiently. “I’ll find him but you have to sit right here, okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“I mean it. Do no’ get up out of this chair until I get back, Peter. I'll be two minutes.”

He pushed a glass of water into my hand and left the atrium at a brisk walk. Clearly he wanted to check on Nightingale as much as I wanted him to.

I sipped the water and tried to get my breath back. I'm Peter Grant, I reminded myself. This is the Folly. It's 2014 and I am certainty not Hugh bloody Oswald. But the thing was, none of it made any sense. What I'd just experienced… That had to be the same enchantment affecting Nightingale. But as far as I could tell Nightingale had solely been reliving his own memories, not someone else's. Why hadn't I re-lived something from my past? How could I possibly have been looking through Hugh's eyes, saying his words, thinking his thoughts?

Fucking magic.  

Perhaps it was something to do the Folly itself, I wondered. As far as I could tell, all the memories had been of events that had taken place here. Perhaps there was some kind of build up of latent magic caused by decades of wizardly activity. The same people casting magic again and again, leaving impressions of themselves in the rock, like a lacuna or super vestigia, a concretion of memory. Maybe my two years of occupation wasn’t enough to leave much of an imprint for the spell to draw on. But that still didn't explain how I'd been inside someone else's memory, knowing their thoughts. I hadn't even known what Hugh's wife or son had been called before today, so that information had to have come from somewhere. Maybe my hypothesis was too complicated. I could phone Hugh, find out if he just experienced something. If this was some kind of long distance transpossession...I didn't believe he would have triggered it on purpose, a magical accident perhaps, and maybe if he had been inside my body, maybe I'd been in his, maybe…

There was a distant clang of a bell from somewhere deep in the house that I recognised as the echo of the bell for the front door ringing in the old servants’ quarters. I hesitated for a second. It was probably just one of the good Samaritans from earlier who had followed us to check that I was okay. And Walid had told me to stay in the chair.

The bell sounded again. It could be important.

I got up, and went to answer it. Sahra Guleed was standing on the top step with her phone to her ear, looking particularly well put-together in a deep purple silk blouse and matching hijab alongside her usual suit trousers and jacket.

“Peter,” she said, sounding relieved, and hung up whatever call she was making. “I tried at the Coach House and the kitchen door but no-one was answering. Are you alright? You look bloody awful.”

“What are you doing here?” I said, as she came past me into the hall. I shut the door and followed her into the atrium. “I hope it's not a shout because…”

“Stephanopoulos has been trying to get hold of you lot all morning,” she explained. “Neither of you were answering your mobiles, the landline or the airwave so she sent me over to check you were all still alive. What's going on? Should you be back in hospital?”

There was a sound behind us and I turned to see Walid, Nightingale, Molly and Toby all trooping into the room. Walid was steering Nightingale along by the elbow; my governor was looking a little peaky and uncharacteristically rumpled but at the very least he didn't seem to be actively re-living any memories right now, just staring numbly into space. I had quite a bit more sympathy for how he must be feeling, having now experienced the horrible disorientation of coming out of a memory event for myself.

Toby gave an excited yelp at the sight of Guleed and came dashing over. She crouched down to scratch his ears.

“Hello Constable!” Walid greeted Guleed warmly. “I didn't know we were expecting you.”

“Good morning Dr Walid, Detective Chief Inspector,” Guleed said, straightening up. She looked to Nightingale, who didn't answer. He was staring at her with the same intense, puzzled expression he'd used on me a few times. Guleed glanced at me, slightly baffled; I just shrugged and she forged ahead. “We couldn’t get through to you, so they sent me over to check everything was alright.”

Nightingale still said nothing, but Walid was busy looking me over, disapprovingly. “Peter, I thought I told you no’ to move. Why are you standing up?”

“I had to answer the door,” I protested.

“You should be no’ going anywhere near the door,” Walid said. “If you take off into the street again it might take hours to find you.”

Before I could protest my innocence again, Molly swished past us all with a reproachful air and went to the front door. She pulled out a large key, locked the door, and dropped the key ostentatiously back into her apron pocket. She folded her arms and glared around at us. That was one way to solve the problem, I suppose.

“Thank you, Molly dear,” said Walid. “Good idea. Now, as for you two, it would be supremely helpful if the pair of you would kindly stay in the same room for now, at least. At you listening, Thomas?”

Nightingale stirred. “Detective Constable Sahra Guleed,” he said, slowly.

Guleed nodded, cautiously. “That's… That's right, sir.” She glanced at me again. I made a just roll with it gesture.

Nightingale blinked a few times and then seemed to rally himself, pulling away from Walid's hand on his elbow and straightening up.

“What can we do for you, Constable? Is there a case?” he asked, striding forward. He looked even worse close up, flushed and feverish. “I'll get my coat.”

“No, you bloody won't,” Walid said, instantly, pointing to the armchairs. “Both of you. Sit.”

Such was his tone that Nightingale and I both obeyed immediately. So did Toby. Walid was getting us all well trained.

“Thomas,” Walid said to Nightingale. “Do you have even the faintest idea what day is it?”

“It’s 2014,” Nightingale informed him, with an air of dignity. “It’s...summer.”

Walid rubbed his head. “Aye, well you're not wrong,” he muttered, then turned to Guleed. “If that little show didn’t clue you in, they're not in their right minds right now and are both, quite definitely , on medical suspension. They won't be going anywhere.”

“That's not why I'm here,” she said. “There's no shout but after Peter's call last night everyone was a bit concerned. They want more information.”

“If we knew what was going on,” I said. “We'd be happy to tell you.”

“What is going on, sir?” Guleed asked Nightingale, ignoring me. She does that.

Nightingale coughed a little which seemed to clear his throat. “I'm afraid I'm a little unclear of all the details, but the toxin with which we were infected at the factory has had some unexpected side effects. I have been reliving some rather vivid memories which I am unable to distinguish from reality. The condition has recently begun to affect Peter as well.”

“Look, we don't have a lot of time,” I pointed out, impressed that Nightingale had even been able to take in that much of the situation given how little time he’d spent in the 21st century over the last few days. “Who knows how long we'll both be lucid for this time? We have to figure this out before we get stuck in another memory.”

“The events do seem to be increasing in frequency and intensity,” Walid agreed.

“Right,” I agreed. “And I think it's affecting both of us differently.”

“Interesting,” said Nightingale, leaning forward.

“Can you expand on that?” Guleed asked, falling back into her standard open interviewing patter.

“Well,” I said. “Sir, have you experienced anything that wasn't one of your memories?”

Nightingale looked at me. “You are going to have to describe what you mean in rather more detail, Peter.”

“I mean all the things, all the memories, you’ve been re-living...they were all things that happened to you? Conversations or interactions or events from your life?”

“That’s correct.”

 “Not for me,” I said. “It was like I was being taken over by someone else, saying the things they had said.”

“That’s...peculiar,” offered Walid, leaning in. On my right Guleed was taking notes.

 Nightingale had a brief coughing fit and then said, “I’m not entirely following you, Peter.”

 “The memory you just re-lived,” I said. “Do you remember when it was? What you saw?”

 “Yes. It was the day Hugh Oswald left the Folly.”

 “Yeah,” I said. “And I was stuck playing Hugh.”

 Walid tapped his chin. “Molly and I saw the end of it. The pair of you were talking, having a conversation, and it took us a while to realise something was no’ right.”

 “So you were just play-acting? Responding the way you thought Hugh might have done?” Nightingale asked me, and I could see for all he looked alert and in the present, he was struggling. He looked exhausted.

“No,” I tried to explain. “It was more like I was being controlled. Like I was a puppet, and the dialogue was being put into my mouth. And then I started to forget that I wasn’t him. I knew that he was feeling guilty and frustrated, he was thinking about his wife and kid, and which train he was going to catch. It was like I was him.”

 “That’s why you thought you’d been sequestrated when you came to,” Walid said. I didn’t remember that.  

 “I am sorry, Peter,” Nightingale said, quietly. “That sounds horrible.”

 “But how can you possibly remember something that never happened to you?” Guleed asked me.

“I think it’s the Folly,” I said. “We know it’s powerful, right? Build up and concentration of magical energies over hundreds of years...It’s like the way Grand Central Station gives off more radiation than a nuclear power plant, only the radiation here is magic. I don’t know how but I think this spell, whatever it is, is somehow drawing on memories and emotions which have been stored up in the fabric of the building as vestigia or whatever, and is then dumping them on me. Nightingale’s getting his actual memories. I’m just filling in for whoever else should be there. Hugh Oswald or David or that Jeremy guy...”

Nightingale started. “David?” he said.

 “Yeah. Yesterday...I think it was yesterday...you thought you heard a bomb go off and ran outside. I had to all but drag you back in and I think I saw a bit of Blitz-time London. Thought I was just imagining it at the time. You called me David.”

 Nightingale just nodded silently, and looked down.

 “So, are we any closer to figuring out how to stop it?” Walid asked.  He was watching Nightingale. “That’s more of a concern to me right now that how it works.”

I shrugged. “I have no idea,” I said.

 The others shook their heads too.

"We haven't had anything useful from your illegal wizard Everett," Guleed said. "He clammed up. Unless we can find the source of this anthrax stuff I don't think we'll be able to do much." 

“We should do some research,” Nightingale said. “I’ll telephone the Radcliffe and see if Postmartin recalls any similar incidents. Peter, perhaps you should start in the library...”

"I want to talk to Hugh Oswald too,” I added. “See if he experienced anything at the time I was piggybacking his memories. And someone should take a look through the recordings from Everett's interviews on HOLMES…I know he hasn’t said much but we might be able to see if anything stands out."

“There’s something I want to try too,” said Walid, rummaging around in his medical bag. “This might be a magical condition, but I’m going to see if treating it like a medical one has any affect. Sahra, would you have time to dash to a pharmacy for me if I give you a prescription?”

“They sent me here to keep an eye on you,” Guleed said. “So unless something else comes up, I’ll stay and do whatever I can.”

It was sort of a plan, and that was something. Molly wouldn’t let us do anything though until both Nightingale and I had both showered and thrown on some fresh clothes, and everyone had something to eat. Once again there was no time for a full meal, but somehow amidst all the chaos Molly had found time to make a pot of leek and potato soup and fresh bread  and I was more than happy to shovel it all down my neck as fast as possible. I had no idea when I’d last eaten. It turned out was now Monday and 11am, and that was far too many hours I couldn’t account for and it was making me uneasy.

We managed to cross a few items off our list before everything went to shit again. Sahra walked Toby, picked up a prescription of Haloperidol from a nearby Boots, and settled down at the AWARE terminal in the Coach House to check the action points from the interview of Ethan Everett and see if she could track down any association with our known Little Crocodiles. Nightingale started hunting though the magical library for any clues to memory altering or hallucinatory enchantments, and I began making phonecalls. Hugh Oswald had experienced nothing strange at all over the past few hours, though there was an interesting swarm of bees last night. I checked – his wife was named Julia.

I was loitering around in the atrium talking to Stephanopoulos on the phone when it happened. I’d been keen to check in with the murder team that nothing sinister and magical was going on elsewhere in the city while we we're distracted with our own problems. I was still convinced that this attack had to be some kind of diversionary tactic for a larger scheme, but so far there was no sign of anything happening beyond standard levels of London weirdness. I wasn’t sure if that was comforting to hear or not. The fairy guy who had been the one to actually dose us with the anthrax was still at large, but everyone was working on the assumption that he and Ethan Everett were working together. The Belgravia team still weren't getting anything out of Everett in person, but Counter-Terrorism Command were sniffing around the case and they had all sorts of resources at their disposal which were outside the realm of normal polite coppering. Everett’s bank and phone records, for instance, were showing up a trickle of useful clues for tracing his activities, including a recent stint of employment at a small pharmaceutical laboratory in Milton Keynes owned by a company called Epfrenal who were supposedly manufacturing epipens. Perhaps, assuming Everett was the one who had supplied the missing fae with the canister, this was the location where the anthrax had been engineered? Given that we were fairly certain the Faceless Man was also somehow involved, raiding the lab without Falcon support was going to be potentially extremely dangerous, and it was while I was listing off possible magical hazards to Stephanopoulos that Toby leapt up and started barking at me, furiously. I began to realise I could hear another voice somewhere, far away, like an echo or a distant car radio, and it wasn't coming from Stephanopoulos's end of the line. Then there was a chill that passed straight through me and I felt the hairs on my arms stand up. I could smell pine and woodsmoke and cordite, feel a smothering tide of boredom and fear and frustration, and that's when I realised something was definitely happening.

Walid was quite insistent that neither Nightingale or I were left on our own for any period of time in case we suddenly forgot 70 years and so, as Guleed was over at the Coach House going through my notes, Molly was currently assigned as my babysitter. She had jumped up as soon as Toby started barking. As the first chill went through me, she drew her lips back and snarled.  I stood up, phone call forgotten. Last time, I'd been sucked into in the memory loop before I had any chance to do anything, but this time I could feel it coming. Was that the antipsychotics Dr Walid had just plied us with that were keeping the hallucinations at bay? Or was it more to do with the fact that this time I’d been ready, and noticed the advanced signs?

“It’s starting again,” I told Molly. “I have to get to Nightingale.” 

If I could warn him quickly enough, could we stave this off for him too? Was this a way to beat it? Without another thought I turned and dashed across the atrium to the stairs. I could hear Molly and Toby behind me as I sprinted up to the first floor through the doors into the library.

“Nightingale!” I yelled. “It’s happening again! You have to-”

 And then I saw him. And the world went away.

A bitter ice crawled up my legs and arms. My vision went black and grey, turning to stark silhouettes. There was the weight of cold metal and wood tucked under my arm, a burn of smoke drawn into the lungs. Better savour that; might be the last one I can cadge for a while. Huddling behind the trees, down on our honkers in the snow. Least it was starting to get light. Fuck, it’s cold. Kept the snout cupped in my palm so the glow was hidden.

The fog was hanging dense and still, frozen in midair like a smothering blanket. I shifted my weight, cupping my palm to my mouth, taking a drag on the snout again. The last one from my ration what I’ve been saving. They say the boredom you get on watch's almost as bad as the excitement you get under fire. If only that was fuckin’ true. I shuffled my feet in the mud. Both skeets was sodden through already, feet numb; God, I cannot remember the last time I had dry feet for more than an hour. Or decent food. Probably back down the pit. Christ.

The thickness of the fog was unnerving, but we was getting used to it. It rolled in every night about midnight and just clung around most days, hanging like a solid wall between us and the distant trees across the line, stifling decent sightlines, smothering all sounds. There’s been no peep from the other side for the eight long hours I've been at my post; seems like the Boche have just abandoned these few miles of the Front entirely. They're saying the action’s all to the north near the Rhine. I don’t know whether I were raging not to be in the thick of it or no, but this had to be the quietest and most boring part of the Front. We had to get new orders soon, we had to. Somewhere a muffled cough sounded through the press of silence. One of the other lookouts up the line, probably Canner. I was fair sick of that useless bastard but at least I weren’t out here suffering alone.

Fuck. Tab’s gone out. I flicked the butt-end out into the fog, shoved my hand under my oxter to stay warm and glared out into the endless, featureless grey.

There was someone out there watching me.

I scrambled to my feet in a panic, snapping my rifle up. I saw a shape out there, a dark shadow, just for a second before the fog rolled back in. Someone was out there, someone was out there, moving closer...

“Halt!” I shouted into the fog. “Ich sehe Dich! Bewege dich nicht!”

I’d not been one for schooling but it’s rare what you’ll pick up after three years stuck out in a hellhole like this.

There was nothing for a second. Maybe I were seeing things. But then the fog darkened and shape began to form. A man, stepping closer. If the God-fearing bairn my Ma had raised hadn’t seen the things he’d seen since this war began, maybe I would have crossed mysell at the sight of the man, ‘cause he looked more than half a boggie already; white as the fog itself and coat stained black with blood. He had his left hand raised, palm out, like he were surrendering.

“Ich bin unbewaffnet,” he said. “Ich bin verloren. Ich habe meine Einheit verloren...”

A fucking Jerry. 

He slowly tilted his empty hand, turning it from palm out to palm up, like he were about to catch a ball, but he didn’t go for a weapon. The Jerry stepped closer, twenty feet away now, and I gestured sharply with my rifle and yelled:

“Are you deef? I said don’t fuckin’ move, you Fritz bastard!” 

The only reason I hadn’t shot him already was because I couldn't see a gun. That he hadn’t shot me from out of the fog 'fore I even spotted him were proof enough that he weren't armed. Someone in the distance on my right shouted something indistinct; I hoped to God it were Canner finally hearing me yelling and running to help.

The Jerry stopped, suddenly. He blinked and his hand relaxed, going up to clutch his shoulder.

“You’re English,” he said, suddenly all posh and proper, like he were off the wireless.

“Aye, man. This is the Front!”

“Oh,” said the man. And then, as if to himself in some surprise, said. “We made it. We made it.”

Behind me there were a crashing sound through the trees. Canner and someone else, probably Lundy, arriving to back me up. I didn't lower me rifle though and I didn’t look round; I weren’t born yesterday. I kept the Jerry, or whatever he was, in my sights, and I didn’t move out from behind the tree.

“What’s going on?” said Canner behind me.

“We got us a surrendering Jerry." I told him. "Get the sergeant.”

“I’m not German,” said the man, as Canner ran off. “I’m a British Officer.”

“Sure you are,” I said, still keeping the rifle steady. “Rank and regiment.”

“Captain Nightingale,” the man replied, abstractly. He certainly sounded English now, and like a proper rupert too. He dragged his sleeve across his forehead as if he was sweating, though it were right freezing. “Duke of Bedford’s 175th Infantry Brigade.”

"Never heard of ‘em.”

“I have my identity card in my coat.”

I might be seeing things, but it looked like he were swaying.

“I’m not taking the piss,” I said, “but where the bloody hell have you even come from?”

"There was a small engagement to the east,” Captain Nightingale said, vaguely. “Spatchcock. The rearguard got rather cut off; you may have had some others of us passing through. The rest of my company is back there in the trees. I came on alone to check it was safe.”

Even out here we’d heard of Operation Spatchcock. Some kind of hush-hush spying op, the rumours said; some covert thing gone wrong. Whatever it was meant to be it ended up in a major fuck up –  a whole regiment got dropped in and they say four-fifths of them were wiped out.

I frowned. “Spatchcock were ten days ago.”

“It was rather a long walk.”

“How many of youse are there?”

“Twenty-four,” he said, and then I definitely saw him sway. His left hand was clutching his bloodied right shoulder, and when he blinked, his eyes stayed closed for a mite too long. He looked completely chin-strapped.

“Look, you best get yoursell over here, man,” I said. “The sergeant will be here in a tick and then...”

Captain Nightingale didn’t move. “If it’s all the same to you, I am going to signal for the rest of my men to procede first. They have waited rather long enough, I think. Then after we’re all safely behind allied lines you can decide if we’re Jerry spies or not.”

Before I could argue or agree he turned his back on me, looking towards the distant forest and suddenly the fog around us was glowing with a red light, like he were holding out a powerful torch or a ship's flare. It was only lit for a second or two before the captain snuffed out the lowe, but a couple of seconds of light was all an enemy soldier with a rifle would need. I threw myself back behind the cover of the trees.

“Get behind cover, you doylem! Are you gannin mad?” I hissed. “The Jerries...”

“There aren’t any,” he said, sounding dead tired. “Not nearby. Not anymore.”

Then the fog shifted again, and I saw them. Dark figures resolving out of the mist in ones and twos, some limping alone, some holding up others. Twenty-three men, all blooded and filthy and exhausted. But alive. I let them pass me, marching raggedly across the allied line to safety.

“There,” said Captain Nightingale, quietly, as the last man limped past. “There. It is done.”

Then he closed his eyes and slumped silently to the ground.

Research notes: Dialects and slang

A snout and a tab are cigarettes, to cadge is to beg, skeets are boots, a bairn is a child, a boggie is a ghost or spectre, oxter is your armpit, a doylem is an idiot. Jerry, Fritz and Boche are all slang for German soldiers. A rupert is an officer, particularly one who is upper-middle class. Chin-strapped is only held up by the strap of your helmet, i.e. exhausted. 

The Duke of Bedford’s Brigade

The magical division of the armed forces in which Nightingale served was the 175th Infantry, known as the Duke of Bedford's Brigade, named, of course, for the 5th Duke of Bedford on whose estate stood the very first Folly. His statue stands opposite the location of the present-day Folly on Russell Square.

In reality, the 175th infantry was part of the deception formation of the 58th (2/1st London) Division, a fictitious division invented to mislead Nazi intelligence about the size of the Allied forces. 

Translations

“Halt! Ich sehe Dich! Bewege dich nicht!” - Halt! I see you, don’t move.

“Ich bin unbewaffnet. Ich bin verloren. Ich habe meine Einheit verloren.” - I’m not armed. I’m lost. I’ve lost my unit.

Chapter Text

I awoke in pain, dazed and reeling. My febrile heartbeat was fluttering in my chest, breaths coming short, gasping, my whole body shaking with a sickening fever. I couldn't breathe or see; my vision had clouded into an indistinction of grey shapes, and sounds boomed dull and sickeningly distorted in my ears. Someone brushed past and I wanted to reach out, but I couldn’t move my arm.

“Sind sie sicher?” I tried to say, my mouth stuttering on the words. “Sind sie s...sicher? Alle von ihnen?"

I had to know; I couldn't let myself stop until it was over, until the men were safe. But I was lying down; couldn't see, couldn't draw a breath. Had I collapsed? Had we been captured? No, the soldiers had been English. I was speaking the wrong language. Try to think. I was lying down, in pain, feverish and delirious. The field hospital. This must be…

Someone was leaning over me.

“...mas...Thomas! I cannae understand what you're saying. Come on, you need to wake up.”

Hands were tapping my face, and then someone started hauling me upright. I cringed instinctively away, as I kept my hand clamped to my shoulder, gasping through the pain.

“You're no’ hurt,” said the voice, close, insistent; hands gripping me tight. “It's just a memory. Come on, open your eyes, Thomas. Look. It's over.”

Over. It's over.

I didn't want to look. If I couldn't see how bad it was I could soldier on, pretend it was nothing serious. I could keep going, keep walking. As soon as I saw I wouldn't be able to lie to myself.  But no. I wasn't going to give in to the cowardice of ignorance. There was just enough of me left for that, at least. I dragged my eyes open and I forced myself to look. I was expecting blood and pus, punctured torn flesh oozing the stink of infection, putrefying skin gone green or black, corpse white....

But instead I saw that under the fabric pushed back off my shoulder there was no blood. No filthy bandages, no stench of rot, no gangrene. Just a sharp white divot in the flesh at the end of my right collarbone, and a thick knot of raised scar tissue around it about the size of a halfpenny bit.

 The wound had closed up. It was old. Healed, and they hadn't amputated my arm. The pain was gone except for a faint tremor in my hand and the twinges that pinched along the nerves as I opened and closed my fingers. But that seemed barely even worthy of note after everything else.

 I breathed deeply for a moment or two.

“I'm terribly sorry,” I told the man crouching beside me. My mouth felt numb, like I hadn’t spoken in a long time. “I must have been asleep.”

“Aye, you're forgiven,” he said immediately, and then moved away to a chair nearby. He watched me clumsily do up the buttons on my shirt, before he cautiously asked; “How are you feeling now, Thomas?”

“It was just a dream,” I said, and added. “I'm not being morbid.”

I didn't want to admit that I had forgotten the man’s name. Amnesia was not a sign of progress.

“It's okay to not be okay if that's how you feel,” the man said, slowly. “Do you want to talk about-”

“No,” I said, probably too quickly. “Thank you.” I carefully stood up, holding on to the wall. “I should like to go for a walk. Is it raining?” I looked around for my cane but I couldn't see it.

“Thomas,” said the doctor. “Please sit down.”

“I really am quite well,” I insisted. I was trying my utmost to appear calm, in control, but I couldn’t be sure if it was working. Just then, the door opened and I saw a woman enter the room. I have my own room here, at least, away from the main wards. That was for the safety and comfort of the other patients, not for mine, but I found the distance and isolation a relief.

“Could you perhaps bring me my coat?” I asked the nurse. “I’d like to go outside.” She stared at me and didn't move.

“Thomas, what year do you think it is?” The Scottish doctor asked.

I hadn't completely lost my wits, and so the year at least I could be sure of, even if everything beyond that was less clear in my mind. 

“I’m not regressing,” I told the doctor, instead of answering. “I'm sorry; it was only a dream before, and I'm quite awake now.”

“All right,” he said. “But I just want to check you're truly back with us. You haven't called me by my name yet - do you remember who I am?”

I hesitated, but by then it was already too late. The moment I had failed to answer, the doctor must have seen straight through my thin pretense. Names, faces, the onwards passage of time....Just more fragments that slip away from me hour by hour, spiralling further out of my grasp. 

It took just that one thought - the realisation once again of my own powerlessness - to shatter any sense of fragile control I had built. That unrelenting, insidious fear from which I could never quite break free began to surge again in my blood, and a sudden swell of anxiety coiled cold and tight around my insides. My breath caught and my hand started to shake.

“Hey,” said the doctor, softly. “Easy does it. No need tae get yourself in a state, Thomas. Just sit and breathe.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, again, struggling to remain in control of myself. Keep my focus. “I-”

“ Whisht, ” the doctor said. “No more apologising, if you please. Just take some slow and even breaths.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed and said nothing. My hand was still shaking; my heart racing, mouth dry. Not from illness or blood loss this time but from the constant, ceaseless dread that kept me crippled here, kept me searching every shadow for danger, that never let me sleep. I barely slept at all these days except when they administered their treatments. Then it was as if weeks went by and I could never quite seem to wake up. I didn’t know how long they had made me sleep for this time.

“Could you perhaps remind me...what month is it?” I asked, aware I was admitting failure even by asking.

“Aye. It’s June,” said the doctor.

I couldn’t help the shudder. Everything was so scrambled up. I couldn’t remember when I had last been aware enough to ask the date. I knew I had been here some time but most of the days were hazy, indistinct. I'd arrived in February. Or perhaps March. My thoughts and memories were muddled, first from the bullet wound and the infection and then from the constant treatments... But I knew I should be improving by now if my wound was already closed. I should be healed. But while the tissues and sinews were mending, the agitation and the nausea, the guilt, the memories, the tide of constant fear...Those never abated, never really lessened their grip on me. It was humorous really. I couldn’t recall feeling any fear at all when the tanks were firing, when shells and bullets and fireballs were cracking through the air, when my friends were dying around me. Only now, in the safety and quiet of the hospital, was I afraid.

“Thomas,” said the doctor from his chair. He was speaking quietly, slowly, as if to a child. “You know you’re not there anymore, right? It’s in the past. Do you understand that you’re safe?”

I nodded, not looking up.

“Then can you tell me why you are so anxious?”

Ah, yes. Self recognition was important, the doctors had said. They wanted me to understand my own condition. To instill a sense of personal responsibility in me, a recognition that I was failing my fellow soldiers by allowing myself to persist in this state. That I had a duty to fulfill.

“I believe the condition is called War Neurosis,” I told him. “I am not responding well to treatment. If I don’t improve soon the nurses tell me I will probably be invalided out.”

The doctor blinked a few times, and then he said: “No. That’s no’ what I mean, Thomas. For the love of-  You’re still stuck in there, aren't you? You need to wake up !”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He came over and crouched in front of me again. I looked away towards the fireplace. “Look at me, Thomas,” the doctor ordered. “Look at me properly. You know who I am. Think!”

I looked at him and then I saw him. He did seem...something. Was it familiarity? I remembered a cold, tiled room, the smell of chemicals and bodily fluids, but also a hint of something else. Companionship. Inquisitiveness. Firelight on the moors at night. A sharp, dry wit; a quick intellect; a dogged determination to never let me drown. A voice in the dark, and a hand lifting the glass out of mine.

“Alastair,” I said, the name coming to me in a rush. “Alastair Wilson.”

He gave a wry little smile. “Close.”

I nodded. I thought I remembered... “Abdul,” I said, and glanced around. The room was dark with wood panelling.  I saw a few armchairs, a green leather chaise longue, and stacks of books. By the door stood Molly, pale and silent and concerned.

“This is the Folly,” I said.

Abdul positively beamed. “Thank God,” he said. “But just to be on the safe side; can you tell me what year is it?”

I pinched at the bridge of my nose. My head was pounding. “It’s 198...3?"

Abdul sat back. “It’s still 2014,” he said. “Though by the time this is over I feel like I’ll have aged at least another few decades.”

Of course it was 2014. We had been attacked, I remembered, by one of the Faceless Man’s acolytes, a black magician named Ethan Everett. Peter had-

“Peter!” I leapt to my feet and made for the door, but Abdul caught my arm.

“Slow down, Thomas,” Abdul warned. “You’re ill and under a lot of stress, you need to take things slowly-”

“Where’s Peter?” I demanded. “What’s happened to him? I have a duty of care that supersedes all other concerns and until I am satisfied that he is not harmed, I shall-”

“Hey, what’s all the yelling?” said a voice from outside the door. “Walid, can we come in yet?”

“I think you better had,” answered Abdul. The door opened and Peter came in, followed by Sahra Guleed.

“Peter, thank God…”

I marched over to my apprentice, grasped his upper arms to hold him still and subjected him to some rigorous scrutiny. He seemed uninjured, though certainly looked tired and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Sir?” Peter asked me cautiously, then he looked to Abdul. “What's going on?”

“I am checking your well-being,” I told Peter, tersely, releasing him.

Sahra Guleed was hovering further back by the door. She too looked to Abdul, and asked “Is he, you know, back with us?”

I gave her a quick visual assessment. She too looked uninjured and more alert than Peter, so I looked for Molly and saw her watching from the corner. “Molly, are you quite all right?”

She gave me a very small nod.

“Everyone's okay, Thomas,” Walid said. “We're all fine.”

“Good,” I said, “That's good.” I cleared my throat, coughing a little. “What happened? I remember being in the library, and…”

“Another memory event,” Peter said. “All unquiet on the Western Front.”

I gritted my teeth and nodded, wearily. I suppose it was inevitable that it would be my life's more difficult moments that would get dragged out into the light for all to see. “And you were required to play a part, I suppose?”

Peter nodded. “I went to the ball wearing Private George Lynch, a former coal miner from Gateshead.”

I didn't recall anyone by that name. Peter saw my puzzlement and clarified.

“He was the soldier you met on the front when you walked out of Nazi Germany.”

I couldn't repress the wince of guilt at the memory. I remembered watching the lookout through the swirling mists and the clouded fever-fog in my mind and being sure he was another enemy soldier. When he had finally spotted me and shouted out in German, I had almost killed him on the spot.

“I’m not sure I ever knew his name. Or perhaps he did tell me; I wasn’t taking much in at that point in time.”

“You walked out of Nazi Germany ?” said Sahra. “What were you, three?”

There was a slightly awkward silence. But how could she know? Many of the more senior officers in the Force, Seawoll for instance, knew I had been at the Folly for a very long time. Some might even suspect that I was older than I appeared. But I’m sure no-one in the Police Force below the level of Deputy Commissioner really knew the truth. Apart from Peter, of course.

“Thomas is rather...well preserved,” said Abdul after a little hesitation.

“Unchanged would be nearer the mark,” said Peter.

“I’m 114 years old,” I interrupted, shortly. “I saw active service in the war and I don’t know why I don’t age anymore. May we move on?”

Constable Guleed raised her hands placatingly, clearly indicating she understood that the matter was closed, though I could see her casting intrigued glances at me. Police officers are never content with half an answer, and I am not usually so abrupt even when annoyed. But the memories, the hospital, were still too close to the surface, and I was not yet properly in control again.

“What was it you remembered just now?” Peter then asked, curiously. He, of course, had noticed my uncharacteristically terse response and had decided it needed investigation. “I didn’t see anything after you collapsed at George Lynch’s feet. But there was more just now, another memory. Whatever it was, it felt...horrible. Was it...was that Ettersberg?”

"No."

It had been something worse. 

But now all four of them were staring at me. For a moment I couldn’t speak at all; a remnant of that  visceral panic, long ago banished to the very deepest depths of my mind, was unwillingly dredged to the surface and even now was closing in around my throat.

From across the room, Molly suddenly hissed angrily and loudly at Peter, drawing their curious eyes off me.

“Molly,” I murmured, an ineffectual rebuke. I put my  hand into my pocket to hide the tremor.

“Don’t be so bloody nosy, Peter,” Abdul said,shortly. “What matters is that we learned something new from your little trip to the Front Lines, and not least that Thomas long ago managed to turn stubbornness into some kind of sepsis-repelling superpower.”

I managed a smile, but it probably wasn’t very convincing. 

“We learned several things, actually,” clarified Peter, who either hadn’t noticed Abdul’s less-than-casual diversion or had decided for once that discretion was the better part of valour. I was pleased to hear we had made some progress through this relentless invasion of my memories, but I was feeling a little unsteady still and, as Peter's explanations can be somewhat lengthy, I resumed my seat. I had to admit to myself that I was exhausted; my arm and shoulder were twinging fiercely and my whole body ached. I coughed a few times and Molly handed me a glass of water which I accepted gratefully, and then I gestured for Peter to go on.

“Well,” said Peter. “Firstly, we’ve decided the antipsychotics don’t seem to be doing very much at all, if anything. So we either keep taking them and hope it takes a while to work or we give up on that. Secondly, Walid says with the last event you started going non-responsive some minutes before I felt anything.”

“Aye,” agreed Abdul, “and you, Peter, came dashing in here without thinking and ended up right in the middle of things.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed with a shrug. “But the interesting thing is I didn't go completely Quantum Leap until I actually saw Nightingale. And the minute you passed out, sir, I got chucked straight out of the memory and back to myself. You were unconscious for a while after so we went out to the tech cave to get some work done. When you woke up again just now, I knew the next memory event had started; somehow I could feel it even over at the coach house.”

“What did you sense?” I asked, interested and slightly alarmed. "Was it a vestigium from the enchantment?"

“Well, it’s hard to describe. I guess there was this echo, like voices under water. I could tell people were speaking but not what was being said. But mostly I felt like I was constantly in danger, like at any moment something horrible was going to happen and that I was totally helpless, and there was this overwhelming terror and dread and utter misery, and it was all familiar like really intense deja vu. But I didn’t get any actual visual hallucinations and I was still in control.”

Abdul nodded. “So as long as he stayed out of sight of you, Thomas, Peter kept his wits even while you were still reliving things. Incidentally, the only time we’ve been able to wake you up out of the memories has been when Peter isn't also involved in  them.”

“What about everyone apart from Peter?” I asked. “Just now I thought that you were someone else, Abdul…Did you experience…?”

Abdul shook his head. “It does no’ seem to affect me. I did no’ see or hear anything different, and I was in control of my voice and actions the whole time. Neither Molly nor Sahra has been affected either. Just Peter.”

“So when Peter is taking on a part in your memories, it’s as if he’s reinforcing the enchantment?” asked Sahra, who really was remarkably astute. “And you both end up stuck.”

“Pretty much,” Peter agreed.

“These most recent memories…” I said. “From the war and from...after. I wasn't in the Folly then. Previously we had thought the Folly was the link.”

“Yeah, that’s what I guessed,” Peter said. “But if it's not the Folly, then I think it's you, sir. All these memories are coming from you. You're the epicentre of this and if I’m in the same room when it starts then I'm just getting drawn into it.”

“Because of the magic?” Sahra asked. “Or because of the toxin?”

“I don't know."

I glanced up as Molly appeared again in the doorway to the reading room; I wasn’t certain when she had actually left. She looked at me with the kind of determined patience I knew meant she wanted something. At least she was no longer hissing or glaring at Peter.

“What is it, Molly?” I hadn’t heard the telephone ring, so it must be something else.

She tilted her head slightly.

“There's someone at the door,” I interpreted. She nodded. I hadn't heard the bell either.

“Who the hell would be coming here?” said Peter.

“Don't see why it would be one of our lot,” Sahra said, looking at her phone. “I don't think anyone's turned up anything helpful yet.”

I stood up, “Well, I suppose we shall find out. Peter, if you wouldn't mind...?”

Peter and Sahra followed Molly out, their heads conspiratorially close. I suspected I knew who the subject of their discussion was.

Abdul handed me my jacket back. Once again they must have removed it when I had fainted. This was becoming quite tiresome.

“Thomas…” Abdul said quietly, while I pulled it on. “I have to confess that I'm a little concerned. What you just went through...it wasnae just a bad memory. You also had a strong physiological response; I could see you were in genuine pain and distress, even without a physical cause. Add to the fact that the frequency and duration of these events is increasing and you're at risk of serious exhaustion if you dinnae get chance to properly sleep and eat soon.”

He was right, of course. What had at first been several hours between events was decreasing rapidly. But what did he expect me to do about it? I looked away, impatiently, and Abdul paused, before asking.

“Are you feeling all right now?”

“Quite well, I assure you,” I answered, while straightening my cuffs. My cuff links were missing, presumably because Abdul kept rolling up my sleeves to take my pulse, and my shirt was quite creased but there was no helping any of that. I made to leave, heading after the young constables, but Abdul reached out to stop me.

“Look, I only know a wee bit about what just happened during the war and after,” he said, carefully. “But I've made some educated guesses over the years. You’ve made it quite clear that you dinnae want to talk about it, and that's your choice. But I think it might help, if you felt able to...”

“My feelings on this matter have not changed, Abdul.” I interrupted, trying not to be terse. He was a good man, and only trying to help, after all. “I don’t intend to speak about it again. Come along, let's see what this new development is before Peter and I are inevitably incapacitated again.”

The “new development” turned out to be Beverley Brook. She was standing in the kitchen doorway when we arrived, with Peter, Molly and Sahra loitering nearby.

“Oh good, you're here,” said Peter. “I was just about to come and get you, sir. Bev's managed to dig up some information for us.”

“Miss Brook,” I greeted her. “You're looking well.”

“Wish I could say the same,” she said. “You look worse than Peter. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Despite what both Peter and Beverley had previous believed, it was entirely possible for Genii locorum, fae, and a whole host of other creatures to enter the Folly; Molly herself is proof enough of that. The wards were after all designed to protect from malign intent, not forbid neutral or friendly powers. The Demi-monde in question needs only to be invited into the house under the protection of the Folly's Master, that is to say, under my protection, swear and abide by the oath of conduct, and they will be able to enter as soon as the Master has manipulated the wards. If I were absent or incapacitated, a suitably powerful fae may even be able to force entrance into the building without invitation but I have been told that the wards would cause them a degree of discomfort, and should they be of ill intent the effects would be severely deleterious while they remained within the bounds of the house.

But first, the oath. 

“Beverley Brook Thames,” I began, reciting the required words. “You are invited to enter this warded ground as a guest without obligation, on the understanding that we both will abide by the strictures that govern your presence in accordance with the Agreements of 1543. You may leave at any time of your choosing at which moment this agreement will come to an end and no reciprocity will be levied. Do you agree to this oath as I have stated it?”

“I agree to be bound by the terms of the oath ‘til I leave this house,” Beverley made the required response, remembering the words I’d taught her; “and I bring an offering to show my respect.”

“Then enter and be welcome.” I raised my hands, feeling for the subtle fabric of the wards with my mind, building the formae. Once I had it, I drew a wide circle in the air with my fingertips to form the portal so she could step safely through the magical shield, something Peter keeps insisting on calling an ‘airlock’. I released the spell the moment she was through and felt as the wards sprang back into place behind her.

“Cheers,” she said, brightly, sauntering into the kitchen.

I leaned back against the wall and held onto the countertop until the wave of unsteadiness passed. I was braced for it, but the dizziness and vertigo from the spellcasting still almost overwhelmed me.  I wondered when I had last properly slept rather than just being unconscious. It felt like a long time. Perhaps Abdul had a point.

Beverley’s offering, which was purely symbolic in any case, turned out to be twelve cans of some noxious cherry flavoured fizzy drink, an open packet of sweets that Peter declared tasted like car glovebox, and, infinitely more valuable, information. The now surprisingly large group of us retired almost immediately to the small dining room as Abdul was insistent that Peter and I eat something as nutritious as possible while we were both in the present.  Molly was serving up some kind of lamb casserole, but I could not have hazarded a guess as to the time of day and therefore what meal it was supposed to be. Peter, Beverley and Sahra had polished off the cans of soda between the three of them, while Abdul and I settled for strong coffee. 

The Folly has certain rules around dining. Discussion of police business is to be kept to an absolute minimum,  electronic devices are firmly discouraged, and while I have given up on trying to persuade Peter to dress smartly for dinner, I have at least made it clear that pajamas are certainly not appropriate attire for any meal. At this present moment, that latter rule was the only one by which we were managing to abide, but if I became any more tired I would probably cease to care about that entirely too.

Fortunately Beverley seemed to be able to sense the feeling of underlying unease and urgency and launched into her new information as soon as the food was served.

“I know what was in the canister they sprayed you with,” she said, before adding: “Well, not for certain. But I’ve been asking around and I’m pretty sure I know what it was.”

“Bev, that’s awesome!” said Peter. Abdul too looked delighted. “Go on.”

“Okay,” she says, “but you gotta not ask me how I know, okay?”

“Why? Is it illegal?” I asked.

She looked stubborn. “Not entirely.”

“So you heard about it from Olympia or Chelsea,” Peter said. “Their tagline should be not entirely illegal .”

“Peter!” Beverley hissed, and punched him in the shoulder.

“At the moment, we’re not in a position to act on information received about illegal activity even if we wanted to,” I said. “Please, just tell us what you know.”

“Fine,” said Beverley. “It’s Fairydust .”

“Wait,”said Peter. “Fairy dust is real?”

I frowned. “Indubitably. It was a method used by minor fae and half-fae with little intrinsic power of their own to cast glamours. It proved quite the irritation for County Practitioners over the years, mainly being used for confidence tricks and petty larceny. The Folly outlawed its use about 200 years ago.”

Peter looked surprised, as he often did when I had the information he was looking for at my fingertips. 

“Is it made of actual fairy? Like, ground up?”

I sighed. “No, Peter, of course it isn't. I believe it was made by having a more powerful magic user cast a glamour over a mineral taken from the fairy world which would retain magic well, such as quartz. The stone was ground to dust or sand, retaining the glamour, ready to be sprinkled on some unsuspecting soul. But I have already researched and discounted this topic. The type of glamours retained in the stone are far too weak to have an affect this strong or long lasting, and no hallucinatory element has ever been recorded.”

“Yeah, well,” said Beverley. “Maybe that was true 200 years ago. Welcome to the future.”

And she held up a small tube of rather luminous green plastic. It was about the size of one of those small sachets of sugar one is given in chain coffee shops but narrower, about the width of a pencil. I took the item from Beverley and gave it a gentle shake. Inside, white powder tumbled around.

“Is it a drug?” Sahra asked as I passed the sachet to her for inspection.

Beverley nodded, and slurped from her can. “It’s not mainstream, but you can find it if you know where to look, in the right crowds. It's really, really pricey.”

“How pricey?”

“For that much?” says Bev pointing to the single tube. “For that you owe me £600. And I'd better get that back today or I am in deep shit.”

“ What!?”  

There were a few dumbfounded faces around the table. 

“What's it made of?” said Abdul. “Ground-up Fabergé egg?”

Beverley shrugged. “I dunno. It definitely feels magic. But the point is the trip you get. Word is that you take a pinch of this, you relive the happiest moments of your life.”

“And that's worth six hundred quid, is it?” said Peter, still looking outraged.

“Think about it,” said Beverley. “You'd get to experience all the good stuff without any of the bad. An amazing holiday, or birthday. First time you rode a bike, or finally got that one thing for Christmas you'd always wanted. First time seeing your favourite movie, or reliving that once-in-a-lifetime gig.”

“The birth of your child,” suggested Abdul. “Or your wedding day. Hearing you’re in remission.”

“The last day you spent with someone you loved,” said Sahra. “Imagine if you could, after they died...who wouldn't pay for that?”

Beverley nodded. 

“I guess,” Peter said, though he still looked doubtful. “So is it still made of ground-up rocks?” He held the tube up to the light and peered in.

“I dunno,” said Beverley. “That's outside of my area. I'd guess maybe it's the same stuff, just cut with something that makes you hallucinate as well.”

Sahra took the tube back. “Maybe a psychotropic? I can get it sent off to the forensics labs for chemical analysis. If we can get a rush on it, results should be back in a day or two.”

“And that'll tell us how to counter it, right?” said Peter. 

“It might,” says Abdul, cautiously. “Depends what's in it.”

“What I don't understand,” said Sahra. “If this Fairydust is what you were both given, why have the effects been so long lasting? I doubt it's meant to last twenty days on the club scene. And why is Grant affected differently?”

“Well, I think we can make a guess about that,” Peter mused. “For one thing, I got a lot less of that shit in my system. Nightingale got blasted with the whole can; stands to reason he'd be more severely affected.”

Sahra's phone started ringing. She murmured an apology and ducked out into the hall to answer it.

“Also it's not meant to be sniffed or inhaled,” Beverley explained. “You take one pinch of the powder, drop it on your tongue. Job done.” 

“You probably breathed in about 20 times too much then,” Abdul guessed. “Two shots of vodka might help you have a nice night, lower your inhibitions, get you dancing. But two bottles and you're in ITU getting your stomach pumped. Let alone the fact that the human body can react wildly differently to the same drugs even at the same dosage.  This extreme reaction, the intensity and the duration - and the fact you have no’ been exactly seeing visions of joy - this was an overdose. You were essentially poisoned.”

I nodded, wearily. That made sense. “Will it wear off, given time?”

“We can hope so,” Abdul said. “Medically I would say yes, if you’ve lasted this long after the initial dose, and as long as you're able to get enough rest, food and fluids to keep your strength up. But as for the magic, I can't say.”

“Did you say quartz, sir?” said Peter, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for a few seconds. He was looking thoughtful. “From Fairy land?”

“Yes, I believe so. Some form of crystal or stone, certainly.”

“Well, we know rock absorbs magical energies well,” Peter says. “Vestigium, ghosts, and so on. But we also know what else does - metal and hard plastics.”

Something stirred in my memory. “At the hospital… they said there was some hard matter mixed up in the canister…”

Abdul nodded. “Of course. The stuff that caused all the URT damage. You think that was the stuff that was glamoured?”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe that's how modern Fairydust is made. UPVC has to be easier to source than Fae crystals.”

“Wouldn't that cause injury to those normal customers using the drug?” I asked, remembering the factory, the hiss of the spray, throwing my arm up to protect my eyes, and then the pain as I breathed in and the very air scoured down my throat.

“You're not supposed to inhale it,” Beverley reminded me.

Peter nodded. “It probably wouldn't even be noticeable if you were just swallowing it, bit like the iron filings in breakfast cereal.” 

“Why would anyone put iron filings in breakfast cereal?” I asked, bewildered, trying to keep up. My head was aching.

“Sometimes your lack of basic scientific knowledge still astounds me, Thomas,” Abdul said. 

“You're not the one who had to explain to him how the digestive system works,” said Peter. Beverley laughed.

“Peter,” I said, putting down my fork.

“ What!?” spluttered Abdul, looking outraged. “I cannae believe what I’m hearing. You’ve been friends with an internationally acclaimed gastroenterologist for 30 years, and you get a police constable to explain human digestion to you? Honestly!”

“I stuck to the basics,” said Peter. “Though I did have to fork out for a GCSE textbook for some of the diagrams.”

“ Peter ,” I said. 

Beverley was snickering. “I'm sure he needed all the help he could get. Seeing a load of corpses hardly makes Peter an expert on human biology. You should hear some of the things I’ve had to explain to him, if you know what I mean.”

“Peter!”  

This time they finally heard the alarm in my tone.

“What? What is it?”

“You have to...” I managed to get out before the words were torn away, before my throat closed up. I could feel the chill burning through my veins, a howling like wolves, the awful familiar feeling like my heart was being crushed inside my chest. Another memory event already, so soon. Too soon. I wasn’t ready. I shoved my chair back from the table, trying to stand. I stumbled, nearly falling and Peter lurched in, grabbed my arm. 

“Inspector, what's...”

“It's starting,” I managed to say, forcing the words out and the images back, tethering myself into the present. It was hard, denying the inevitable draw of the past, and it hurt; my head started pounding and my breathing was labouring in my chest. 

“Leave,” I told him and tried to push him off to safety, but he wasn't letting go; he was still trying to talk to me, hold me up, tell me to fight it. I could feel the memory starting to build like a wave, a tsunami, ready to sweep us both away. 

I tore my arm free of his grasp and fled.

Research notes:

A brief history of wartime psychotherapy

War neurosis, battle exhaustion and psychiatric collapse were all terms used during World War Two for the conditions which today might variably be identified as combat stress reaction, PTSD, anxiety or depression. Combat induced psychological illness was first recognised on a major scale as ‘shellshock’ during the First World War, and was generally considered to be caused either by neurological damage from shelling, or by underlying flaws in the character of the individual soldier, a lack of “moral fibre”.  Battle exhaustion was a serious burden on the armed forces – as many as 40% of UK medical discharges during WW2 were due to psychological conditions. The principal aim of treatment was to get the soldier back to active duty as quickly as possible, though this was less successful than was often reported; it was estimated, for instance, that around 80% of soldiers reportedly ‘cured’ and returning to active service were actually considered to have physical or psychiatric disabilities that made them fit only for home service. Specialist neuropathic and psychiatric hospitals were established in the UK for the first time to treat chronic cases evacuated from field hospitals behind the front lines. Some of these hospitals and clinics attempted, what were for the time, progressive treatments including group therapies, physical activity, hypnosis and occupational therapy like woodworking and handicrafts.

During the Second World War, Belmont Workhouse in Surrey was taken over by the Sutton Emergency Hospital, treating physically and psychiatrically injured army personnel. Captain Nightingale spent ten months under treatment here in 1945.  The hospital employed psychiatrist William Sargant who was highly distrustful of the new field of psychotherapy and was an advocate of techniques such as electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), leucotomy, insulin shock treatment and narcosis. These latter two treatments involved the patient being repeatedly injected with quantities of insulin or barbiturates to induce daily comas, both to “shock” the anxiety out of the body, and allow the doctors to administer other treatments while the patient was comatose, particularly treatments that the patient found difficult to tolerate, such as ECT. Sargant also development several ‘abreaction’ techniques, where patients were made to relive traumatic experiences under the influence of drugs. He wrote a popular textbook which ran to five editions.

Pennies for scale

A halfpenny bit was a pre-decimal coin in British currency. In Nightingale's time, a halfpenny would have been around 2.5cm in diameter (1in).

Chapter Text

“The warrant's come through.” Guleed told me when she managed to find me in the second floor eastern corridor. “They're planning the raid for tonight.”

In one respect that was good news. Finding out what was in Everett's lab would give us the chance to maybe work out what the fuck was going on here, why Everett had targeted Nightingale, and why now. We had no idea what the illegal magician’s bigger plan was, how it tied into our friend Faceless or why they hadn't acted out their nefarious scheme as soon as we were both incapacitated. But the timing was also pretty terrible, because with me and my boss out of the picture, an armed police squad would be all that stood between, potentially, some very bad magicians and the “Falcon trained” officers from the Belgravia nick. Basically that included anyone who'd ever thought that "the Folly" was a weird designation for a police station, or had watched a bit too much Most Haunted.  I'm not claiming that bullets or a TASER wouldn't stop a wizard - Nightingale and me are both proof enough of that. It's just that I'm not sure I wanted to see anyone try. After all, there's a difference between accepting that magical fireballs exist and being able to stop one blowing your head off. 

And it was extra bad timing because it meant Guleed was trying to relay to me all the updates she'd just been given on the investigation as quickly as she could before she had to leave to get back to Belgravia, and right now my brain was buzzing like my head was full of bees and my heart was going about 200mph because the latest memory event had hit so suddenly that there hadn’t been any time to prepare. Nightingale had all but collapsed at the dining table and then, when he had managed to get his feet under him, had sprinted away into the Folly and so far no-one had been able to find him. I didn't know what he was reliving this time because he'd managed to get out of sight fast enough that I hadn't gotten pulled in. But up till now no distance had been far enough to outrun the magical feedback getting dumped into my brain. This time it included the hysterical yelling of a mob baying for blood, a scorching fire and the scrape of a shovel, the smell of crushed flowers and garlic, terror, loneliness, a bitter tiredness and a taste like grave dirt. I've fought off some strong glamours and vestigia in my time and this was bad enough to make me feel like I was about to throw up or pass out. Maybe both.

Understandably it was making it pretty hard to concentrate, particularly when every instinct was telling me to get to Nightingale as fast as I could. Walid and Molly were searching while I tried to stay out of the way. I just hoped one of them found him soon.

The Detective Constable herself was frowning at me and I realised she'd probably been talking.

“Sorry,” I said. “Did you say something?”

“Are you sure you lot are safe to be left alone?” Guleed said, still frowning. 

“We have it under control.” I croaked.

She and Bev, who had just emerged from searching a nearby laboratory, swapped dubious looks. Somehow they seemed to imply that they doubted Nightingale and me had ever had anything under control.

“You just worry about you,” I told Guleed. “Are you sure you have those handbooks?”

A year or so ago, just after the strip club incident, Nightingale and I had started putting together a draft field handbook on vesitiga awareness and magical crime scene processing, AKA The Big Bumper Book of Weird Bollocks for Normal Coppers.  The basic principle is that if you come across the titular weird bollocks, you don't go anywhere near it until the SAU say you can. Unfortunately that wasn't going to help much right now there wasn't any SAU backup available, so earlier when we were in the coach house I'd dug out my personal incident handbook for Guleed. I'd called it A Dummy's Guide to Not Getting Magically Murdered. There were pictures. The key pages were everything I knew about dog batteries and demon traps. If the proactive unit weren't attacked by actual practitioners, demon traps were the most likely source of danger.

Guleed waved her phone. “The PDFs are on here. I'm scheduled to give a briefing to the armed response guys in an hour. There goes my reputation for sanity and professionalism.”

I was frowning, still concerned. I wasn't keen on the other officers being put in danger just because Nightingale and I were out for the count. 

“Can't they delay the raid for a day or two?” I asked. It was a struggle to focus on the problem in hand while my brain was echoing with unheard voices, shouts and screams, my skin was crawling and every instinct seemed drawn in tight, shrieking about a horror just out of sight that I knew wasn’t real. 

“As soon as Everett's associates hear he's been banged up they'll disappear like rats in a sewer,” Guleed pointed out, “and then we'll lose any evidence. Besides, counter-terrorism is sniffing around and you know what they're like.”

I did.

“Maybe I should come along,” I said. “Bev and Dr Walid can handle things here. I could stay outside the lab, just give you some backup in case the wheels come off…”

Guleed gave me a pointed look, and I realised I was clutching onto a door frame to hold me up. 

“Babes,” said Bev as she passed us, heading up the corridor to search the next room. “That's a really shit idea.”

Guleed clearly agreed. “No offence, but the way you look now? I'd rather take my chances with the demon traps.”

I was about to protest when the echoing, distorted voices in my head began to surge, rushing in like a tide. I heard an echo that sounded like my own voice say “What did all your friends die for, all those names on the wall, what did they die for if not for that?” and someone that sounded like Nightingale say “The risks are too great. If it's as dangerous as they say…” , and other, unknown voice say “Tom, if you ever do anything like that again, I swear to God…”  

I held onto the door a little tighter. Damn. Maybe they had a point. 

“All right, fine. But be careful, okay?”

“I promise not to do anything you'd do,” said Guleed. “Ambulances and London landmarks are safe. Anyway, you better stay here and help your boss. Who knows what kind of trouble he'd get himself into on his own.” She hesitated for a moment, and then said, quickly, “Is he really over a hundred years old?”

“So he tells me,” I said. “He’s pretty cagey about it. I’m not sure he has any more idea than the rest of us about what’s going on.”

“Is he even, you know, human?” Guleed asked. “Or is he more like Molly, or something else entirely?”

“I’d rather not think about it,” I said, realising I’d somehow never wondered that myself. As if I didn’t have enough to think about.

Guleed set off soon after, and I just hoped I wouldn't regret letting her persuade me to stay behind. Bev finished searching the second floor with no sign of Nightingale, while I lingered in the corridor outside, ready to sprint off out of eyesight if he turned out to be inside any of the rooms. Although I wasn't happy that he was going through this shit alone, the last thing I wanted was to get drawn into another recreation of Nightingale’s personal nightmare fuel. Despite the fact that he had apparently registered me as his next of kin, Nightingale was still largely a mystery to me. The man was reserved to the point of being secretive, and I'd already invaded his privacy multiple times throughout all of this. It wasn't intentional and I couldn't stop it from happening, but I now knew things about his life that he hadn't chosen to share. I couldn't see how this wasn't going to make things between us really weird from this point on.  

I trailed along behind Bev as we made our way back downstairs having found no sign of Nightingale. I forced myself not to be too concerned. This was the Folly after all, Nightingale's manor. He had to be safer here than anywhere else. Besides, I was pretty sure no-one was going to find him if he decided he didn't want to be found. 

We were crossing the atrium when I heard Dr Walid calling. 

“Peter? Beverley?”

“Here.”

Walid appeared from the direction of the kitchen stairs. “Well, Thomas is no’ in the kitchen, the garage or the out-buildings,” he said. “So you’d probably be best to go over to the coach house, Peter, and stay there out of sight until this memory's run its course. Where's Sahra?”

“Guleed had to leave,” I explained. “They're raiding Ethan Everett's lab tonight and they need her on that.”

“Isn't that dangerous?” asked Walid. I just shrugged with a what can you do? expression on my face. You did the job. If it was dangerous, you took as much armed back-up with you as you could and just tried to get it done quicker. Did I feel bad about them going in there without Falcon support? Absolutely. But there was nothing I could do right now.

“She’ll be alright,” I said, projecting confidence. "If things get really gnarly, she'll know to get out and keep the place locked down. I hope they find some evidence there though, because we could all do with making a break on this case."

“Yeah,” said Bev. “Listen, I reckon-”

She was interrupted by a noise behind us. I turned and suddenly saw Nightingale appearing from the door to the back stairs. Before I could run or say anything, he looked up and saw me, and strode across the atrium towards us. 

"Constable," he said, as he approached. "I've been looking for you. Come with me."

"Yes, sir," I agreed. His tone has been so commanding that I immediately followed straight after him without a second thought, even though it was probably a really bad idea. Someone behind me called out but I didn't pause to answer.

He lead me away from the crowd and the gatehouse and we were walking further up Swain's Lane before I thought to ask what was happening. The sounds of the restless crowd grew quieter behind us as I headed after the man into the chill dark. 

"Sir! Wait…"

He moved quickly for a man of his age, and for someone walking with a stick too. He paused under a streetlight, waiting impatiently for me to catch up, and I got a better look at him. Seventy if he was a day, but tall rather than stooped, whippet thin and wiry. He was wrapped up against the cold in a dark coat and hat.

"Do hurry up, constable."

"Are you the specialist, guv? The one they told us about at the nick?"

The man considered. "I suppose so," he said, then introduced himself. "Detective Inspector Nightingale." 

They hadn't told us much, as usual. Some trouble recently around the cemetery. Vandalism and trespassers, just kids playing silly beggars, messing with the headstones and the flower arrangements. Over the last few nights a few nosy locals had shown up and tried to get into the cemetery after hours. Usually just drunks or teenagers looking for cheap entertainment or a scuffle with the cops. But then those psychic fellers had been on the telly blathering about entities and the restless dead , and suddenly we heard tell that a crowd had begun to gather around the gates as dusk came on; amped up, tooled up, and ready to make real trouble. 

"And you might see another bloke there," the sergeant had told us, offhandedly as we were finishing up our ciggies behind the van before heading in. "Some old DI who sometimes shows up for this kind of bollocks. Heard he was some sort of specialist. Just keep out of his way, okay? You don't want your career to get tarred with that brush."

"Can I ask where're we going, guv?" I asked Inspector Nightingale.  It wasn't for me to tell him his job, to be sure, but I've coppered enough football matches and picket lines to know the feel of a crowd. "It's going to turn into a mob back there. Someone'll smash a bottle or something and then they'll need all of us to put the boot in."

The shower of locals were in some kind of riotous frenzy, worse in the last few hours as the daylight had died and they had started pushing up to the locked gates. I'd seen hands wielding shovels and wooden stakes, even a cricket bat. The sergeant had called for some back up but for the moment we were outnumbered about forty to one. Even if the psychic fellers and their followers never showed up, this could still end up a bleeding hames and no mistake. 

 "The crowd is not my concern, constable," Inspector Nightingale told me. "As long as they stay outside the gates. I am here for what may happen within the cemetery. While all those concerned citizens and policemen are drawing lots of attention at the southern end of the cemetery, I want to see what is happening at the north gate."

"But no-one's reported anything from that end of the cemetery, guv."

"Quite," he muttered.

He carried on up the steep lane at a brisk pace, walking stick tapping on the frosty pavement. The tall wall of the cemetery on our left was a dense black shape looming above us. The few streetlamps scattered along the lane flickered weakly and the trees above curled over us in a dark, enclosing tunnel. I fumbled for my torch and clicked it on, sending a ragged beam of light across the pavement. 

Behind us there was a crash which made me start, and then a sudden yell of voices. Someone started to chant something, and then more shouting voices joined in, mad and frenzied. But Inspector Nightingale didn't turn around.

"What do you need me for, sir?" I asked.

"If we find that persons unknown are active within the cemetery, I expect you to arrest them, constable."

"Me? But on what charges?"

"Breaching the Queen's Peace," he said. "Trespass. Cruelty to animals. Grave desecration. Whatever you like. Just keep them out of my way."

I stopped walking. "Cruelty to animals? Grave desecration?"

"Something has been killing the local foxes," he replied, shortly.

"So...it's all real then. Jesus, Mary and Joseph..." 

Inspector Nightingale huffed in annoyance and looked back. "What's that?"

"What they were saying on the telly. Black magic and Satanists and...the vampire. That there's a bleeding vampire at Highgate." 

I touched the place where the medal of St Michael lay under my uniform jacket. Mary and all the saints, preserve and keep me. Why couldn't I be the one back there dealing with a cheesed off mob?

Inspector Nightingale actually stopped walking too then, and gave me a disapproving look from under the brim of his hat.

"’Satanists’?"

"You know," I said, still reeling. "Devil Worshippers. There was a letter. That bishop, the one who's been hunting the vampire. He said he got a letter from a society of Satanists, sending him threats."

"Don't be ridiculous, Constable. There's no such thing as 'Satanists'."

"You shouldn't take the piss, sir. There's true powers for evil in this world. In the old country there were black witches that did spells and curses, and killed babies-" 

"I can assure you," Inspector Nightingale said, sounding somewhat testy. "That no such practices are taking place in London or anywhere else, and the letter received by that hack did not come from Satanists or Devil Worshippers or anything of the kind."

"But how do you know?"

"Because I wrote it," he snapped, and set off again up the lane; I hurried along after. After a moment of silence he continued.

"I rather hoped that a stern word from an institution of some authority would put an end to these absurd séances and psychic investigations . I'm afraid I rather underestimated their tenacity and the human drive for willful ignorance in the face of all contrary evidence."

The wind gave a sharp gust and the branches of the trees above whispered and shook in the dark. Despite Inspector Nightingale's assurance, my palms were sweating with fear and I struggled to hold the torch steady. 

There was a glow ahead, another solitary street light, and the wall in our left suddenly dropped away into a deeper darkness. I saw the gleam of iron which resolved itself into railings of the narrow north gate. Beyond it, the weak light from my torch glinted faintly off the black windows of the abandoned lodge and then beyond, falling onto the twisting trunks of trees, onto the strange, unworldly stone shapes of shadowy tombs and obelisks, all choked with crawling black ivy. The cemetery was dark and utterly silent. 

The gate was slightly open. 

A cold terror stole over me at the sight, so overwhelming I could barely breathe. My hands started to shake. 

Inspector Nightingale reached for the gate and pushed it firmly. It swung silently, revealing the overgrown dirt path snaking a pale line through the tombstones until it was swallowed up in the darkness.

"Well?" The Inspector said to me. "Are you coming?" 

I shook my head and backed away. "You must be joking."

"I assure you, I'm not. I am quite confident that there is nothing but human malice at work here. But because of some of the more… troubling aspects of this case, I must be absolutely certain. I know this must be unnerving for you, but I find I do not prefer to work alone anymore. I would appreciate another pair of eyes."

I stared into the blackness of the cemetery, at every eerie shadow, the cavernous maw of each cold tomb.

"I can't," I said. "I can't." 

"Very well," said Inspector Nightingale, and he sounded neither disappointed nor surprised. "Then I would ask at least that you remain here and guard the gate. What's your name, constable?"

"Paddy," I said, then remembered myself. "PC Paddy McKenna."

"Very well, Constable McKenna. Do not allow any other persons to enter the cemetery, nor anything else to flee from it. I am counting on you." 

And the elderly man in the grey coat turned, and walked alone into the dark. 

I watched as the darkness slowly devoured him until his shifting shadow itself looked no more than a ghost. I desperately wanted to shout out, to call him back, to find the courage to run forward to his side, but I couldn't.  Soon even the shadow of his movement was lost amongst the deeper darkness, and I was left alone by the cemetery gate, clutching my torch and my truncheon with shaking hands. 

Hail Mary, mother of God….

I tried to pull myself together, ashamed to be such a God-damned coward when I'd just seen the old man's fearlessness. I turned back to the lane. I would guard the gate as the Inspector had told me to. To my left the lane wound on up the hill, and the narrow roadway was still and quiet. The streetlight across from me hummed, low and steady, and no-one was in sight as far as the light touched. I couldn’t see a damned thing in the lane to my right either, just hear the occasional whisper of the trees and far-off the echo of many voices. The shouting of the furious crowd was reduced to barely a murmur in the cold air.

I was absolutely alone. 

I shivered, trying to stand up straight. I was a police constable, doing his duty. I just had to guard the gate in case anyone came up or down the lane, looking to sneak into the cemetery. But there was nothing here now, no reason why my palms should be sweating and my breath coming too fast.

The wind breathed out a cold sigh. Dry branches scraped and rustled to my right, then to my left. I darted the torch towards the sound but the thin beam showed nothing but the dark. 

Then, behind me, something creaked. I felt my heartbeat pounding and a cold sweat prickled on my forehead beneath my helmet. I kept my eyes fixed on the lane. They're was nothing behind me. It was just the wind.  

But it was the nothingness behind me that was the problem. The gateway into the cemetery. I could feel it there at my back, like a great gaping mouth, a cold void of lightless horror. Anything could be coming down the path behind me, ready to reach out for the back of my neck...

Don’t let anyone into the cemetery, Inspector Nightingale had said. Or let anything else out of it.

Over my right shoulder came a thin scratching sound. I was almost petrified with fear but I forced my legs to move and I lurched around,  staring into the dark. The weak torchlight brushed across the statues, touched faintly on bark and leaves, threw weird trembling shadows across the overgrown tombs.  The shuddering light made it look like a dozen silent figures were creeping through the dark; shadowy shapes darting behind tree and stone, just out of the torchlight. I was gasping with fear, and I stumbled a few steps back without realising what I was doing. My couldn’t drag my eyes from that winding path, leading into the cold darkness, seeming to draw me in...I dropped my truncheon and my hand closed over my medal again.

“Saint Michael the Archangel,” I whispered. “Defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil…”

Then I saw something in the blackness through the gates. Far off into the cemetery, a distant, low orange light began to glow and glow, like a window into hell. The light began to twist and flicker and I realised I was really seeing flames. Something was burning.

And then I heard a sound. Not the wind this time, or the distant crowd, but from out of the cemetery in the direction the Inspector had gone came a thin, high wail. It rose and fell and then rose again, going on and on and on. 

I couldn’t take it anymore. I snatched up my truncheon, raised my torch and before the terror truly crippled me, ran into the cemetery after the Inspector. 

“By the power of God…” I prayed between harsh breaths, and sprinted as fast as I could, heading towards the light, following that mournful cry. Gravel crunched beneath my feet, snares and vines of ivy and roots sprawled across the path to trip me, and gravestones loomed up out of the sudden darkness. 

“...Prince of the heavenly host…”

Branches whipped at my face as I ran, and the light of the distant flames flickered and devoured the dark; a far-off pyre. It backlit the harsh silhouettes of statues and tombstones, and then it gleamed off steps as the path fell away. The path stepped down into a sunken crescent of stone vaults, dozens of them, curving away on both sides. The right hand pathway was black. The left glowed with hellfire. The wailing shriek was loud now, and still growing more and more shrill every second.

“...cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl through the world …”

Until it suddenly fell silent. 

I stopped still, paralysed with dread. Ahead, the orange of the firelight licked up the black lines of the vault doors and over the cold arches of the tombs, but the curve of the lane hid what lay beyond. I forced my feet to move, shuffling through the dead leaves. The fire flickered. I stepped again, and the vaults on my right curved away and the space suddenly opened up.

At the door of a tomb, between me and the fire, crouched a figure, a nightmarish silhouette. Slowly, as the flames died, it began to rise, growing and growing until it assumed the shape of a shrouded man.

“…seeking the ruin of souls…” The words of the prayer came soundlessly on my lips.

The silhouette just stood there and then I noticed there was something at its feet. There was a body on the floor. A human body. It was just a black shape against the all consuming fire which engulfed it, seemed to emanate from it, even as it burned.  

The figure turned and firelight flickered across white skin, fine-boned features and pale, bloodshot eyes.

“It’s over,” said Inspector Nightingale. “Everything’s alright. It’s over.”

The fire flickered one last time and then sputtered and died. I looked down at the body and then I noticed that it didn’t have a head.

Research notes: The Vampire of Highgate - by Peter Grant

As you can probably imagine, by the mid 19th century your average historic central London churchyard was getting pretty grim. Centuries of plague, disease, famine, murder, and people occasionally just dying of entirely natural causes had stuffed the small burial grounds of individual medieval parish churches to their absolute limit and beyond. With the industrial revolution in full and hideously lethal swing, the soaring death rates didn’t look like they were ending any time soon, and so a solution was devised which, in a miracle of Victorian marketing, became known as the ‘Magnificent Seven’. These seven massive new suburban cemeteries were intended to make up the shortfall, particularly for the better sort of citizen who didn’t want their mortal remains slumming it in a shared charnel house with the rest of the hoi polloi. 

The brand new cemetery at Highgate, north London, was to occupy a rather scenic south-facing hillside which looks across Tufnell Park and, coincidentally, the childhood home of one Peter Grant in Kentish Town. The initial area of the cemetery, designed by architect Stephen Geary, opened in 1839 though after another fifteen years a second site to the east of Swain’s Lane was also added, giving a total area of nearly 37 acres. Over the years the cemetery has housed something in the region of 170,000 burials including a whole slew of the best and brightest. My own favourite Magnificent Seven are Douglas Adams, Robert Liston, Michael Faraday, Karl Marx, Aleksander Litvinenko, Alfred Swaine Taylor, the father of British forensic science, and the master criminal Adam Worth who inspired the character of Professor Moriarty.

While the cemetery has never closed for business, it was left largely unmanaged and by the mid 1950s was massively overgrown. With its sinuous paths and sunken lanes of tombs dug deep into the hillside, and an overabundance of ivy, gothic statuary, and other monstrosities of Victoriana kitsch, the cemetery started to get something of a reputation for being more than a little bit creepy. In fact the cemetery was actually used as a filming location for three 70s horror classics: Taste the Blood of Dracula, Tales from the Crypt and From Beyond the Grave. Sense a theme here?

Inevitably, like any site in London more than ten square foot in area, people started to see things. Admittedly some of those sightings weren’t exactly the stuff of nightmares - an experiment into early frozen dinners by 17th-century philosopher Sir Francis Bacon is said to be the origin of a phantom plucked chicken sometimes seen running around. But others were slightly more sinister. White mist that followed visitors through the tombstones, or a grey figure seen lurking about the gates at night. Then suddenly in the 1970s, what started as commonplace ‘ghost’ sightings escalated into a media frenzy which eventually culminated in a public panic, a warring pair of rival supernatural hunters, a spate of sleeping-walking victims, a full-on riot, multiple grave desecrations, a few ‘black magic’ rituals, and, surprisingly enough, a vampire. 

No, I mean it. A real one. 

If all of this is sounding more fiction than reality, there is actually a Hammer Horror film which is supposed to be based off the events, staring Count Dooku and Grand Moff Tarkin. It’s called Dracula A.D. 1972 , and let’s just say if you’re looking for a how-to guide on defeating a vampire in the present day, it’ll be about as much use to you as a knitting needle in a lightsaber duel.

In 1970, it was reported in the Hampstead and Highgate Express that a certain psychic and adherent of the ‘Old Religion’ had been the latest in a series of unfortunates who, throughout the late 60s, had been witness to horrifying things within the graveyard - and I’m not talking about lime green tie-dye shirts or psychedelic print bellbottoms. The spectre was usually referred to as an ‘entity’ and, with the usual accuracy of witness statements, was reported anywhere between six to eight-feet tall, grey or black, sometimes with a top hat or a shroud, sometimes with red eyes and sometimes no face at all. 

Even with hindsight, it sounds kind of far-fetched and Nightingale had apparently thought much the same. Upon reading the sensationalist tat he had probably done no more than use the discarded newspapers for polishing his shoes on. After all this was the point at which post-war magic was at its all-time lowest before beginning its mysterious come-back and, by my reckoning, Mama Thames had only a year previously taken a swan dive off London Bridge to find the post of river goddess empty and waiting. Things were starting to change, but it would take time.

Meanwhile, our friends at the 'Ham and High'  had been warming to their subject matter and ran another article, this time called “Does a Vampyr Walk in Highgate?”. In it, a rival vampire hunter and self proclaimed exorcist suggested that not only was a vampire at large but that it was apparently a ‘King Vampire’ - a black magic user who had been raised from the grave by a Satanic ritual to drink blood and apparently prey on nearby virgins and snack on the local foxes. 

I know - just bear with me. 

Prompted by the media interest, the cemetery started to see incidents of trespass and vandalism as the usual array of teenagers and nutters began breaking in at night, smashing tombstones and even opening crypts to look for the vampire’s lair. At the same time, more dead foxes were found around the cemetery and it may have been that which roused Nightingale out his post-war apathy enough to decide some response was warranted. He wrote a bunch of ‘cease and desist’ letters to the various Vampire Hunters involved in stirring up the media, presumably hoping they would comply and the clearly fanciful incident would blow over. But the Folly was an all but forgotten institution by this point, and unfortunately it was decided that only ancient Satanic cults would still be writing on Latin headed paper in that day and age, and the letters did more harm than good. 

The feud between the two psychics and their followers ramped up by the spring of 1970 and interest in the cemetery began to escalate when people realised there was an increasing probability of seeing either a real dead body, a gruesome murder, or at the very least a bunch of neo-Pagan chicks dancing around the hilltop with their boobs out. On the 13th March (a Friday of course) the two opposing psychics both managed to get themselves on national television where they announced their intention to break into the cemetery that same night and each attempt to slay or banish the vampire before the other. The local nick sent a few plods to make sure the psychics wouldn’t get through the gates, and were somehow seriously taken aback to find a mob of several hundred gathered at the gates, including occultists, wiccans, furious local residents, tourists and a group of school children who had been bought on an ‘educational visit’ by their apparently very open-minded teacher. Seriously, you couldn’t make this stuff up.

Despite the police reinforcements brought in to quell the riot, many of the vampire hunters did manage to climb over the wall into the cemetery and broke into a number of tombs. There they performed some extremely dubious banishing rites which mostly involved a bit of chanting and throwing around garlic cloves and ‘holy’ water, so given that there really was an actual vampire in residence it’s just as bloody well Nightingale got there first. 

Although the cemetery is quite unlike the kind of pleasant semi-detached house all the vampires I’ve ever encountered have made their dens in, this one had managed to find its way onto the cemetery site somehow and really had been nesting in one of the tombs. Nightingale has a theory that the vamp had been feeding on the vestigia of the cemetery, perhaps even the magical potential of other ghosts that might have been around. The effects of the tactus disvitae around the tomb had gone unnoticed, maybe for years, amongst the general poor upkeep of the cemetery and it was only when the effects got so severe that the larger local wildlife, like stray cats and foxes, started to die that it became apparent something was going on. However, no confirmed vampire cases had been known in Britain since the late 1950s, and Nightingale had been confidently of the opinion that they had all died out during the waning of magic. 

Thankfully, the circumstances were just concerning enough that he schlepped over to the cemetery anyway to check it out, and with the less than beneficial assistance of a junior Police Constable, had managed to track the vamp down to its lair the same night as the Highgate Riot. Nightingale had later dismissed the encounter in his usual understated way, but given that the vamp had been awake and actively wandering around when he showed up and Nightingale’s magic was at its lowest, he was pushing 70 at the time, and was, most importantly, completely lacking in phosphorus grenades, it must have been quite a hairy fight. In the end he had to cut the vampire's head off using some fouth-level cutting spell and then chuck a few high-energy fireballs at it to kill the thing. Luckily all the amateur vampire hunters had been messing about down the other end of the cemetery at the time and didn't see a thing, although the unfortunate PC that had been dragged along to assist had ended up witnessing what he thought was a senior officer apparently setting fire to the corpse of a murdered homeless person. Somehow the Met were able to keep the incident under wraps for a few months, until the media frenzy had died down, and then made it sound like just another incident of grave robbing and vandalism before having the tomb bricked up. 

Nightingale came out of the encounter realising that if vampires were going to start showing up in suburban London, he needed a more efficient method of killing them that didn't leave him about to drop dead from magical exhaustion. He reached out to an old war buddy called Joseph Caffrey, who had a son in the London Fire Brigade, and thus a new Agreement was born. PC Patrick McKenna, I managed to find out, had afterwards quit the police and went back to Ulster to be a priest. 

And what about the rival vampire hunters? There being no actual vampire to hunt any more didn’t seem to slow them down any, and over the next few years the pair continued to be seen in and around the cemetery, as well as on TV  and occasionally in police custody, spouting off about protective rituals and blood drinking. Things escalated again a few years later when the pair decided that the only way to settle their differences was the time-honoured Londoner’s traditional punch up.  However, being the erudite men of ancient knowledge that they apparently were, your usual 3am scuffle in a pub gutter wasn’t going to cut it, and in 1973, flyers started to appear in London underground stations advertising a 'magical duel' between the pair, which was scheduled for Friday 13th of April on Parliament Hill in Hampstead. 

Despite a sizable crowd of onlookers, police and media, neither man showed up on the day and the scheduled duel never took place. Nightingale wouldn’t tell me when I asked, but I’m fairly confident the reason for that was a certain Master of the Folly paying a cordial visit to both parties and scaring the ever-loving shit out of them. 

Sometimes it’s good to be the fuzz.

Chapter Text

"I believe I have had quite enough of this." 

Peter and Molly both looked up as I marched into the kitchen. At the sight of me on my feet, Molly gave me a sharp, critical look and Peter opened his mouth to start protesting.  I held up a hand to forestall both complainants.

"I don't want to hear it, either of you. There is no point in my continued sitting about 'resting' until these symptoms abate, particularly as that outcome seems increasingly unlikely. I refuse to be held hostage to this enchantment any longer and I therefore propose we take action."

Peter closed his mouth and looked, I thought, faintly impressed. Molly just folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. But whether they agreed or not, I was clear in my resolve to do something to bring this to an end. The memories were getting more and more difficult to endure and it was taking me longer each time to recover. Now I had woken to discover that I had, in my latest delusion, nearly set the Folly ablaze, and secondly that Sahra Guleed and our police colleagues were going to be putting themselves in danger by facing unsanctioned practitioners of the most dangerous nature unaided - undertaking the duty that was mine and Peter’s by oath. I felt myself now alight with a renewed sense of unshakable resolve, fueled by the awareness of all that was at stake should I continue to remain thusly incapacitated. Far too much. This situation of useless paralysis was simply not to be tolerated any longer.

 "Alright, sir." Peter simply agreed. "What's the plan?"

"Talk me through the case so far," I said, accepting the teacup Molly handed me and sitting down. "We may not have long before the next memory event but I can't help but feel that there’s something we are missing. Where are Miss Brook and Abdul? Did he need to return to the hospital?" 

"The doc’s upstairs, catching a few hours kip," Peter explained. "And Bev went out to see if she can pick up any word on the club scene about tainted Fairydust."

I wasn't happy about Beverley Brook undertaking detective work on our behalf either, particularly when it involved something as dangerous as the narcotics market, but I was also aware there was little I could do about it. Besides, she has more than shown herself to be a powerful and highly resourceful young woman in the past.

"Any news from Inspector Seawoll?” I asked. “Did they make any arrests last night?"

Peter winced and I knew it was going to be bad news. Something had happened on the raid of the laboratory. He saw my expression and hastily explained. 

"No fatalities, but a couple of armed response boys didn't wait for Guleed to give the all clear and triggered a small demon trap. They'll be okay once their hearing comes back from the blast and then again from the thoroughly righteous bollocking which will henceforth follow. Could have been worse, a lot worse, but no-one was close by when it detonated and it looked like the place has been abandoned. They certainly weren't working in the lab at night which is what we thought was happening: CTC are going to delve into Epfrenal and the business records, track down the rest of the  employees and try and find out where they got the anthrax from. Most of the lab went up in smoke, though Stephanopoulos did say they recovered a box full of hinkey shit they're going to bring over for us to take a butcher's at. But guess what else, sir."

He paused, evidently having reached what he considered to be the highlight of the night's events. 

"Peter,” I sighed. “We hardly have time for guessing games."

"Alright. They found the fae that attacked you," Peter said. "He's in custody. So CTC sent Belgravia some leads and one of them checked out. ANPR in the science park near the lab flagged up a partial plate, maybe linked to a van that was TWOCd a year ago. Seemed like nothing but they gave it a tug and found a CCTV trail, an empty storage unit in Watford, a fake credit card, and finally a name."

I listened as patiently as I could. Peter would no doubt get to the point eventually in his own inimitable fashion.

"Well, the trail leads to one Jonah Reedman," Peter at last declared, "Of no fixed abode, previously of Bletchley. Not much in the way of ID and no registered place of work either, so finding him was going to be a right bastard of a job. But by some really lucky coincidence he pinged counterterrorism’s facial recognition CCTV last night, hanging about at Euston Station. Uniforms picked him up for the van theft and bilking, but if they can get a confirmation from us, they're willing to hold him on terrorism charges."

Peter passed over his phone and I saw on the screen a mugshot of a round, boyish face with a mop of strawberry blonde hair, wide teeth and what looked from the photo like a lazy eye. It was a face I had last seen through a cloud of white and silver dust in a firelit basement. 

"That's him," I agreed. "The Demi-monde that attacked us."

Peter nodded and took the phone back. "Thought so. I'll let them know that he’ll need to be transferred from CTC over to Belgravia and one of the Falcon cells."

"I shall have to interview both him and Everett," I said. "As soon as possible. We don't yet know enough about how this group operate or how the Faceless Man is involved in the distribution of this drug. And it is of vital importance that we find out who Everett was apprenticed to."

Peter frowned, uncertain. "I agree, and I want to know what Faceless is up to as well. But until this thing is over, sir, I don't think you should leave the Folly."

"And while this ‘thing’ continues, I have no intention of doing so. But I do have an idea about how we might possibly be able to speed things along."

 Peter sat forwards, looking suddenly alert.

"Possibly," I repeated, with emphasis. My head was starting to ache. It wasn't another memory event, not yet, but it wouldn't be long. Time to make every second count. "There's a risk. But I certainly am willing to try anything at this point."

Molly shot me a warning glance at that which I firmly ignored, and instead I set off towards the library. Peter hurried after. 

"I believe I recall something which may help," I explained as we walked. "Back in the middle of the century, there was work to develop a procedure which could potentially be adapted for our situation.”

Peter visibly perked up. “What sort of procedure, sir? A spell? Is there literature, anything written down?”

“There may have been notes made of later attempts to adapt the procedure, but I believe the first experiment was fully published. I'll look for later lab notes, if you try and identify that first reference."

Peter headed straight for the new indexes the moment we reached the library and started opening all the folders. “Okay...any keywords I can search by?”

“Vampirism. Curses. Experimentation and cures.”

Peter actually went physically still for a second, eyes wide, and I could picture the wheels in his mind whirring. Then he straightened his shoulders and set to it. 

“Right. Vampiric cures. Gotcha."

While Peter worked through the the cryptomorphology section, I made my way up to the annexe off the magical library where a dozen filing cabinets hold just a small number of the Folly’s vast collection of records and archives. There isn't much here; generally the most useful records have historically all been sent to the archivists at the Bodleian. But there are still some records that remain - notebooks, files and microfiche, on engineering paper, card-bound exercise books, even sheets of parchment - that, for one reason or another, it had been determined should not leave the building. 

No need to search the index cards now; for once I knew exactly which drawer I was looking for. Inside were two dozen brown paper wallets, tied with string. I looked through everyone single one, but either I was misremembering, or the information I needed wasn’t there.

When I returned empty-handed to the main level, Peter had identified quite the stack of books on Vampirism, forty or more.

“No luck?” he asked. I shook my head and started working through the pile, discarding volumes I knew weren't the one I was trying to recall.

“You're missing Hodgekin’s Cryptomorphia," I pointed out.

“Ah, one sec,” Peter said, and dashed out into the hall. He came back after a moment with a few books. “You gave it to me before,” he explained. “During the banshee thing.”

Oh yes. I had quite managed to forget that little escapade. I added the book to the pile of potential sources. 

Behind me I could hear Peter had stopped moving. After a moment he continued in a slightly cautious voice." I’m guessing,” he said. “That, given the tone of all the other stuff you’ve been reliving, the Highgate Vampire thing didn’t end well.”

He was kind enough to phrase it as a statement rather than a question, but I knew him rather well by now. Peter had never touched a thread of mystery that he didn’t want to untangle. Sometimes he was so like David it was almost painful. 

“I destroyed the vampire and no-one was hurt,” I replied. 

“But…?” Peter prompted.

I sighed. “But they very almost could have been. If I had hesitated one more day before acting... It was the first time I realised that I could no longer sit around in solitude and let all but the worst of cases pass me by, comforting myself that the magic was dying out. My lassitude had let something truly dangerous roam unchecked and only I was to blame.”

Peter did me the courtesy not to try and suggest that this wasn’t the case. “And what about the banshee mission? Did something happen to that Jeremy guy?”

“Jeremy Wardle.” I looked away from the open book I was scouring, Romany Curses: Practice and Disruption. “I’m afraid my solution wasn’t as inventive as yours. I tried to quickly instruct him on relligo as we travelled, but I should have known forma can't be learned that way. I'm afraid I've never been much of a teacher. He got into difficulties. I didn’t get to him in time.”

“He died?” Peter asked, unable to stop tugging on that thread.

“Not until the nineteen-seventies, I believe. But the banshee’s cry burst his eardrums and ruptured a few internal organs. He suffered a permanent loss of hearing, amongst other problems, and retired from the Folly. Perhaps he was one of the lucky ones, given what was coming.”

“What was that?”

I snapped Romany Curses closed and placed it back on the shelf. “The war, Peter.”

“Oh. Right.”

Peter grabbed the next book, a Latin translation of a 9th-century Old English bestiary, and started to turn the pages. There was a peaceful silence for a while though I still found concentrating on the task at hand more difficult than usual; my temples were thudding with pain and tiredness burned my gritty eyes. 

After forty minutes we had quite the pile of discarded texts, and only seven books which might contain what we needed - those we would have to read more thoroughly. Even so, there was no guarantee the information we needed was in one of those books. Since the retirement of the last Folly librarian, Reg Stanhope, in 1946, the indexes have fallen more and more into disrepair. One day I shall take Postmartin up on his offer to come and re-catalogue the whole place.

I reached for a higher shelf, aiming to put a discarded volume back and couldn't help the wince that accompanied the motion. My blasted shoulder. It's been worse these past few days than it has been for years. Peter of course, smart as a tack when he isn't getting distracted, noticed immediately. 

"I can do that, sir."

"I'm not an invalid," I snapped, and then forced myself to pull back my control. "I apologise. I didn't mean to snap."

"It's alright," Peter said, lifting the book out of my hand and returning it to the shelf. "Honestly. I get it. I only want to help."

"I know that. It's just…This whole business has been more than tiresome." The strangeness of being suddenly thrown back into my own past without warning, losing all sense of my present self, the disconcerting knowledge afterwards that my life’s worst moments were being played out before the eyes of my apprentice...These days I am not one usually prone to introspection or self doubt, but I was forced to wonder what exactly Peter thought of me now he had witnessed some of those moments.

"Peter, I am sorry that you have become involved in this," I said, turning away from him. "Having to play act through large portions of the 20th century isn't precisely what what you signed up for."

"Honestly, sir? I had no idea what I did sign up for," Peter said, and I couldn't help but smile. "This has been weird, yeah, but it's not the worst. I definitely can't say I'm enjoying it, but-"

He took a breath in and then paused. "I just… Look, sir. I wanted to say…I know earlier I asked about Jeremy, and the vampire thing, but anything I've seen while this has been going on… Stuff that was from your past, or whatever…All of that is still private. I mean, we don’t need to talk about it. It’s all ancient history as far as I’m concerned. It doesn't change anything. You don’t have to explain  anything to me after just because I asked or because I’m a nosy idiot who doesn't know when to keep his gob shut. "

I felt a rush of relief and a peculiar gratitude. I’m not certain that I actually remembered all that many of the memories I'd re-lived over the past few days but those I did were nothing I would have wanted to share, even with Peter who perhaps knows me better than anyone. Except perhaps Molly. And not even Molly has seen the wall at Ambrose House. 

Peter frowned, perhaps misunderstanding my silence, because he continued with: "Unless you want to talk about, of course, because then--"

"No," I said hastily. "All I want is to get this spell neutralised as expediently as possible so we can go back to our usual duties."

"One order of normal everyday magical crime coming right up," Peter agreed, with a lightning grin. "All right, sir. Let's do this."

Of course, that was at that moment that I felt a sudden wave of unsteadiness. The air grew stale and chill, and the echo of distant voices began to pull against my consciousness. Another memory. I reeled back from the bookshelves. 

"Peter! Go!"

 He didn't waste time arguing, instantly understanding the tense, urgent command, and heading straight out of the door. I stumbled to a chair by the desk and sank into it just as Molly came darting in to the library, sensing trouble, perhaps. She took up her usual post behind me, watching my back, and I acknowledged to myself, just for a moment, how absurdly glad I was that she would be here with me.

Then I put them all from my mind. Molly, Peter, Abdul, my duties and my frustrations and all, and I focused just on this. On the tide of time and memory trying to sweep me away, erode the shores of my foundation and resolve. I focused on how I was going to reject it.

I remained curled  over in my chair at the desk, ignoring the voices, forcing my breathing to remain slow and even. I wrestled my thoughts and my mind under control, anchoring myself only in the present. My fingers were clenched so tightly on the sharp edge of the wooden desktop that it was starting to hurt, but that at least gave me something to focus on.

Finally, after perhaps ten minutes I realised the cold was retreating. The light flared and faded, voices fell quiet, and then silent. Gradually I felt my breath slow and my pulse even out. I look around but I still seemed to be here in the present, my memories as I remembered them. The attack had been subverted. Was the spell weakening, perhaps?  Or was that latest surge of distant voices merely a hallucination resulting of my exhaustion and lack of sleep? 

Either way, I waited another few minutes to be sure before I finally felt it safe enough to call Peter back. 

By the time he entered, Molly was helping unclench my stiff hands from the edge of the desk. I had been holding it so tightly that the wood had scored deep lines into my palms and fingers. The left hand was even bleeding slightly, skin scraped away. 

"You’re still here, right sir?" Peter asked as he hurried over. "How...what did you do?"

"I concentrated," I said. My voice sounded hoarse. I suddenly felt beyond tired; utterly drained, and almost shivering with exhaustion. Peter hauled me over to the half-sofa and I sank back onto it, blinking slowly. 

“What happened to your hand?” Peter said, and waved my own hand at me. It was smeared with blood.

“Held onto the desk too tightly. I think the pain helped me focus.”

"Do you think the fact that you could fight off the memory means the spell is weakening?” Peter, as usual, was full of energy, full of questions.

“I don’t know.”

“Or perhaps you’re getting better at resisting it. More aware of what an attack feels like so it affects you less strongly. Maybe--”

“Perhaps it was just fortunate happenstance.” I pointed out, though I was really too tired to argue. Fighting back against the spell was taking up much of my strength to quarrel with Peter too.

“Look,” said Peter. “Whether the spell is wearing off or not, we might as well carry on with finding this anti-vampire thing , figure out if there is another way to lift this enchantment. Even if the spell fades away on its own we might come across it again one day and need a fix.”

He wasn't wrong. It was still the most sensible course of action, but all the fire and conviction I had harnessed earlier to get me here had vanished into a fog of unbelievable tiredness. I just blinked at him slowly.

Peter was not to be put off though. He grabbed the stack of probable books and opened the first. “Come on, sir,” he pushed. “Tell me what we are looking for.”

I let my head fall back, resting against the low back of the chaise longue and I risked closing my eyes for a moment. I gathered by tattered thoughts enough to answer Peter's question.

“We are looking for an account of the attempt to remove vampiric and other curses without killing the afflicted.”

“I thought you told me vampire bites couldn’t be cured?”

“They can’t. The experiment was unsuccessful. I don’t recall much else except that it was undertaken in the 1920s, and it may have been a form of ritual.”

Peter quickly discard three books from the stack; they must have been published before that date. “What kind of ritual?” he asked, as he worked.

“Druidic blood purge.”

“I loved their earlier stuff,” Peter said, in that conversational tone that means he's making a joke. “But now I think they're just a pastiche of themselves. That last album? They just phoned it in.”

I blinked, tiredly.

“Ah, never mind, sir,” Peter said, in that way he does when he realises it would take several years and a computerised presentation to explain the popular culture reference to me, and I still probably wouldn’t understand.

Molly reappeared at my side just then with the first aid box from the kitchen. As Peter went through another set of books, she cleaned the blood off my hand then set about dressing the slice in the palm. I watched her nostrils flaring and I could tell by the way that she was breathing that she could sense the enchantment I was under. My blood smelled different.

When I glanced up, Peter was watching. 

“Curing this isn’t going to involve haemomancy, is it?” He asked, sounding wary. “No offence, Molly.”

Molly bared her teeth at him, but only for a second.

“I should hope not,” I said, but didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t - I didn't know. 

We spent perhaps another hour searching the books, without success. I suddenly came awake out of a dreamless sleep to find that I must have passed out on the sofa. I kept my eyes closed for a while,  trying to calm the sickening pulse of pain in my head before I risked opening them, and just listened to the quiet discussion happening somewhere nearby.

"Interesting theory," Abdul was saying. "Explain it again."

"I guess it'd be like changing engine oil," Peter replied. "Get all the blood out, magically scrub it up and then pump it back into the patient. Suppose you'd probably need to drain all of it in one go to be sure."

"It might well work," Abdul agreed; "and could be quite successful, apart from the fact that one of the side effects for your patient would be certain death."

"As a cure it does have that working against it, yes."

"Back to the drawing board then."

There was a soft hiss right from Molly. Abdul said: 

"Thomas?"

I stirred, and opened my eyes. Abdul, Peter and Molly were all sitting on the library carpet, surrounded by piles of books. 

“Thomas," Abdul said. "It's okay. You just nodded off so we let you sleep. Peter says you managed to fend off a memory event earlier. How are you feeling now?"

I coughed a little, clumsily sitting myself up. My head protested violently at the change in equilibrium.

“I am uncertain what I did, if anything," I tried to enunciate as clearly as my numb mouth could. "What time is it?”

“Ten in the morning," Peter says. "You haven't had a memory event now for four hours, give or take."

"Aye. Your condition, if you please?”

"Well enough," I told Abdul, evasively, though I ended up coughing again which rather ruined the effect. "Why are you two planning on draining all my blood?"

"Oh,"said Peter. "We're not. Just got distracted talking about vampires, sorry sir."

"Peter found the book," Abdul explained as he started taking my pulse, almost automatically. "He's figuring out how this ritual works."

Peter held up a slim, leather-bound book. "I had to call up Professor Postmartin in the end," he said. "He pointed me in the right direction. You were right about the experiment, sir, except there isn't actually much in the published account at all except that the attempt failed and they were forced to kill the afflicted wizard before he went full vamp." Peter pulled an expression of distaste but continued. "What's more useful for us is that it seems like someone else tried to recreate the ritual in the 30s to treat lycanthropy, and that guy left a load of his notes tucked inside the original book."

Peter held out a few leaves of yellowing paper towards me, the very notes I had been searching for earlier. The pages were covered margin to margin in pencil scribbles and little diagrams. I took the brittle pages, carefully. 

"That was the good news. Bad news is I’m having trouble reading most of it," Peter said. "The death of cursive cannot come soon enough."

"I can read it," I said. The handwriting On those sheets was more familiar to me than my own. "What do you need to know?"

We went through the entire document twice, while Peter quickly typed out on his small computer everything as I said it. A quick trip to the printer in the coach house and we were each holding a neat, legible typed account of the experiment. 

I folded up David Mellenby's notes and slid them back into the book.

"Right," said Peter  "So, far as I understand it, a 'ritual' is basically a method of stacking up multiple spells and having them take effect slowly over a longer period of time.  The spells get cast in advance, stored up somehow, and then when the ritual is triggered, the spells release all at once. More or less right, sir?"

I nodded, pleased with his comprehension. "That's broadly correct, yes. The same effect could be achieved by having a number of magicians all casting at once, but it took a lot of coordination and obviously required a number of practitioners of the right level all in one place. Well done, Peter, that’s complex magical theory."

Peter brushed aside the praise with a shrug and grinned at me. “I had a good teacher.”

I managed not to roll my eyes at that. We both knew I was nothing of the sort. “Peter.”

“What? Come on, sir, you’re doing pretty well considering I'm a decade behind the schooling most apprentices got. You’ve had to start from scratch.”

“Precisely."  I pointed out. "Such a feat would be nearly impossible if your talent wasn't quite so prodigious. Had you attended, I'm sure you would have put most of Casterbrook to shame. Now if you could only learn to concentrate, you would be quite formidable."

The three of them stared at me. Molly put her hand on my forehead, then looked at Abdul and shrugged.

"You sure you're feeling alright, Thomas?" Abdul asked. 

I frowned, certain that my offering Peter a little well-earned encouragement wasn't a rare enough occurrence to be worthy of concern for my health. "As it happens, I have a headache. So perhaps we could move things along?"

"Right," said Peter, looking somewhat disconcerted. "Well. The 'blood purge' aspect sounds a lot worse than it looks on paper. According to the later experiments, the multiple spells are just a collection of different forma aimed at 'breaking' the curse and 'cleansing' the patient’s blood. I couldn't find anything about the druidic part, though."

Molly answered for me by miming, with disturbing accuracy, stabbing an imaginary victim in the heart. 

"We have to stab someone?" Peter did not sound impressed.

Molly mimed that hanging and/ or drowning were also viable options. Peter, thankfully, was too distracted by his outrage to consider how Molly knew that.

"The point is that the ritual requires a sacrifice as the trigger," I explain to stem the indignant and increasingly hostile looks from the others. "Back when the druids strictly controlled the only access to any type of semi-formalised magic in Britain, that sacrifice was usually human."

"There were a group of sociology students in my halls at uni who were into druidism," Walid said, brightly. "Nice folks. Big on nature, veganism, that sort of thing. Lots of naked parties and greeting the sunrise. Maybe that was the acid."

"Times change," I said. "Two thousand years ago they were drowning people in peat bogs to ensure the sun rose at all."

"We used pocket calculators before," Peter commented. "When I did the ritual to summon Wallpenny. Think that would work again?"

"I was rather hoping that we could come up with something of that nature," I said. "Although I fear we might need rather a lot of calculators to be equivalent to a whole human sacrifice." I rubbed my face and aching head.

"Well," said Walid. "The sacrifice part counts for nothing without the other spells, aye? Maybe you should worry about that first."

"The forma and adjectiva have to work in a cascade," I explained. "Each feeding into the next, and so on, to end the curse or enchantment and then restore the normal functions of the afflicted.”

Peter waved his typed notes. "I don't recognise any of the spells they used in the lycanthropy thing except purifico."

When it was clear most of Peter’s tinkering came with a certain inevitable collateral damage, I'd made sure he had a few cleaning spells in his arsenal, if only to keep Molly happy. Purifico was one of those.

“The spells used for a vampiric as opposed to a lycanthropic cleansing would be similar,” I agreed, “but contain a few fundamental differences due to the differences in the conditions. We would need to approach this in a similar way."

"So we have to design a brand new ritual, just for this? A tailor-made spells package?"

"Yes," I replied. "I have an idea where to start but I-"

It was like being struck by a train. Light and pain and shocking noise slamming into me at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. Reality convulsed and then shattered into a brutal storm of fractured, shrieking sounds, shards of light, blood in my mouth and a terrible pressure crushing my limbs, my chest, my skull...

I didn’t know I was falling or standing or lying down. Reality streamed around me and through me, time bubbled and curdled, and I had just enough sense of awareness left to realise this was bad. Very bad.  

I could feel my own breath like glass fragments in my lungs, blood like an electric current through my veins. Words somewhere; I could hear:

"... his head, look out…"  

Heat and sound consumed me like a fire. 

A voice said "Sir, just breathe, for fuck's sake…" and…

"Thomas!" 

and…

Research notes - Police jargon

ANPR is Automatic Number Plate Recognition, a software used by UK police to automatically scan and check vehicle number plates against the central police database to flag up cars without road tax, licensing, MOT or that have been linked to other crimes.

TWOCd (pronounced twokked ) stands for Taken Without Owner's Consent and relates to motor vehicle theft, usually by someone 'borrowing' a friend or relative's vehicle without asking.

Bilking is pinching something. In police terms, it usually refers specifically to petrol thefts, usually by going to a garage and filling up a stolen vehicle with fuel and then driving off without paying.

David Mellenby - Part 1

David Mellenby was born in 1895 and followed, what was for a Casterbrook student from a strong magical family, an unusual path through education. Aiming primarily to antagonise his controlling father, Mellenby rejected the expectation that he would proceed directly into apprenticeship from Casterbrook, and instead went to read Physics and Mathematics at Cambridge. He eventually submitted a Masters thesis in collaboration with German physicist Max Born regarding matrix mechanics as a formulation of quantum physics. While his early work was highly respected, Mellenby soon found his own magical background put him at odds with his conventionally educated colleagues who began to treat his theories on magic and physics as increasingly crackpot nonsense. While researching the role of magic in formulating the wavefunction when describing the underlying state of a quantum object, Mellenby grew frustrated in the realisation that his own understanding of the science was being hampered by his lack of more in-depth magical training and the generally poor state of scientific thought within the discipline of British Magic as a whole. No further meaningful academic discourse would be possible, he concluded, without a strategic programme of rigorous magical experimentation. 

Mellenby duly left the University in 1923 and arrived at the Folly a short time later, apprenticed to Victor Telford, who had agreed to take on the late-coming student as a favour to David Mellenby’s father. The initial apprenticeship did not last longer than six months: Telford was a wizard who was most set in his ways, while Mellenby was just the opposite: ambitious, determined to challenge established thinking and unwilling to follow what he considered to be archaic teaching methods of the Folly, which largely comprised demonstration followed by rote repetition. Mellenby passed through the hands of three different masters until he was finally taken on by Richard Massey, a younger master wizard, who encouraged Mellenby’s interest in the science of magic and provided him with research grants and test subjects. After Melleny forged his staff in 1927, it was Massey that saw to it that Mellenby was able to continue his work at the Folly. 

One such test subject provided by Massey was a young and exceptionally gifted wizard by the name of Thomas Nightingale. Mellenby quickly identified that Nightingale’s singular focus during spellcasting provided an element of control to experiments which up until that point had been nearly impossible to achieve. Nightingale was often abroad undertaking work for the Foreign Office, but when he was in the country he would present himself at the Folly to patiently endure many hours of strict and repetitive spellcasting in the name of a scientific enquiry that he understood in only the vaguest possible terms. While seemingly as different as fire and water, Nightingale and Mellenby maintained a strong friendship, particularly after 1929 when both were residing in London, Nightingale having left the Foreign Office for the Police Force, and Mellenby still holding a research and teaching tenure at the Folly. 

During the early part of the thirties, Mellenby was at the height of his career. His position at the Folly afforded him numerous resources and the freedom to explore his scientific enquiries, and he enjoyed the respect and collaboration of similarly-minded colleagues abroad. But as he himself was fond of saying, “everything is change,” and Mellenby’s success quickly soured. 

As was the case for many who collaborated with international academic peers, Mellenby was horrified by the rise of the Nazi Party in 1933 and the suspension and expulsion of Jewish born academics from teaching positions in German occupied territory. Even more distressing were the number of formerly respected colleagues from numerous scientific disciplines who willingly joined the Third Reich and began to contribute to its numerous unethical research agendas. It seemed every month brought a new betrayal, a new defection or a new arrest. Then came the discovery in 1938, via a letter from a former colleague from Heidelberg who had fled to the United States, that Mellenby's research into whether magic could be used to alter a quantum wave was being used as the basis for a terrible new science. A science designed to forcibly change the structure of particles, to unmake them. Experiments with practitioners, on practitioners, on 'undesirable' men and women and fae... Magic used to twist and warp the very fabric of reality. Destruction on the smallest, and also greatest, of terms.

Finding himself complicit, even unknowingly, in an undertaking of such hideousness, Mellenby vowed to put things right. He threw himself into his work, searching for ways to undo the damage his research had caused, formulating his own experiments  with a new fervour. But soon came the outbreak of war, and Mellenby find himself quickly transferred to the War Office to design and test magical weapons intended for use by practitioners in the armed forces. 

1944 brought a top secret communiqué out of Europe. A special operations unit working behind enemy lines had identified a bunker near Buchenwald, in Weimar. Over several months they had infiltrated the complex and found something truly horrifying: a secret Nazi research base into the mystical sciences, undertaking human and fae experimentation on a vast scale. The complex had to be destroyed, that was quickly determined, but the spies had also learned the bunker contained something else, something of inestimable value, both to Britain and to the war effort. An extensive library, gathered from decades of magical research. 

That a number of military tacticians, politicians, and several well-respected Folly practitioners, including Alfred Booker, Richard Massey, and Rhys Howell, argued that the site and research library should both be destroyed, bombed clinically from altitude, seemed nothing short of madness to Mellenby. That one of those also firmly advocating for obliteration should be his good friend Thomas Nightingale felt like another betrayal, and one Mellenby took hardest of all. But in the end, Mellenby and those of like mind won out. The potential encompassed within the library was considered too great to destroy. The knowledge may have been created through despicable unethical experimentation and human suffering, but that could not now be undone. If that knowledge could be used to end the war and save the Empire, then at least that was honouring those whose lives has been lost. 

Operation Spatchcock took two months to plan, during which time Mellenby and Nightingale barely spoke at all.

TBC.

Chapter Text

And then it wasn’t hot, but cold. A black, noiseless void of cold, consuming me from all sides. So cold I felt like my blood had turned to ice. My feet and face were frozen and the fingers on my left hand ached in the frigid air. I couldn't feel my right hand at all.  

Dragging my heavy eyes open I saw black trees and white snow. It was late. I sat up, feeling the frost crackle on my heavy coat, breath streaming out like fog. It had been a bitter day and would no doubt be a colder night under this clear, black sky. The sun had already dipped below the horizon and dusk was thickening between the branches. We had remained in one place for too long already, and every minute we lingered increased the risk that the wolves and men hunting us would find our trail. I didn't know how we were going to--

“--deal with the fact that you continue to refuse to apply yourself? You aren't stupid, boy, and so it is clear that your failure to turn in legible work is nothing but laziness. That I will not tolerate.”

I kept my eyes down, chewing on my split lip. 

"Well? Nothing to say, Nightingale?"

I had learned by now that there was little point in protesting that I was trying harder than anyone else, that the words just didn't line up like they were supposed to.

"Sorry, sir,” I muttered.

Eventually the headmaster just sighed. 

“It says here you've been sent in for fighting. Again."

"Yes, sir, but--"

"Did I ask you to speak?"

I balled up my fists behind my back. "No, sir."

"Fighting is not tolerated at this school."

"I know that sir, but if you'll just let me--"

"Silence. Excuses are worse than crying, Nightingale. Signs of weakness, of cowardice. I won't have it."

"No, sir."

"I shall have to write to your father."

"He's dead, sir."

"Well, perhaps that explains why you are so lacking in discipline. Your mother, then."

"I...I'd rather you didn't, sir. She's not well."

"Yes, no doubt. But you should perhaps have thought of that before you decided to have yet another scrap in my schoolyard. The nurse tells me you gave young Murray a black eye."

I felt a stir of satisfaction at that and it made me bold.

"Murray is a bully, sir. He was--"

"And now a fibber too, Nightingale? You certainly are showing your true colours today. Such a pity you aren't more like your brothers; fine boys, every one of them. But I suppose but every litter must have its runt. Detention, for the rest of the week, and also on Saturday with Master Thorne. And for your unrepentant insolence--"

He went to the cabinet and took down the rattan cane that was displayed there in pride of place. The sheer unfairness of it burned through me. Yes, I had laid a few good punches on Robert Murray, but I wasn't going to stand by while he picked on young Harry, not when the boy was simple and wouldn't even know how to start defending himself. Harry couldn't hurt a fly. And it had hardly been a fair fight - we might both be ten-years-old but Robert Murray was twice my size. I doubted he would be getting any punishment. I felt ashamed and powerless and it made me want to fight again, to lash out, to yell... but then I heard my mother's voice, as I always did in moments like these. Just wait, she said. Watch and learn and keep your mouth shut. One day you won't be helpless. One day you'll make sure that truth is heard, that justice is served to those who do wrong on this world. But for now, Thomas, keep quiet, watch and remember. 

The Headmaster was staring at me. 

"You're not going to start blubbing are you, Nightingale? I can't stand boys who cry."

"No, sir." I said. 

I met his eyes, steadily. He looked away first.

"Hold out your palm," he ordered, flexing the cane.

I opened my fingers, held out my hand, and…

...the man in the cheap black suit shook it. His grip was weak and little clammy.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "I know Rachel appreciates the turn out."

I glanced around the church. There were perhaps forty people inside, shifting shades of black. 

"It must be a comfort to know she was important to so many people," I murmured, a meaningless platitude. I had hoped to leave the service quickly before having to engage with the family. 

"So how did you know Maeve?" The man asked, but I was saved from replying by the arrival of a woman I knew must be Rachel, shorter and dumpier than her mother and dressed in a sensible mid calf-length dress. She started when she saw me.

"Good God," she said. "You really are the spitting image of Uncle Thomas. I'm Rachel; Maeve was my mother."

"David," I introduced myself, the name coming to me without thought. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, David," said Rachel, and even in this short interaction I could see she had the unflapable, dependable air of one of those rare people life has gifted with the unenviable talent of coping. The sort of person who would be found an hour from now helping put the chairs away, or washing up the teacups, even though she had just buried her own mother, because the thought that even today she might show an inch of weakness, of failure, was just anathema to her spirit. So like Maeve. "You know," Rachel went on in a conversational tone at odds with her blotchy, tearstained face and the tissue clenched in one fist. "I didn't even know Uncle Thomas had any children. Isn't that funny? Mother always described him as a 'confirmed bachelor', I'd assumed that was one of those silly euphemisms. Is it just you here today, or…?"

I gave her a stiff smile. "Just me."

"That makes you two long lost cousins," said the man, who I supposed must be Rachel's husband. "Isn't it strange how funerals can bring people together?"

"Quite," I agreed. "How fortunate." I was by now fervently wishing I had ignored Molly's silent gesturing towards the death notification in the paper, and had stayed far away.

"I suppose your father couldn't make it today?" Rachel asked me.

"He's...indisposed," I said. "I came to pay his respects instead. He was...very fond of Maeve."

"Oh, Thomas was quite her favourite too, I believe," Rachel said, warmly. "They wrote to each other every month, even through the war. Such an odd man." She looked to her husband. "Uncle Thomas was quite an accomplished magician you know, Richard. I remember him visiting a few times when we were children and doing all sorts of little tricks to keep us entertained. He should have been on the stage rather than in the police. Such a shame we lost contact - mother said he had a bad war and was never quite the same after."

I made a non-committal noise. Rachel sighed.

"Now Mother has passed on," she said, "I suppose Thomas is the last of them. The Nightingales."

I glanced at the neat little coffin in the centre of the church and thought about all the other coffins which had gone before it. The ones I had seen. The ones I had not.

"Yes." I agreed. "I suppose he is."

"Well, David," said Richard, and he held out his hand again, a cold wobble of a handshake. It wasn’t necessary, we had only just shaken hands, but this was the kind of repetitive motion one falls into in times like these; strangers mourning, not together but adjacent, passing through the orbits of each others’ grief. 

Richard let go of my hand and gestured back up the church to where there was a small crowd of grandchildren and distant relations clustered around the body of my sister in her small pine coffin. 

"We have to go join the rest of the family now, “ Richard said. “But thanks for coming, and please…”

“Go home.”

Someone was touching my shoulder. I started suddenly, and blinked. I was looking down at my own hands, stained and tacky with blood not yet dried. I had wiped the worst from my face with a borrowed handkerchief but I knew there was some on my collar too. I could feel the cloth sticking to my skin.

“Constable?”

I looked up. The Inspector was standing next to me, looking stern. 

“Is it time to go?” I asked.

“It is for you, Constable.”

I wiped my bloody hand against the rough wool of my trousers.

“The girl?” I asked. “Did she…?”

Murville shook his head. “The doctor said she was dead before he arrived.”

That couldn’t be true. I could remember, quite clearly, that she had been alive, that I had felt her blood pulsing behind my fingers as I desperately tried to keep it all in, press down on the awful wounds, police whistles shrill in my ears, her breath gurgling, eyes rolling back as the doctor had pushed my hands away...

“Nightingale.”

I started again as he shook my shoulder. 

“Go home, lad,” he said rough, but not unkind. “Get cleaned up, and get some rest. You’re off the case.”

“What?” My alarm at that statement was enough to have me on my feet, exhaustion or not. “Sir, you can’t. We're so close...”

“I don’t need you on this, Nightingale. There’s no sign of any involvement from your area - subhumans or non-naturals or your vestigals, or whatever they're called. You told me so yourself, and your colleagues agree. I do not believe there will be anything at the end of this investigation that it will profit you to see."

“Inspector,” I argued. “Four young girls are dead - Lorna Hannay was almost torn apart! There must be something I’ve missed, a new breed of werewolf, perhaps, or a revenant--”

“Nightingale,” Murville said. “It’s one of the harder things to accept in this work. Sometimes you can’t blame werewolves or ghosts or the Devil for the things that men do. Sometimes the foulest and most evil of creatures are just people. Perfectly human monsters. These murders...the perpetrator might seem a demon but he is just a man and we will catch him without your specialist input. Now, you need a hot meal and a kip. I’ll see you in the morning, Nightingale. Now get out of here and…"

"... keep the area clear. There's been a police incident. Sir, I'm talking to you. You can't be in this area."

"I'm with the police," I said without looking around. "I'm quite aware of the situation." 

My eyes scanned the endless ripples of the swirling black water, as behind me the radios and sirens stuttered and whined. The sky hung low and red as blood. 

"You still have to come away from the river, sir, it's too dangerous. And I need to see some ID."

Sixteen people had lost their lives in the river last year; I had read that in a briefing. They belonged to Mother Thames now. I didn’t know how many more had been rescued from drowning in the nick of time, a few hundred I supposed. Peter would have known. 

I turned and came back up the stone steps which led down from HMS Wellington Pier into the water. I held out my warrant card. One of the two, perhaps ground crew for the Marine Policing Unit, took it with surprise.

"Inspector Nightingale," The woman said, brusquely, handing the card back. "We've searched this area already, all the way along to the submarine memorial, but if they didn't make it out of the water by now then the current will have dragged any bodies too far downstream. It would be better if you headed back to the incident base at Savoy Pier. The units will call in if they find anything."

"No, thank you." I answered, stiffly. "While there is still a chance of finding my constable alive, I will assist with the search." The officer's face had clearly displayed that she considered such a chance to be well and truly spent, but at my last words her expression softened. I turned back to the river, looking downstream, loathed to have my attention drawn away for even the slightest moment. 

The lifeboats circled around into the dark. Peter hadn’t been in the water long yet and we were standing only 300 yards from the RNLI station. They had mobilised quickly.

“We’re covering this bank and downstream towards Blackfriars,” the woman said. “But boats’ll have the best chance of spotting them now. Listen. The tide’s turning. If your man can keep his head up long enough, maybe twenty minutes, then the current will probably wash anything still floating up on the South Bank. It’s a long shot, but...”

“I’ll take it,” I agreed. “Thank you.”

“Good luck,” she said, and the pair hurried off to continue scanning the embankment, arcing their torch beams out into the night.  I should head over to the South Bank and the foreshore, and hope my lost apprentice washed up with the tide. Across the Thames I could see blue lights and little scatters of torchlight darting side to side, and between that bank and this, the rescue boats too were lit up as they bobbed and weaved, searchlights sweeping to and fro. But the surface of the water itself was black and unforgiving, an inky smear across the city as if all the light was being drawn deep down into the river. 

The rescue workers on the bank had their torches but I had other methods at my disposal. I closed my eyes, reaching out for the feel of him, searching the black for just one hint of a spark…I felt something, or I thought I did, but it was faint, almost imperceptible.

I walked back down the stone steps that led from the embankment to the water, ignoring the sharp ache of the healing wound through my chest at the cold air, the stress, the fear. Crouching down out of sight from the other police and rescue workers above, I pulled a pocket knife from my coat, opened the blade and then slowly and precisely slit my left hand open from the heel of the palm to the tip of my longest finger. Blood welled up, a thin black line bisecting my palm. I clenched my fist a few times to make the blood flow faster and listened to the chatter of the radio in my pocket. No need to switch the device off for this - this was not Newtonian thaumaturgy, nothing that Peter would recognise as a spell. This was a deeper and far older type of magic. 

I lay down on my front on the concrete at the edge of the water. Below me, the shingle hissed with the lap of the waves, the pulse of the river breathing in and out, an exhalation of rotten weed, dead seabirds and diesel. I clenched my hand one more time until the blood was dripping from my fingers, and then I plunged my hand up to the elbow into the cold and merciless water. I knew when I took my hand out, any trace of the wound would be gone.  

The water was like ice around my palm and wrist, a black, silent maw that drew away all warmth, all life. 

I prayed.

The fingers ached with the cold and then my whole arm went numb from fingers to shoulder. Awkwardly, I managed to stand again without jarring it too much, though each motion sent bolts of fire into my shoulder and fingers of icy air questing beneath my clothes. Across the makeshift campsite, the sleeping, silent men looked like low mounds of earth against the grey of the forest floor, like shallow graves cut in the cold ground. 

I nudged Caffrey awake first, then Descoteaux, and finally the snoring Atherton with a rough shove of my boot - he was supposed to be still on watch after all. But I couldn't find it in me to blame him. The few hours of fitful sleep we'd managed to snatch in this snow bank had helped, but barely. The men roused slowly, muttering and coughing, beyond exhausted. I could feel it myself, the clawing drag of fatigue, as debilitating as any injury in conditions like these - the dead of winter, outnumbered, starving, trapped behind enemy lines. Hunted.

I looked at the men around me, the survivors. One-hundred and forty three Airspeed Horsa gliders had landed in open ground near the river at the beginning of this all. Four thousand and thirteen men had climbed up the ridge to those barbed wire fences and the squat, ugly encampment behind: soldiers and paratroopers and practitioners from home and from our allies in Europe and America. There had been blood like rust on metal. Cracked black earth with vestigia like a scream. The rumble of the tanks as they came out of the treeline, and Morris lying there with his viscera pooling out into the snow.

I drew my focus back from the flash of memory. That was just the fever, stirring up images before my eyes. I must shake it off and carry on. But it was hard to concentrate when it was so cold. A fire would help. Whenever we had stopped to rest until now I had made a small colourless fire, both for warmth and to melt ice for water. The men must have noticed that I did not conjure one this time, but nobody mentioned it, and none of the other surviving practitioners attempted to try either. We were all of us rationing whatever scraps of energy and strength we had left. I don’t believe anyone considered attempting a non-magical fire - as good as a beacon in this darkness, in this desolation. Like the gliders falling from the sky in flames, at least twenty of them shot down as their pilots tried to lift off, burning bodies blazing like comets across the night. I know I'd seen at least as many gliders escape, lifted by magic into the air and disappearing out of sight to the north. But there had to have been more. The numbers didn't add up. Four thousand and thirteen men had landed.  Each glider could carry twenty-five men. There had to have been more. But I’d seen them fall. Arthur Sharnbrook and Karl Ingham had both taken bad hits before I could shield them. Winnie had collapsed right into my arms; I thought he had just tripped until I saw his empty eyes and the ragged hole right through his chest. Archie Tabbot was torn apart by the wolves just fifty feet away. David and Sandy and Rhys Howell and Jeffrey Toskin and their whole company went into the complex. How many came out alive? How many didn't?

I dragged my thoughts back to the present, away from the numb, useless repetition of dead faces, names, numbers that didn't add up. The survivors in this clearing should be my only concern. It was too late for anything more.

I looked around for Hildebrand and saw he had made it through another night alive. Two of the others were trying to get him to drink from a tin cup but he couldn’t speak, could barely swallow, frigid water dribbling from his slack mouth. He’d lost his staff sometime early in the battle. They said the attack of apoplexy had struck him down during that desperate retreat into the forest. Slaughtered by enemies on all sides and now even our own minds punished us for our hubris. The Folly men had managed to drag Hildebrand along with us thus far, but we had almost no supplies, and sooner or later we weren’t going to be able to carry him with us any further. Sooner, if the werewolves found us again. Then someone was going to have to make an awful choice. One more fleeting horror in the face of all this disaster.  

Nearly one hundred and fifty men had been killed in the first wave, their deaths a shriek like iron nails on a chalkboard. We’d done what we could to defend Major Wilcox’s company as they fought their way into the bunker. Eight hundred men went in there. How many got out? David and Hugh had, I’d seen them to safety, and Wilcox and maybe forty more, with boxes and books, reels of tape and files of paper... White faced and wide eyed. Shaking. What had they seen? We defended the gliders, held off the enemy as long as we could. I saw maybe four or five hundred men go down at the rout, cut off by the tanks, by the werewolves, by the...I don’t know what to call the creatures I saw. Monsters.

“Do hurry up,” I advised the nearest paratroopers. “We need to be on the move before it is fully dark.”

I had led those who were left from my company back into the woods when the tanks had overrun our position and then we had fled, there was no other word for it, back into the trees. Forced further into the heart of enemy territory. We kept moving, trying to find any survivors we could, trying to stay ahead of the pursuit. They had already almost caught us twice. Of the two dozen paratroopers I had gathered up as I ran, only sixteen remained and just five Folly men; Jones, Pruitt, Halsey, Atherton and the unfortunate Hildebrand. As we ran we had taken in other fleeing survivors from the battle, men who had lost their units or were all that was left of them; two French officers, a Dutchman and three of Pennsylvania’s Virtuous Men. In that panicked retreat with the tanks at our backs I couldn’t estimate how many other men had made it into the treeline, no matter how hard I tried. Maybe hundreds. And yet we here numbered only twenty-seven.

I glanced at Hildebrand. Soon to be twenty-six. 

Now we were all of us cut off at the gap, and the only way to survive was to reach the western front as quickly as we could. At our best estimate it lay two-hundred and forty miles away. That would mean no fewer than ten days behind enemy lines, and hunted every step. More than half of us injured, and most of our supplies lost. A few of the men had kept hold of packs in the fighting, so we had between us a few first aid kits, two days rations, half a dozen blankets and the clothes on our backs. As for weapons, some had rounds still for their pistols, but the seven rifles we had between us were all but empty and the ten staffs the practitioners carried were good for little more than sparks. And they were all looking to me. Not because I knew the way back - most men still had their compasses and rayon maps. And not for military rank either - one of the Frenchmen was a major. Perhaps it was because I had been behind enemy lines before and spoke German. More likely it was because they had seen what I had done to the Panzers.

The sound of the tanks rolling across the field behind me. The crashing of branches and the groan of the engines, and then, as the tracks began to roll over the bodies, the crack of bone. But it was hard to quantify the dead scattered across the field in comparison to the piles of corpses inside the gates or to the charnel pits and the ovens. They had said we were there to liberate. That taking the library, the laboratory files and the recordings would be just one outcome of this mission. They said we could liberate the concentration camp, even though we all must have known what we would find. What would be left alive in there. We had all known, and we were willingly complicit in our own deceit.

As I watched the men get ready to move on, a touch of lightheadedness overtook me, and I leaned back against a solid pine, waiting for the dizziness to pass. 

“Captain Nightingale.” 

I looked up to see Sergeant Caffrey of the Parachute Regiment approaching. 

“Caffrey. How are your men?”

“Can’t complain,” he said, with a stoic look. “Although a hot toddy and a spot of supper wouldn’t go amiss.”

I nodded, unsurprised by his fortitude. The paratroopers had proved to be the soundest body of men I could have asked to serve alongside. 

“Caffrey, when we make it back to England, it would be my honour to buy a whiskey and a roast dinner for every single soldier here.”

“I’ll hold you to that, sir,” he replied, of course not mentioning the fact that it was highly unlikely any of us would make it out of Nazi Germany alive. “What about tonight? Any roast dinners lined up?”

“For now, we must continue to head west,” I said. “Move as quickly and as quietly as we can. But we do need supplies, rather urgently. Food, ammunition, bandages. We shall have to pass close to a settlement, and steal what we can.”

“Sounds a little risky, sir.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Sergeant. Besides, my German has passed muster before, and Aerts, the Dutchman, says he is fluent. He and I may be able to pass through a village unnoticed. I don’t believe we have a choice.”

"You’ve brought us this far, sir. We’ll follow your lead."

I nodded, vaguely. I was shivering rather vigorously now and had to close my eyes for a moment or two to keep my composure.

“You should let the Yankee lad take a look at that shoulder again,” Caffrey was saying when I opened my eyes, and even though the light was almost gone I could still see his breath freezing in the air and hanging there; a ghostly vapour. He pointed to the bloody hole in my greatcoat. 

“He’s got some medic’s training. And back home he’s stepping out with a nurse.”

“It’s little more than a graze,” I dismissed the suggestion. “I am no worse off than many here. Besides, I can hardly feel it.”

It was true enough that I wasn’t the only one injured. Three men had been mauled by the wolves, one very badly, and there were numerous bullet wounds, embedded shrapnel and burns amongst the rest of us. One of the Americans had a broken arm and another paratrooper had been clipped by a stray shell casing; he’d probably lose the eye. I hadn’t actually looked at my own injury. The bullet was still lodged in my shoulder somewhere, that much I knew. There hadn’t been time to treat it at first beyond raming a fistful of cloth and snow against the hole in my coat as we ran and hoping the bleeding stopped before I left a bloodtrail. At some point in our flight I’d passed out and someone had treated the wound with sulfa powder, and bandaged tightly over my shirt. I didn’t think the wound was still bleeding but I wasn’t going to look to find out. That the bullet hadn’t hit an artery was evident from the fact that I was still alive, but we didn’t have any more bandages to replace the soiled ones with anyway. At least with my arm buttoned up inside my greatcoat the weight of the limb was more or less off the injury and there wasn’t much pain. In fact my whole arm from the shoulder down was utterly numb. Somehow it didn't seem to matter, not in the face of all that we had lost.

Four thousand and thirteen men had landed. It had taken one-hundred and forty-three gliders and eighteen Skytrains to bring them all in. In the retreat, I’d seen twenty gliders take off. Perhaps thirty. That was escape for six or perhaps seven hundred men. I’d seen a few hundred more around me fleeing into the trees, and some others heading north. Where were the rest? The research archive was safe. I’d pushed David into the last glider with what was left of my company, clutching his boxes and books, reels of tape and files of paper, and seen him and all the wretched documents disappear up above the trees and into the night. The Nazi research was safe. But the cost...what a cost it was. All the people of Buchenwald, every one of them. Every. Single. One. And what of the fools who had tried to assault the Ettersberg? One thousand of them dead? One-and-a-half thousand?

More, said my treacherous mind. So, so many more. So much lost that you can’t even comprehend it yet. You will. 

In the meantime, however, I had been tasked with defending the rearguard, and by God, if this was all that remained, then defend them I would.

A sound split the night; a sound that made the hairs on my neck stand up and air catch cold in my lungs. The distant howling of wolves. 

I turned to Caffrey. “We must move, now. Get your men on their feet.”

“Sir.” His face was too stoic for alarm, but I know he had heard what I had. 

"We are going to have to run."

Research notes: 

The Nightingales

John Nightingale, a country doctor in a small Cotswold village, married his childhood sweetheart Alice Chetwain in 1888 when she was the tender age of 17. Alice bore their first child, William, that very same year, and two years later they had their second child, a daughter named Maeve. John, known as Jack, came along next in 1892 with Charles (Charlie), Frederick (Freddie) and Edith following soon after in quick succession. Five years after Edith, the youngest child arrived right on the turn of the century. His parents named him Thomas.

John Nightingale tragically died quite young of tuberculosis in 1907, leaving Alice to raise the rest of the children with the aid of Maeve who was as stern and determined as her mother. Circumstances weren’t aided by the death of the oldest son, William, in the Battle of Passchendaele in 1917. Maeve married a newspaper journalist the day after the First World War ended and in time had two children, Rachel and Leah. Thomas, the youngest Nightingale, remained close to his oldest sister even though he was often abroad with the Foreign Service, the pair exchanging letters every month and even visiting her family on occasion when he was in England. Neither Jack, Freddie, nor their mother Alice saw out the end of the Second World War, with Alice passing away from a short illness in the spring of 1942 and the two brothers being killed in action not long after. Jack left a widow and two children and Freddie a fiancée. Thomas was also declared killed in action in 1945 but was found to be alive shortly after and was returned to England to convalesce. He was visited in hospital often by his sisters, though even after his return to London he remained withdrawn and seldom saw much of his family after the late 1950s. Edith, Maeve and Charlie all lived long lives, with Maeve being the last to pass away in 1975. The Nightingale siblings between them left behind five children, four of whom also married and had children of their own. None of them ever could quite remember what had happened to Great Uncle Thomas.

Apoplexy and stroke

Apoplexy (from the Ancient Greek ἀποπληξία (apoplexia), meaning 'a striking away') refers to bleeding within internal organs. Since antiquity, the term has been used to describe a cerebrovascular accident (CVA), usually associated with loss of consciousness and paralysis of various parts of the body. It preceded the common medical term "stroke" which came into use in 1968, and more accurately "hyperthaumaturgical degradation" a term coined for specialist use in 2001. 

Ettersberg Part 2

During the retreat from Ettersberg and the long march back to the western front, Nightingale often tried to calculate the number of probable survivors from the battle; a figure he missed by quite some distance. 

The Allied forces of Operation Spatchcock totalled 4013 men, comprising 3204 British wizards, 102 Virtuous Men, and 208 French, Polish and other Allied wizards, accompanied by 499 paratroopers. The raiding force were airdropped a few miles north-east of Weimar by a fleet of Airspeed Horsa gliders and eighteen C-47 Skytrains. Only 32 of the 143 gliders made it safely back to Allied territory after the raid.

The bodies of most of the dead were never recovered, but it has been estimated that upwards of 3200 men were killed during the battle; a higher casualty rate in three hours than the first 12 hours of D-Day. At least a quarter of those casualties were paratroopers and practitioners from Allied counties; the remainder were wizards from the Folly and other British institutions.  The numbers of enemy casualties have never been determined.

Just 20% of the raiding force survived the engagement. This included 504 British wizards, 66 Allied practitioners, 32 Virtuous Men and 198 paratroopers. Of Captain Nightingale's original company of 152 men, thirty were successfully evacuated on the last retreating gliders, and four returned with Nightingale on foot to the western front. As well as the single-handed defence of eight gliders from attack by a pair of Panzerkampfwagen VI Tiger tanks, Thomas Nightingale was also directly responsible for the rescue of those four men, and 20 others, whom he successfully led through 243 miles of enemy territory and across the Rhine while evading pursuit from Nazi practitioners, soldiers, tanks and wolves. For these actions he was awarded a Distinguished Conduct Medal for leadership and gallantry which he threw into a drawer somewhere in the Folly and forgot about.

After escaping from Germany most of the survivors returned home within a few weeks. Eight of the more badly injured men, including Captain Nightingale, were taken directly to an evacuation hospital near Liège before being transferred to the 75th British General Hospital at Brussels, where they remained for another two weeks before being considered strong enough to survive the journey home. By the time Nightingale was released from Belmont (the Sutton Emergency Medical Hospital) ten months later at the end of 1945, the war was over, the 175th Brigade was disbanded, and only twelve wizards remained in post at the Folly. By the end of 1948 that number had fallen to one.

Chapter Text

I woke up on the floor, aching and nauseous and with my head pounding. I felt like I'd just run a marathon with a tequila hangover while someone had put a bucket over my head and beat it repeatedly with a really big stick.

"What happened?" I tried to say, though it came out more like wuurrrgggghh…

"Easy, Peter," said a voice nearby. "Just lie still for a moment, get your bearings."

"Walid?"

"Aye. How are you feeling?"

"Bloody awful."

“Just lie still, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

I looked up and found I was in the mundane library, slumped on the floor against a bookcase of first edition Ordnance Survey maps. The place looked like a warzone; books were strewn everywhere and two of the armchairs were tipped over. I looked around for Nightingale and saw he lay a few meters away from me on his side; Molly and Dr Walid were bending over him. 

While I lay there and tried to get my breath back, Molly lifted Nightingale up like he was nothing more than a kid and at Walid's direction took him over to the chaise longue. From what I could see Nightingale looked like absolute shit; his face was bloodless and slick with an unhealthy sheen of perspiration and his breathing looked all weird.

"Is he okay?" I asked, carefully sitting up as Walid looked Nightingale over. My hands were shaking still from Caffrey's fear and the remembered cold. Molly came over and offered me a glass of water which I thankfully tipped down my throat as fast as I could without spilling it everywhere.

"He's unconscious," said Walid, tucking Nightingale's hand back under the blankets. "That one was a real doozy."

"Yeah. Feels like a dozen different people just had a houseparty inside my brain," I said. I could still hear the echoes of the memories, almost feel the thud thud of the bullets, the swish of the cane, the howling of wolves. I shivered hard then couldn't seem to stop. "How long did it last? Could have sworn we were in there for about six months." 

"Four hours, 13 minutes," Walid said, coming back over to me. "After the seizure ended." 

Molly went back to sit with Nightingale while Walid helped me up onto my feet and I wobbled my way over to the armchair that was nearest to them. Walid handed me my very own blanket and I burrowed into it, gratefully. The snow still felt too recent, too close.

Then it was my turn to be poked and prodded in the name of medical science; pulse, resp rate and O2 stats, blood pressure, heart beat and then finally a penlight shone into my eyes. What delight.

"What’s the damage?" I asked, blinking the dots away and trying to ignore the throb of a headache. 

"For you? Not too bad. Mild exhaustion, dehydration, low blood sugar. Blood pressure's a wee bit high but not too concerning just yet. Nothing a few days bed rest won't sort out. Him, on the other hand…" Walid looked over at Nightingale. "Well, seizures are never a good sign." 

I hadn’t been aware at first what was happening. Nightingale had been in the middle of explaining something about the ritual when he had suddenly gone silent mid sentence, gaze drifting off into the middle distance like a thought had just occurred to him. Then he’d pitched backwards like some huge invisible fist had just laid him out cold, and when he hit the floor the tremors had started, shaking his whole body with a kind of weird, jolting violence that even now I found hard to think about. Walid had started barking orders and I had just shoved a stack of books aside and wedged a cushion under Nightingale’s thrashing head when the world around me had tipped upside-down and I’d felt myself falling. I’d had just enough time to think oh shit I should have got out of the room before I was standing in a frozen pine forest in Germany and wondering if the dark-haired army captain leaning against the tree in front of me was going to bleed to death before he got me and my men to safety. Then had followed another four joyous hours of 360 degree virtual reality gameplay in which I had gotten to experience another dozen cutscenes of my boss in what, I weirdly hoped, were the worst moments of his life. As a proposal for this Christmas’s top Xbox game, I don’t think it's going to catch on.

Walid had started unpacking more stuff from the  suitcase-sized paramedics' bag he'd brought with him; vacuum packs of sterile tubing, pouches and other medical paraphernalia that I was quite happy not to recognise. 

"I'm guessing Nightingale trying to fight back against the last memory event was a bad idea," I said.

Walid sighed. "That would seem a reasonable hypothesis. He could hold it off for a short while but at the cost of a much more serious and prolonged attack straight after.”

“Was the seizure part of that too?” I asked. 

Walid started opening packets. “Seems possible,” he agreed, and then looked at me with a serious expression. “Peter. Thomas really needs to be under proper observation in hospital. I'm going to start him on some IV fluids now he's lying still but if his vitals don't pick up or he doesn’t regain consciousness soon, I’m not going to have a choice but to call it in. I know it's no' ideal, but his health has to come first."

I was pretty confident Nightingale wouldn't agree, but then again, if the man in question was capable of saying so himself then we wouldn't be having this conversation.

“If we have to, then we have to,” I said. “Though I don’t know how well that’s going to go down while he’s still acting out a fully immersive re-enactment of 1944 in the Rhineland every half an hour.”

“Hospitals deal with people who’ve lost touch with reality all the time,” Walid pointed out. “Psychosis, hallucinations, head injuries, drug-induced paranoia, dementia…”

"Yeah,” I said. “But how many of those people are able to punch a hole through 10 centimeters of solid steel using just their mind?"

Walid hesitated. “None, I'll grant you. But Thomas hasn't shown any inclination to do that either.”

"He got pretty close to fireballing me twice already," I pointed out. “And yesterday while trying to incinerate a vampire that wasn't there he melted a hole two foot deep into the concrete floor of the wine cellar. So I'm pretty sure him accidently killing your nursing staff is a valid concern at this juncture. Couldn’t you, I don’t know, sedate him? So he can't have another memory thing?”

“With a potential stroke risk?” said Walid. “Not bloody likely. Why can't you stop him from using magic with your anti-magic precautions? Those handcuffs, and the like.”

It was a good suggestion that I hadn’t even thought of. I considered it. “They might slow him down,” I acknowledged. “But he is able to break through them if he really puts his mind to it. Anyway, I'm not sure that's solving the issue, because even if we make it so he can't toss fireballs around, any vaguely competent charge nurse will take one look at a man who's talking about magic to people who've been dead since the 1920s and will slap a Section 2 on him faster than you can say Impello." 

Walid actually flinched at that and Molly folded her arms and showed her teeth at me. No doubt they both thought Nightingale would react about as well as I did to being forcibly detained under the 1983 Mental Health Act.

While we had been talking Walid had been unpacking what I realised was an actual oxygen cylinder, and then started setting up an IV, assisted surprisingly competently by Molly. I watched him smoothly slide a needle into Nightingale’s elbow on the first attempt and set about connecting up the tubing. Molly disappeared briefly and came back with the hat stand from the hall, and Walid neatly hung the colourless fluid bag from one branch. 

“Thank you, Molly, dear.”

Molly did that crinkley eye thing she does when she’s trying to smile without showing her teeth.

The sight of the medical equipment didn’t give me a good feeling. "If you really think we have to take him to A&E, we'll have to just figure everything else out,” I said. “But I still think this ritual might be the one thing that will fix this, and we definitely can’t initiate a druidic blood purge in the middle of the ICU.”

Walid snorted. “The NHS might be criminally understaffed, but I think they’d still probably notice that, aye. Okay," he said decisively. "If he can't go to hospital then the hospital will have to come to him. I'll get in touch with someone I know who works in a private clinic, see if I can borrow some more basic monitoring equipment. It obviously won't be as good as a proper MRI but at least we can get a baseline so I can tell if he's getting worse or not."

"Will he? Get worse, I mean."

Doctor Walid huffed at me. "Peter, my 114-year-old ‘functionally immortal’ patient just had a seizure because fairies overdosed him with magical cocaine and now his blood is haunted. Believe me, very little about that scenario was covered in medical school. I know about as much as you do. But there is one thing I've learned in the last 30 years, and that is that whatever else happens, Thomas Nightingale is apparently too bloody stubborn to die."

Well, wasn't that a cheery concept. But I'd be a liar if I said the thought of Nightingale dying from this hadn't crossed my mind. I've absorbed more than enough pop culture to know how this plot is supposed to go. As soon as you have established that the hero has had just enough training to get a glimpse of the dangers ahead, the magical mentor is done for. Your Gandalfs, Obi-Wan Kenobis and Dumbledores are never going to make it past halfway through the story arc, because the hero has to make the rest of his journey unassisted. He needs to learn to wield the power and skills he has to defeat the bad guys alone and figure out that the true treasure is the friendships you make along the way. Or something. Either way, from a fiction standpoint, Nightingale's goose was well and truly cooked. 

Fortunately, I really don't like being bossed about, especially by a narrative archetype. If Nightingale had managed to survive getting shot during the Punch case, he would survive this. I would make sure he did.  

With that, I got to work. It wasn't easy. Firstly I was knackered, aching and ravenously hungry. The tiredness and headache and generally feeling like I'd been trampled in a stampede...well, there was nothing anyone could do about that so I did my best to ignore it. Molly helped resolve the hunger issue by suddenly appearing with a platter piled high with chicken sandwiches, of which I inhaled about six while Toby sat at my feet doing his most furiously intent ‘good little doggie’ routine. I slipped him two entire sandwiches for it, out of guilt. 

The next problem was I didn't really know what I was looking for and that's never a good place to start, particularly in a library quite as huge and archaic as the Folly's. I was also missing another key resource - my all-in-one magical database, spell catalogue, and classical languages translator - who , despite Walid’s best efforts, continued to remain stubbornly unconscious on the chaise longue behind me. 

But eventually I struck lucky - the sixth book on rituals I picked up fell open on the middle page, where another set of handwritten lab notes had been absentmindedly used as a bookmark decades ago. The writing looked like it was the same as the last notes we’d found on the werewolf ritual, and even though Nightingale was also currently neglecting his Edwardian handwriting deciphering duties, Walid was able to make a decent stab of translating most of it. Reading illegible handwriting, he told me, was something else they didn't teach in medical school, but a skill anyone who deals with pharmacists or GPs on a day to day basis has a lot of experience in. 

Rituals, on the whole, are used for achieving one of  three main outcomes; summoning, warding or banishing. I'd used a summoning ritual before to invoke the ghost of Nicholas Wallpenny, but so far in my apprenticeship that had been the only time I'd encountered one, and from the lab notes it seemed that banishing something was a lot more complicated than summoning it. Banishing rituals, I read, required a magically insulated altar surrounded by seven staffs or 'wands' into which seven spells were cast. The wands absorbed the spell allowing for a sort of timed release system; Nightingale had described it before as a 'cascade'. This allowed for an increase the length of time a spell was active for and therefore increase its effectiveness and power without making the caster's brain explode. 

The trigger for the release of the spells was a massive surge of power into the altar - achieved in antiquity, so the notes said, by a human sacrifice.

Because the spells had to work together they were all derived from the same base forma. In the case of the proposed vamp cure, that form was purifico , with each subsequent spell adding more and more forma or adjectivium until the final spell in the chain contained all seven different components needed to complete the banishing. So far, so impossible. And now I had the basics, there was just the small matter of identifying 28 linked forms, finding seven uncharged  staffs, building an altar, and last but not least, sourcing a suitable alternative to a human sacrifice. All before my governor either died from stress or exhaustion, or became so trapped in his own past that he went completely batshit insane.

I filled Walid and Molly in on what I'd found. While Walid had been doing other medical stuff, he had drafted Molly in to monitor Nightingale's pulse and breathing, tasks she seemed to be managing with a rather terrifying focus.

"I've gone through the lab notes and the Principia front to back," I said, watching Molly stare fixedly at Nightingale’s carotid artery in a way that was giving me flashbacks. "And I think I've figured out the first six spells that might work with purifico - praecido, tersus, munio, restituere, and renovare." 

"And those are spells you can do?" Walid asked. 

"Basic purifico, yes. Everything else, no. I'd need weeks of practise, maybe months, even if someone demonstrated the forms to me first. And I've never cast anything more difficult than a fourth order spell yet." 

Both he and Molly looked at me. 

"Hasn't Nightingale told you any of this stuff?" I asked. 

"I've always been more interested in what happened after the spell was cast than before," said Walid. Molly just shrugged.

I tried to sum up the problem. "Well, the words - the spell - is really just a label for the forma, a sort of magical shape that you have to picture in your head. The whole point of having a master is that a student needs an 'exemplar' of the form before they can start to learn it. That's why you can't just teach yourself magic out of a book."

"I suppose if it was that easy, everyone would be doing it," Walid said.

"You'd definitely need a much bigger morgue," I agreed.

"So Thomas is going to have to do this himself?" Walid said, glancing back at his patient. 

"Well, I can't. This is going up to seventh-order magic. I'm years off that. And unless we're willing to bust Varvara Sidorovna out of Holloway again I don't think there's another option."

"Setting aside the question of whether it's medically advisable, which it isn't, is Thomas even going to be capable of performing magic at that level at the moment?"

I just shrugged a little helplessly. "There's still plenty to do before we get to that point. I have to figure out the magic capacitors and how to handle the sacrifice part before anybody needs to start casting anything. Maybe he'll be improved by then."

A big maybe. 

I went back to my research but soon I realised my vision was blurring. I'd read the same sentence six times, and the book I was holding kept almost sliding out of my hand. God, I was tired.

I’d almost nodded off again when all of a sudden the book was pulled out of my grip. I looked up and saw Molly had pulled the book away, closed it sharply and put it on the table. 

"Hey," I protested weakly. Molly just glowered and then pointed determinedly towards the door. 

"She's right," offered Walid from Nightingale's side. "You need a break, Peter. Go get some shut eye while you can."

"Can't," I yawned. "There's still too much to figure out."

Molly clicked her fingers and then rolled her eyes. I interpreted that to mean You aren't going to be figuring anything out if you're passed out on your face.

"I need to walk Toby," I said. 

"Mo is going to stop by later after school to take him," Walid said. "It's all in hand."

I blinked. "What about Nightingale?"

"He's fine for now," said Walid. "His vitals have actually been picking up a little - look."

Walid did that thing with his knuckles on Nightingale's sternum again. Nightingale didn't open his eyes but he made an objecting, irritated sound and his hand moved up as if to push Walid away.

"He's not going to be properly awake for a wee while yet," said Walid, tucking Nightingale's arm back under the blanket again. "Go on, Peter. You need to get some rest too. I promise we'll let you know if anything happens."

I glanced at Molly. She had her arms folded. 

I gave in and went to bed. 

In the end it didn't do me much good, because I felt like I'd barely closed my eyes before something was dragging me up out of sleep again. A shrill buzzing in one ear, strangely muffled. I pulled open my gritty eyes and tried to kick my brain awake enough to figure out what was making that goddawful racket. 

Flailing around, I knocked aside the pillow which I had somehow in my sleep managed to wedge over the bakelite phone beside my bed. The Batphone, as Lesley had nicknamed the extension I had wired up into my bedroom, emitted another round of shrill squawks and I grabbed the receiver off the cradle if only to make the hideous jackhammer sound stop. 

"Peter?" A voice said. "Is that you?"

Eventually I remembered that phones worked both ways, and that meant I needed to talk too. 

"'m on medical leave," I mumbled. "Go away."

"You sound like freshly warmed shit," said a voice on the other end, and I finally recognised Stephanopoulos. 

"Thank you, boss," I said. "I was asleep."

"At four in the afternoon? You have let yourself go," she said. I thought she was joking. "Anyway, get some clothes on and get down the station. We need you."

Research notes -

Abdul Walid Part 2

In late October of 1980, Nadiya Samara asked Abdul Walid out on a date.  They went to a Genesis gig in Soho, and at the end of the night he walked her home, gave her a kiss, and suggested they should definitely go on a second. The pair remained inseparable from that point on, although they took things slowly, both agreeing that their respective careers came first. 

Over the decade that followed since Abdul first met Thomas Nightingale in Dunblane train station, Abdul became a frequent visitor at the Folly where he was able to indulge his burgeoning curiosity about magic, the Fae and all aspects of cryptomorphology. Nightingale, for his part, seemed at first rather disconcerted by his new young associate but quickly adapted once he realised the potential of the partnership to both open up the bewildering world of pathological science and provide an unexpected ally against the now undeniable return of magic.

However, there was, as Nightingale later described it, "only so long one can push at the boundaries of the Uncanny before it begins to push back." For Abdul Walid, who had since an early age walked along the precarious boundary between this world and the other, this 'push' took the form of a nasty poltergeist which took up residence Abdul and Nadiya's first flat in November 1981. After a rather frightening fortnight, and one or two close calls, the spirit was finally located attached to some nasty vestigia surrounding a vintage fountain pen, and was summarily removed and contained by Nightingale. And so Nadiya was also introduced, somewhat more reluctantly, into the world of magic.

By 1991, Nadiya had established herself as a respected clinical psychologist at a well-known east London clinic and Abdul was practising as a speciality registrar for gastroenterology, and they finally decided that their careers had probably had a sufficient boost that they could afford to give in to the prodding of various relatives and tie the knot. Abdul asked Nightingale to be a witness at their wedding and the latter accepted the responsibility with a diligence and attention to detail that was almost intimidating. Molly was also invited to the ceremony and, although she didn't attend, insisted on baking about six different types of cake to send to the reception, and then made it quite clear to everyone  that the newly weds would be required to come to tea at the Folly, whether they liked it or not.

In 1998 the couple's first child, Mohammed, was born, usually just known as Mo, and their daughter Nayab arrived four years later. Both parents were rather relieved that neither offspring had shown any interest in either medicine or magic, so far at any rate. 

Two months before Mo was born Abdul Walid became officially attached to the Folly as its attendant pathologist, by which point he had already consulted on more than thirty Folly cases, gathered an impressive reference collection of cryptozoological and thaumaturgical specimens, and examined a dozen cadavers suspected of suffering supernatural death, including the victims of the 1992 ‘Hackney Werewolf Killer’. Dr Walid had also made significant strides in the academic study of what he initially termed 'magic-induced cerebral liquefactive necrosis' and later became known as 'hyperthaumaturgical degradation'. By 1999 he was the world's leading authority on the subject.  

Abdul had also, unofficially, become if not the world’s leading expert then a close second on one Thomas Nightingale. Even without there being any other practicing wizards around to compare against, Abdul was fully confident that Thomas’s magic in particular was something extraordinary, his focus and determination unparalleled and his skill breathtaking, and all that even before he had saved Nadiya’s life during the poltergeist incident. But every bright light has its afterimage, and for Thomas Nightingale that brilliance came at the cost of intermittent bouts of black depression that he unflinching refused to seek any professional assistance for. Those incidents were, thankfully, growing less common, but Nightingale remained little better than a recluse, and one with few peers, no social circle, and a poor to non-existent working relationship with the rest of the police force who seemed to avoid him at all costs. Walid was determined to do what he could to keep Nightingale fixed in the present day and moving forward. That the man was an unrepentant luddite meant Abdul didn’t even try to teach Nightingale concepts like cassettes or word processing or the internet, but he was more than happy to sacrifice several long weeks at the labs and the hospitals to bring Thomas up to speed with the main forensic breakthroughs of the last half century. Nightingale followed the key concepts with intent focus, if not complete understanding. But every little helped. 

As the century drew to a close it had also become increasingly apparent to Abdul that a normal process of human aging was just another thing that Thomas Nightingale didn’t seem to grasp. That Nightingale wasn’t growing older had been a slow, subtle realisation that Abdul had started to notice in the early 1990s, although he didn’t know what to make of it at the time. But it wasn’t until one day in late 1999, that Abdul had suddenly looked at his friend and realised that Nightingale was, visually at least, around two decades younger than he had seemed when they had first met. Despite being born in 1900, he and Abdul were now, to an outside observer, almost the same age.

It was probably something they ought to be worried about.

Chapter Text

After almost 100 years of stomping boots, bad coffee, and echoes of you’re nicked me old chum, the old Victorian police stations on Gerald Road and Rochester Row were closed down in the early 1990s. They were to be replaced by a brand new, purpose built, state of the art construction that occupies almost the whole block between Buckingham Palace Road, Semley Place, and Ebury Square Gardens. The newly minted ‘Belgravia Police Station’ opened in 1993. Historian Simon Bradley, in his update of the notable Nikolaus Pevsner’s architectural guide to Westminster, describes the new building as being 'decent’ and ‘straightforward', no doubt a statement about the Metropolitan Police that its architects would have been happy to impress on any passers-by. Probably to their disappointment Belgravia has become known instead to a whole generation of coppers and petty criminals as the Pink Palace. I'd always thought it looked more like a particularly ugly flying saucer was trying ineffectively to hide behind an even uglier public library, but it’s almost won several architectural awards over the years which just goes to show there's no accounting for taste. But there are certainly worse cop shops in London: the windows open, the canteen is tolerable, and I once noticed that there is a line of little cat paw prints embedded in the concrete floor of the charge room that must have happened the day the floor was laid. Noticing that had gotten me an elbow in the face from a leery drunk I was trying to book in at the time for indecent exposure, and a lecture about paying attention from Lesley.

At the moment, however, the merits or otherwise of the station were passing me by as it was all I could do to climb out of a parked car without falling on my face. The PCSO who had been sent to pick me up from the Folly, Gaz, gave me a cautious look. 

"You okay, bruv?"

"Yeah," I said as I steadied myself on the door of the panda car and waited for the world to stop spinning.

Gaz grinned. "Must have been a bare wild night, bruv. Hope it was worth it."

I didn't bother to explain I wasn't hungover or getting dragged in to explain myself to a superior, although I sort of felt like I was. Probably didn't help that I looked like I hadn’t slept for a month and was just wearing plain jeans and a t-shirt rather than my normal work suit. I'd been too tired to find a shirt after Stephanopoulos had called, and there was always the chance that my civvies might remind the powers that be that I was still technically on medical leave, so they might not get it into their heads to send me out to look at a crime scene or, God forbid, actually interview a suspect. This tactic worked about as well as you might think.

"We need you to interview a suspect," Stephanopoulos said the moment I had met Guleed and she had accompanied me into Stephanopoulos’s lair. 

I groaned silently, and guessed, “Jonah Reedman?” 

Stephanopoulos nodded. “Him and Everett. We’ve charged them both with attempted murder but CTC are putting the pressure on my governor to find out if there’s more to this anthrax business. The raid on the lab is keeping them nicely distracted for now but if we can’t demonstrate some progress soon they’re going to start shit stirring. But the urgent priority is Reedman. I need you to tell us if he’s a…” She hesitated, and then settled on, “...one of you.”

“Do you mean a wizard?” I asked, innocently. We were the only ones in the office after all, and as everyone knows, fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself.

“Yes. A wizard.” Stephanopoulos sighed. “He’s claiming your cells are making him sick.”

“Really?”

Guleed piped up. “We stuck him down in the Ice Box last night but he started screaming blue murder. He says he feels like he’s dying, and I’m sure that’s not melodramatic at all.”

“Has a doctor seen him?” I asked.

Stephanopoulos rolled her eyes. “Some of us do know how to follow procedure, Peter. Yes, medics have been in, twice, to look at him and can’t find anything wrong. But with SO15 keeping their fingers on the pulse, we can’t risk a welfare inquiry. If your... protections are having a genuine effect on his health, then he’ll have to get moved into a different cell. But before I do that I want to be 100-per-cent fucking sure that he's not going to start… You know. Kicking off.”

Doing magic, was what she meant.

Before I'd turned up at the Folly, Nightingale's interpretation of community-led policing had been to pursue illegal magic users with the kind of single-minded ruthlessness that would have made Judge Dredd proud. It had never been confirmed to me officially, but I was fairly confident that probably since the war ended, anyone using magic in contradiction to the maintenance of the Queen's Peace was swiftly and unflinchingly removed from the picture, either by phosphorus grenade, a swift fireball through the head, or by the hands of the Folly's own extralegal paramilitary death squad. 

I'd done what I could to put an end to that by insisting that things like arrests and trials weren’t optional, but taking the moral and legal high ground came with it's own problems, because now we were trying to detain suspects that were, theoretically, capable of tearing buildings apart with a thought.

The anti-magic handcuffs or the bracelet Nightingale had made for Varvara were in limited supply, so the next best option was the Ice Box. This was a suite of two cells at the end of the block of lock-ups which occupy most of the rear ground floor of Belgravia nick. Nightingale and me had spent just over two weeks earlier in the year fitting out both cells with welded bands of enchanted iron all the way around the walls and ceiling in patterns that Nightingale had described as 'bearing thaumaturgical significance' before covering the lot with a thick layer of freezer insulation. I thought the insulation worked on magic as well as refrigerated freight because, whatever magic actually is, I'm fairly sure it draws its power from electrical energy in some form or another and all that was left in the cell was the practitioner’s own. Use too much of that up and you'll be very unhappy very fast. When I asked Nightingale about the enchanted iron and the symbols he didn't seem to be in the least bit sure how the process worked, only that the symbols were of 'arcane antiquity’ and that he had forged and enchanted the iron in the opposite method to making a staff - to repel magic rather than to absorb it. 

That such a thing was even possible was a pretty exciting concept, because if you could enchant a whole room to repel magic then I couldn't see any reason why we couldn't enchant something much smaller, like say, a car or a riot shield. Or, if I had enough time to really experiment, something really tiny like my phone, so I didn’t blow the bloody thing up every five minutes. My plans for magic-proof body armour were just a pipe dream for now, but at least whatever we had done to the Belgravia cells seemed to have worked - by the time we were done, the cells were so effectively insulated against magic that even one of Nightingale's special anti-tank magic missiles fizzled out like a damp firework once the door was shut. Though whether one of these cells would be strong enough to hold the Faceless Man when we eventually caught him, Nightingale opted not to speculate. 

Another thing about the cells was that it seemed quite possible that the enchantments really were having an effect on Reedman. One of the other reasons that the cells became known as the ‘Ice Box’ was that even regular, completely non-magical folks like Stephanopoulos found them disquieting and oddly chilling to spend any time in. Like I said, the protections are powerful. I was pretty sure, despite Stephanopoulos’s concerns, that Jonah Reedman was no wizard; I hadn't seen him use any magic during the factory raid but I'm still getting to grips with what all the different kinds of fae can do, so I couldn't be certain. It was possible he had some kind of inherent power like the Rivers. But even if he did, he probably wouldn't tell us about it. He certainly hadn’t tried to use magic when the CTC had arrested him at Euston, and that was probably the best sign I was going to get.

Everett had to be the only actual practitioner out of the three suspects we'd arrested in the factory, and as your actual bona fide unethical magician, should really be our primary target for questioning. The murderous chimera, who had given her name as Shona Halsey, certainly wasn't a practitioner. She had already been processed by the murder team and remanded out to the high security prison at Bronzefield, where someone from the Crown Prosecution Service would be trying to figure out how to hold a trial for a half lizard goat woman that anyone would take seriously. For once, that was a problem I didn’t have to fix. 

“What about Everett, boss?” I asked Stephanopoulos. The illegal magician had been safely detained in the Ice Box since we’d all been released from the hospital on Saturday. Long term solutions for the prosecution and incarceration of practitioners was, of course, still 'under review', so for now, here he remained.

"He doesn't seem bothered by the cells and he hasn't tried any funny business," Stephanopoulos answered. "We’ve made four interview attempts but he’s refused to talk to anyone but your governor. Well, I assume that’s who he meant from his less than decorous description.”

The look on her face made me think some seriously uncouth language had been involved, probably even homophobic slurs. Everett did know how to make friends and influence people.

“Well, whatever Everett might want there’s no way we can bring Inspector Nightingale here," I reminded her. "Not the way he is right now.”

“He’s getting worse?” said Guleed, frowning.

“A bit,” I said, trying not to overshare while at the same time highlighting that Nightingale was in a bad fucking state right now. Either way, I tried to sound matter-of-fact about the whole thing and not suggest that I might in any way be feeling anxious about the possibility that my boss was going to kick the bucket at any moment and leave me as the only semi-functioning anti-magic police officer for the entire country. “He’s...uh...started having seizures.”

“Shit, Peter, why haven't you made him go back to hospital?” asked Stephanopoulos, with actual alarm on her face.

“He's not really firing on all cylinders right now," I pointed out, "and I'm fairly sure he's going to take dim view of anyone trying to make him go anywhere. The underlying cause of this isn't really medical anyway.”

"Are there any signs of recovery? Any timescale on when we can expect SAU back up and running?"

“Doctor Walid and I have a plan,” I explained. “Sort of. Something we can try, at least. But I need time to figure out how it works, and I just don’t know how much of that we have.”

I rubbed my forehead, feeling the throbbing beat of tiredness behind my eyes. I looked up to see both of them staring at me.

"Are you okay?" asked Guleed.

"Course," I said. 

They both just sat there in silence, watching me. It’s an old police trick - if the person you’re questioning doesn’t give you the answer you want, just wait. Invariably the other person will keep talking, just to fill the uncomfortable silence, and they usually say more than they mean to. But knowing the trick and being immune to it are two different things. 

I explained: "Look, I’m better off here than I was at the Folly, honestly. The closer I am to Nightingale, the worse it gets. This thing comes on in waves, and if we’re in the same room when it hits, we both end up useless. But I could really do with getting back and helping, as well as some food and some kip, so if its all the same to you, sir, can we move this along?"

Stephanopoulos didn't seem to take offence at my unusual levels of impatience but before we could interviewed either of our detainees, we needed some sort of plan. Guleed and Stephanopoulos accompanied me up to the monitoring centre where we found Inspector Seawoll watching the two Falcon prisoners through the security feeds with a look of abject disgust on his face, like he’d just put on brand new shoes and then stepped straight in dog shit. How he had ever been persuaded to allow us to install the magic proofing in the first place, I’ll never know. Nightingale's old-school charm really does work magic of its own sometimes.

I’d been trying to keep up with the investigation as best as I could from my AWARE terminal in the coach house, and it had to be said that the hardworking men and women of the Belgravia major crimes team had done some excellent work on Everett while we’d been in hospital. From his HOLMES file, I already knew he was born in 1993 to upper middle class parents that had divorced only a couple of years later. The mother had gone out to Uganda, working as a journalist, and claimed not to have seen her kid for a decade. The father had studied at Bristol University and had later been knighted for services to medical research following some breakthrough into reducing transplant rejection, then died in 2011. Ethan himself, an only child, had been homeschooled, followed by two years at UCL studying organic chemistry before getting kicked out for low attendance. When his dad died, he inherited his father's business, and with quick and remarkable efficiency, ran it straight into the ground. Since 2013 he had pretty much fallen off the grid; the major crimes team had interviewed some mates who said he had been couch surfing with them for a few months. But apart from his brief stint hired by the epipen company Epfrenal, there wasn’t much to go on, apart from possible links to a dozen other crimes including minor fraud, illegal imports and tax evasion. Certainly there was no link that I could see to Oxford University, Geoffrey Wheatcroft or any of our known Little Crocodiles. So where the hell had he learned magic?

I turned my attention to the adjacent viewscreen and the troublesome Jonah Reedman, about who, in a startling contrast to Everett, we knew almost nothing. No employment history, no home address, census details or voting register, just an expired provisional driving licence, a fake credit card and 32-year-old birth certificate from a cottage hospital in Hampshire that  listed only his and his mother’s names. Hers was Suzanna Reedman and a quick Google search had revealed she was also dead, killed over a decade ago in an RTC - car versus pedestrian. You can guess who won. 

Ethan Everett seemed to be asleep, and, according to the security officer manning the station, had been for the past three hours. I’ve heard that thing about only the guilty sleeping in prison and I can tell you it’s bullshit. Most people will just conk out eventually, if only for some way to relieve the boredom.

Jonah Reedman, however, was pacing nervously around his cell. He was even shorter and skinnier than I remembered, with a round face and scruffy reddish-blonde hair in a sort of grown-out bowl cut. In his tatty old coat and grubby trousers he looked like washed-up Dickensian orphan.

“So?” demanded Seawoll, after watching me stare at the screen for a while. “Is he one of you lot too, or not?”

“I can’t tell just by looking at him over a screen, sir,” I said. 

“Then how bloody close do you have to be?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” I explained. “I won’t really know if he’s capable of...you know...until he tries.”

I glanced at the security officer, who was watching the monitors with an air of studious indifference to the conversation going on behind him, which meant he was drinking in every word.

“Jesus,” Seawoll growled, with a furious scowl.

Stephanopoulos folded her arms.

“That’s not very reassuring, Peter,” she said. 

Guleed frowned. “Do you mean it isn’t possible to tell, or just that you can’t? I mean, could Inspector Nightingale do it?”

The short answer, I thought, was probably no. I remembered Tyburn telling me that the Thames girls could smell the magic on us, and I thought that some of the other Demi-monde, like Molly and the Pale Lady, could also tell who was a practitioner. But just the thought of schlepping over to Lady Ty’s place and asking her to come into Belgravia police station to have a sniff at a homeless man was so hilarious it almost made me snort out loud. I’d rather face another round of fireballs.

“No,” I said instead. “And even if he could, Nightingale is not an option right now. Everett's going to have to settle for talking to me, and I have some questions I really want answers to. I don’t know whether poisoning us was what they intended to do or if it was just an attack of opportunity, but they were obviously planning something. No-one just walks around with a pocketful of anthrax-laced magical hallucinogens without a reason.”

"Peter," sighed Stephanopoulos. "What the hell is going on?"

"I really wish I knew, boss." I said. "How about we find out?"

“Good idea,” said Seawoll, all business. “Then you'd best get the fuck on with it.”

Typical.

“Which one first, sir?” I asked. “Everett or Reedman?”

“I say Reedman, sir,” Stephanopoulos answered instead, looking to Seawoll. “He’s fresh off the CTC bus and probably basking in the comfort and luxury of his new surroundings. But if he really is sick, we need to know ASAP."

"All right," agreed Seawoll. "We'll leave Everett to stew for a bit longer - I want another crack at the little wanker myself." 

We decided that Stephanopoulos would be the interview lead. Given my specialist knowledge of the situation, it should have been me, but there was no way anyone being held on possible terrorist charges was getting interviewed by a lowly PC. From that perspective, it probably should have been Seawoll in there too, but Stephanopoulos had pointed out that Reedman seemed to be a cowardly little git and terrifying him out of his wits was unlikely to get us the information we needed. Her and me, at least on the outside, seemed less threatening, and this way, we could always escalate to a bit of terror later on.

I was fairly confident, given what we knew of their backgrounds and history, that Everett was most likely the ringleader of this little enterprise, whatever it was. It was probable that Reedman was just a minor player, maybe an informant providing information to the demi-monde on the Isaacs, i.e. me and Nightingale. The data we had suggested that he was barely educated and probably wasn’t all that bright. He’d managed to evade the CTC for two weeks, which was fairly impressive given those boys do not fuck about, but then he’d managed to get caught just standing in front of the CCTV cameras at a major transport hub. If he'd stayed off the grid 'till now it was because he'd had help. But whatever his role was, we had to find out one way or another because there was also the slight matter of our cells possibly making him ill; the Met might be the filth but it’s a matter of professional pride not to let a suspect drop dead in your nick. I wanted to be damn sure that he wasn’t also a practitioner before I let him get moved anywhere else.

“All right,” Seawoll had said, glaring at me. “But this is an important collar, so you’d best not fuck it up, Constable. And keep that magic shite to a bare minimum, understand?” 

I said I would do everything I could to comply with the requirements of a senior officer. He called me a cheeky sod, and then followed Guleed back into the monitoring centre to watch on the CCTV cameras. Stephanopoulos and me headed into the Ice Box.

From close up, Jonah Reedman looked like an even more of a caricature than he had from over the CCTV screen. The features in his rounded face were comically childlike; a small mouth, squashed tomato of a nose, watery green eyes and a divergent squint. When taken with his lack of height, I changed my opinion from an Oliver Twist impersonator to an unemployed Christmas elf. 

Reedman, who had been perched right on the edge of the tile shelf with plastic mattress that passes for a bed in most holding cells, leapt up as the door opened and flattened himself back against the wall. He looked pale and sweaty, like if he had an infection or a real bad hangover. Definitely someone with something to hide.

In the glorious past police interviews were held anywhere from the Lost & Found to the gents loo, depending on whether you wanted somewhere with quick access to a lot of heavy items for flattening your suspects fingers with, or privacy, drains and an array of wipe-clean surfaces. Thankfully, times have changed, and interviews now conducted in a specially designed interview suite, set up with a one-way mirror, table, moderately comfy chairs, a double-tape deck and, of course, CCTV. But given the circumstances we were in, neither of our suspects would be leaving these cells just yet, and so Stephanopoulos and I had squeezed ourselves and a couple of chairs into the tiny room and set the tape deck down on the floor. It was just as well Reedman had refused a lawyer, because I don’t actually think one would have fit.

“You!” Reedman blurted out, when I sat down and Stephanopoulos was starting the tape recorder. “The adversary!”

That made me pause. As a mixed-race copper I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that one was new.

“Present are DI Stephanopoulos and PC Grant,”  Stephanopoulos said, for the benefit of the tape. “Mr Jonah Reedman has been offered a brief to be present, but has refused. The time is...”

While Stephanopoulos did the rest of the stuff for the tape, I was astutely aware of Reedman’s eyes fixed on me, in what seemed like an uncomfortable mix of fascination, hatred and outright terror. None of the other practitioners and very few of the demi-monde had bothered to be scared of me before; after all, I’m only two years into my apprenticeship and most had considered me hardly worth the plastic my warrant card was printed on. Jonah’s fear was...well, it was disconcerting to say the least.

“You have to let me out of here,” Reedman said to Stephanopoulos in a whimpering voice. His accent was generic rural, East Midlands somewhere. I noticed he’d flinched away from the wall again. “He’s going to kill me.”

“PC Grant is certainly not going to kill you,” Stephanopoulos said. “You're not in any physical danger. We’re just interested in hearing what you have to say.”

“But it hurts in here!” whined Reedman. I mentally adjusted my assessment of his IQ down by a few dozen points. This guy was no ringleader, or if he was, he was also an Academy Award-winning actor. “You’re not allowed to keep me somewhere that hurts.”

“The doctor says there’s nothing wrong with you, Mr Reedman. We’ll do what we can, within reason, to meet your requirements,” said Stephanopoulos. “But we need you to answer some questions first.”

“Okay,” said Jonah, and wiped his sweaty face. "You can call me Jonah."

“Jonah,” Stephanopoulos asked, diving right into it. “Can you describe to us, in your own words, what you were doing on the night of June the 1st?”

“Went to meet some friends, didn’t I?” he answered instantly. It was over a fortnight ago; most people would at least have pretended to think about it.

“Which friends?” asked Stephanopoulos. “And where?”

“Ethan,” Reedman said. “Barry. Shona. Some others. We went to the factory.”

“Ethan being Ethan Everett?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“And you met at the old car factory? In Silvertown?”

Reedman agreed again. I was getting suspicious.

“Why did you meet there, Jonah?” Stephanopoulos asked next. “Got to be a lot of nicer places around to meet friends. Pubs, bars…”

“Ethan wanted to,” said Jonah, still staring at me. “It was part of the plan.”

Strangely, this wasn’t said in the tone of one trying to throw suspicion off himself by dumping his mate in the shit. It sounded like the truth.

“And do you remember what happened after you went to meet your mates in the basement of a deserted factory in the middle of the night?” Stephanopoulos prompted.

Jonah pointed at me. “He came running in--”

“--For the tape, Mr Reedman has identified PC Grant--” murmured Stephanopoulos.

“--and another guy, an older guy. Everyone knows him. The Nightingale. They’re the bloody Isaacs, aren’t they? We know all about you.”

“And what do you know about us, Jonah?” I asked. 

“You have the magic,” Jonah said, completely unconcerned about the tape recorder, the police-cell, or the fact that Demi-monde had only survived into the 21st century by staying well away from both. Even Zach Palmer had thought twice before spilling the beans on the Quiet People. But Jonah wasn’t finished. 

“You have the magic, and you keep it hidden so none of the rest of us can have any. You hoard all the power up for yourselves, and tell us it’s forbidden, to keep us downtrodden and to keep us weak!”

Stephanopoulos tapped subtly on the side of her chair with a finger, but I’d noticed it too, the sudden change in Jonah’s speech pattern. It sounded like he was quoting, and I was very interested to know who. But that was for later; first we needed to get our timeline established.

“And what happened after you saw me run into the factory?” I asked, trying to bring Jonah back on track.

“There was a fight,” he said, with a too-casual shrug. “I ran away.”

“You didn’t run away until later though, did you?” I said. 

“You and the Nightingale, you started shooting fire and rocks and stuff at us. Shona and the others fought back. I was hiding.”

“And then you attacked DCI Nightingale.”

“Yeah,” said Jonah, and he sounded proud and terrified all at once. “I did. I attacked the Nightingale, just like he told me to. I had the canister, so I did it.”

Stephanopoulos glanced at me. Five minutes into an interview and we had a confession already. Not that it wasn’t nice, but it certainly wasn’t usual. I put a mental pin in that he told me to for later.

“Did DCI Nightingale and PC Grant identify themselves to you as armed police?”

Jonah snorted, “Yeah. Everyone knows who they are.”

“Do you know what was in the canister?” I asked.

Jonah shrugged. “Poison, I think,” he said. “I dunno, I didn’t ask. Poison for wizards.”

Stephanopoulos said: “What exactly was it you were told to do?”

“We were gonna wait in the factory,” Jonah said. “And when the Isaacs came in, I had to spray them.”

It’s a trap! yelled my brain, but just like Admiral Ackbar, too bloody late. About two weeks too late.

They had known that we were coming. We had been lured down into that basement after Shona Halsey and both of us had nearly died for it, and I for one really, really wanted to know who had set us up. The information on the chimera’s location had come from Zach, but I don’t think even he would be stupid enough to double-cross Nightingale on purpose. Someone had gotten to our chain of informants and that was bad news. I dragged my attention back to Reedman’s confession because the guy was still talking.

“Get in close, he told me. Get the Nightingale if I could, or the other one if I couldn’t. It was all on me. I was going to set us free.”

There was that he again.

“Free from what?”

“From the yoke of oppression,” said Jonah. “From the per-sec-ution of the so-called Society of the Wise. He told all of us about what you do to people like us, about the cleansing fire. You call us fae and uncanny and there’s men with guns that will come in a helicopter and shoot you dead if you do anything the Isaacs don’t like.” 

This time he was definitely quoting. It sounded like the kind of manifesto that conspiracy nuts in V for Vendetta masks posted on Youtube, except for the unfortunate fact that everything he was saying was kind of true.

“So you are saying you intentionally and deliberately lured two police officers to an isolated location with the intention of killing them?” said Stephanopoulos.

Jonah hesitated. “No,” he said. And then changed his mind and said; “Yes.”

I groaned silently. The Deputy Assistant Commissioner was going to have a fucking aneurysm if he found out that the demi-monde were actively targeting police officers now. Jonah perhaps realised what he’d just said because he quickly added:

“But not because they were police. I like the police. They were always nice to me when I was sleeping rough under the arches, left me alone. Sometimes they’d bring me sandwiches, and once a lady police took me to the hospital when I got robbed.”

“So why did you attack us, then?” I asked.

“Because you’re the adversaries. The Isaacs.”

Stephanopoulos leaned in. “The magic police?”

Jonah nodded. “Yeah. You are taking magic away from us as earned it. Our birthright! That’s what mum called it, before they killed her.”

“We’re sorry about what happened to your mum,” I said, but he just sneered at me. 

“You lot killed her, with your technology and your machines. If she had magic, she wouldn’t be dead.”

“And, just to be clear, you can’t do magic either,” I said. 

“No. You took it from us.”

“What about your friend Ethan?”

“Oh yes,” said Jonah, and I could see hero worship on his face. “Ethan can. He’s amazing. He’s going to help free us. He’s not like you lot from the Folly; he’s different. He’s going to teach everyone magic, as soon as the Isaacs are gone.”

I really wished Nightingale was here. This was well above my pay grade. 

“So you attacked Inspector Nightingale with the, uh, wizard poison,” said Stephanopoulos, who was perhaps still desperately hoping the interview could be used in court if we said the two of us were simply playing along with Jonah’s delusions in order to get results. I hated to think the colour Seawoll’s face would be right now to hear Stephanopoulos say the words 'wizard poison'. “Then what did you do?”

“I ran away,” said Jonah, looking away. “I hid.”

“Where?” 

Jonah didn’t say anything. Given his previous willingness to talk, that seemed highly suspicious. 

“Jonah, where did you go to hide?”

“I won’t tell you and you aren’t allowed to make me.”

“We know you sometimes go out of London,” I said, tapping the print-outs of the garage forecourt CCTV. “That for at least twelve months you’ve been driving a van between Watford and a lab in Milton Keynes."

He said nothing in reply but started to twist his hands nervously. Sweat was pouring off his face.

“What were you delivering, Jonah?” 

“It was...food.”

“Food? What kind of food?”

“Crisps,” said Jonah, with an air of satisfaction. 

“You spent a year driving crisps to a research laboratory over an hour up the M1?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I got paid,” he said, proudly. “£10 a day.”

Jesus. Barely enough to cover the fuel. I guess that explained the bilking. I was starting to feel bad for this kid. Yes, he’d tried to murder both Nightingale and me, but it was clear enough someone was taking advantage of him. All that ‘the Isaacs are the adversary and killing them will make us free’ stuff. It sounded like someone who’d been groomed. He’d been set-up, I realised, just as much as we had. Someone had manipulated this stupid sod to take the fall. 

“You must have some friends in Watford and Milton Keynes, then,” Stephanopoulos was saying. “Did you go there to hide?”

Jonah put his chin down and said nothing.

“Okay, what were you doing at Euston station?”

He still said nothing. Reedman might be scared of me, but someone else out there was scaring him a hell of a lot more. I decided to change tack. If this was the fall guy, who was the one who had given him the push?

“You said he told you to attack Inspector Nightingale.” I asked. “Who is he?”

Jonah froze. 

“Did Ethan give you the canister?”

“It hurts in here!" Jonah whined, twisting. "I want to go.”

“Did Ethan Everett give you the canister?” I repeated again.

“Yes,” said Jonah.

"And he was the one who told you to kill Nightingale?”

Jonah was visibly shaking now. He shook his head. 

“Then who did?”

Nothing.

“The same person who told you all about the magic? About how the Folly was oppressing you?”

Very quietly, Jonah whispered “Yes.”

“Who is that, Jonah?” Stephanopoulos said. “We need a name.”

Jonah shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “He’s going to kill me.”

“Not if he’s in prison, he won’t,” I said. “Come on, just a name. What does he look like?”

“He’s going to save us,” Jonah said. “He wants us to be free. I just have to do my part, and he’s going to save us. He’s going to bring the magic back, for everyone! I believe it, I do.”

“What does he look like?” I said again. “Did you ever see his face, Jonah?”

But Jonah’s mouth was clamped shut and he buried his face in his folded arms, shaking. 

“Interview terminated at 18.11,” said Stephanopoulos with a sigh, and stopped the tape.

Research notes: Belgravia

As of 2018, Belgravia Police Station itself is in the process of being closed down, with the intention of moving all officers and services to the refurbished Charing Cross Station by the end of 2020. Dedicated Ward Officers for the Belgravia area will operate out of smaller DWO hubs in the local community. What will happen to the building after that hasn't yet been determined.

And the bit about the cat paw prints is actually true.

Chapter Text

We reconvened in Seawoll’s office, as soon as me and Guleed had been sent off to bring back refs.

“Well, I think we can be fairly sure that no part of this enterprise was Reedman’s idea,” said Stephanopoulos, picking out something that was floating in her canteen-quality Earl Grey. “That kid couldn’t plot his way out of a wet paper bag.”

“He was talking like someone who’d been radicalised,” Guleed said. 

“Definitely,” I agreed. We'd been on the same CTU courses together after all. “Sounds like someone is stirring up disgruntled Demi-monde with an axe to grind and using them to get to us.”

“Poor bastard,” muttered Seawoll as he looked at a print out of Reedman's bio with a surprising degree of empathy. “Someone takes some homeless kid with no more than two braincells to rub together, fills his head with shite about a glorious revolution and sends him out with a loaded gun. What a goddamn waste.”

“I assume you think this unknown ringleader is your Faceless magician?” Stephanopoulos asked me, and Seawoll didn’t even wince at the word magician. It looked like he might finally be building up an immunity to weird bollocks through virtue of having it unrelentingly rubbed in his face for two years. I thought it was probably a bit like phobia exposure therapy, or cult deprogramming, or that shitty celebrity jungle show where they throw B-list soap opera stars into pits of rats until they stop screaming.  Or maybe I'm too tired to be coming up with metaphors right now.

“Seems more than likely,” I said. 

“It's a bit subtle for one of his schemes though, isn't it?” Guleed pointed out. “Aren’t they usually more explosive and big on collateral damage?”

“That’s a fair point,” said Stephanopoulos, and looked at me. I just shrugged. 

"Maybe he just told our boys to cause some trouble and the rest of it was their idea," I suggested. No-one had any other viable explanations.

“And what,” said Seawoll after a few minutes, “would your governor have to say about all this?"

Right now? I thought. He'd probably ask what century this is. 

"He'd want to know why we were wasting time interviewing a clueless accessory like Reedman," I said, "When we have a dangerous magical felon like Ethan Everett in custody that we don’t yet know anything about."

"So why are we?" snapped Seawoll, and stomped to his feet. "It's time we went to interview that long streak of piss Everett and he'd better talk to you, Grant, because if anyone else is going to start poisoning members of my police force, I want to know about it bloody yesterday!"

So back to the Ice Box we went, though first Stephanopoulos had Guleed start the paperwork  to have Reedman transferred to a new cell, and I quickly called Dr Walid to check in on Nightingale. He still hadn't fully woken up, Walid said, but his stats were improved and his GCS was up to 9. Whatever that meant. On the plus side, at least while he was still out of it he wouldn't be having any more memory events. I had been wondering if Nightingale did have an event while I was at Belgravia, whether the side effects I experienced - the random sounds, voices, phantom sensations - would still affect me as strongly. I knew the magic was limited by distance. So far being out of sight of Nightingale had been enough to stop me getting dragged into the memory event, but I hadn't found anywhere at the Folly that was far enough away to reduce those side effects completely. So was there a minimum safe distance, I wondered, and if so, how would I find it? And was the distance of the spell's affect just linear, or was it more like a spell in Dungeons & Dragons that had a 3D radius, like a cube or a sphere? Testing that would be tricky. I'd need a crane. Or failing that I'd have to get Nightingale to have a memory event at the bottom of a lift shaft and I would have to go up to each floor sequentially and try to measure the output…

"Grant! Are you paying fucking attention?"

Seawoll. I dragged my attention back to the task in hand. Interviewing an illegal magician. Right.

"You up to this?" Seawoll said with a frown, his hand on the cell door. "Don’t give me any bollocks, Grant, because we can't afford for you to fuck this up."

"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm up to it." 

I didn't point out we didn't have any other options. Whatever part he had to play in the current attack on me and Nightingale, Everett was certainly already guilty of illegal magic, Nightingale and I had witnessed that with our own eyes. Even if I was strongly advocating that this didn’t deserve a death penalty, it certainly had to be stopped. We had to find out what Everett knew.

We went into the cell. 

Ethan Everett was IC1, which is a nicer way of saying generically white, 1.80m tall, with dark green eyes. His light blonde hair was cut into the kind of effortlessly messy style popularized by Indie rock bands and big-budget fantasy movies that probably took two hours and a ton of product to keep in place. He was skinny, freckled, and, to my surprise, young. Very young. I'd only caught a glimpse of him in the cellar and the hospital, and I'd read his file on HOLMES, but somehow the fact that he was only 21 had passed me by until he was sitting here in front of me. 

Like before, Seawoll and I set up our chairs and the tape recorder in the cell. Everett watched us from a careless slouch on the other side of the room, arms folded. If we'd had a table I had no doubt he would have had his ratty converses up on it. The posture and the obnoxious, self-confident sneer I recognised from run-ins with members of university sports clubs and the more laddish kinds of stag-party, and went hand in hand with binge drinking, casual racism, and using the word 'banter' entirely too much. It was rather different from the arrogant snobbish kind of arseholery I had come to expect from my normal experience with your average ethically challenged magical practitioner. It made Everett look even younger.

And then I realised what was bothering me so much about Everett's age. He had attacked us with magic back at the factory, but more than that he'd actually duelled with Nightingale. I'd been practicing magic for two years and there was no way I could duel Nightingale, not unless he was humouring me, it was some sort of training exercise, or maybe some weird scenario where he was blind, deaf and had his hands tied behind his back. The fight had lasted only a minute or two, but that Everett had held out at all meant he had to be good. Really good, almost as good as Varvara. When had he started learning magic to be this good by 21? And who the hell had taught him?

"Who trained you?" I asked, as my opening question once all the cautions and introductions were out of the way and he'd too had refused the offer of a lawyer with a scowl and a sneer. 

"Don't waste my time," Everett said, and as much as he was clearly trying to hide it I still caught the posh hiding in his Essex accent. "I won't speak with the apprentice. Only the master."

I resisted making a Sith joke and instead went for: “Well, too bad, because you've got me. I want to know who trained you."

Everett looked at me cooly for a second and then turned to Seawoll. "What am I charged with?"

"Two counts of attempted murder, contrary to section 1 of the Criminal Attempts Act 1981," Seawoll said, flatly. "As well as one count of engaging in conduct in preparation of terrorist acts, contrary to section 5 of the 2006 Terrorism Act."

"Attempted murder," Everett repeated. "Not murder. So the Nightingale is still alive. Crying shame. Why isn't he here?"

"That isn't really your concern, is it, son?" snapped Seawoll, and I knew he was royally pissed off. I wondered how many similar exchanges they'd had over the past few days. "PC Grant here asked you a question."

"Look," said Everett, with a sigh. "I don't know how I can make this any clearer for you people. I'll talk to Nightingale, and no-one else. You want answers? Then get him in here."

"Are you fucking daft?" Seawoll said, leaning in. The chair creaked and his voice went very quiet. "You listen to me, son, very carefully, because you're in no position to be making fucking demands. You tried to kill two police officers and that means your immediate future lies very squarely in the palm of my hand. Now what's worse is that you tried to kill those police officers using magic. And do you know what I hate more than weaselly little scrotes who attack police officers? Fucking magic. You're a bright boy. You know what the chances are you'll ever see a courtroom. Jury of your fucking peers? I don't think so. So you just think very carefully about the direction you want your immediate future to go, and remember in whose fucking hand you sit before you start shit-talking my officers. Understand?"

Everett said nothing, but I saw a tick jump in his jaw. Got him. 

"PC Grant, I believe you had some questions," said Seawoll, sitting back.

I decided on a different tack. 

"When did you meet Jonah?" I asked.

Everett's head swiveled to me so fast it looked like it was on an axle. 

"What?" snapped Everett, and it was rather delightful to see how much Seawoll had rattled him. The scornful sneer slipped for a moment and it made him look different. Oddly familiar, actually, like that feeling you get when you see someone on a tube train that you recognise off the telly.

"Jonah Reedman," I continued, putting the deja vu aside. "Short, blonde, part fairy…"

"I know who he is." 

"You weren't supposed to be in that cellar, were you?" I asked, changing tack again. It was part of our plan to keep Everett off balance. "It was all set up so that we'd come running in after your chimera friends and then Jonah would get us with the canister. You must have been hoping to be miles away by then."

Everett said nothing. 

"You were willing to just run off and leave the rest of your mates in the shit," said Seawoll, and tutted. "Disgraceful."

"They understand!" hissed Everett. "They know their part."

"Like good little soldiers?" said Seawoll. "Your pal Jonah worships the very ground you walk on. He says you're going to 'save them'."

"Jonah says...?" said Everett, leaning forward. "Wait, you've talked to him?"

"We have him in custody. He's right next door, and singing like a blackbird," said Seawoll with satisfaction. He sat back with a look I knew meant that's right, you bastard, we're fucking on to you, but in response Everett's face was showing an emotion I couldn't quite make sense of. I saw fury and betrayal in his expression, but inextricably, also a thin thread of grief. Once again I had that twisty little feeling that something about Everett was familiar, and I couldn't help but feel there was something else at play here. 

"Jonah claims he doesn't know anything about the plan," I stated, implying that of course we knew every detail. We're the police. We know everything. "He said this whole thing was your idea."

"Of course it was," Everett snorted, locking away all that betrayal and loss behind a wall of scorn. "You think that moron is capable of anything like this? Couldn't even keep his bloody mouth shut."

"So how did you two first meet?" I asked again. 

Everett took a breath as if to steady himself before he answered, distractedly. "The goblin market."

"And how does a nice upstanding young man such as yourself come to know about the goblin market?"

He glared at me. "I pay attention. It's not hard to see the truth when you don't drift around like a fucking zombie all the time, stuck to your stupid smart phones and your i-watches."

Oops. Sounded like I'd touched a nerve. 

"So you met Jonah at this market," Seawoll said. "And how exactly did that lead to acts of terrorism?"

Everett hesitated and looked towards the door and suddenly I figured it out, the thing that had been staring me in the face the whole time.

"Were you there looking for Jonah?" I asked. "Or was it only later on that you found out you were brothers?"

"Fuck!" Everett yelled and leapt to his feet. He slammed his hands against the wall in frustration. 

Eureka.

Seawoll stood up too. "Sit down, Mr Everett."

Everett ignored him, and smacked the wall again. Seawoll loomed over him.

"I'm not going to ask again." Seawoll said, low. "Sit. The fuck. Down."

Everett sat down. I was shocked to realise there were actual tears on his face. This kid seemed younger by the second.

Seawoll gave me a glance which promised some serious retribution when we got out of here. I'm guessing he wasn't at all pleased that I hadn't shared that little bombshell with him before we started the interview. Cops hate surprises, and anything your run-of-the-mill cop hates, a DCI is going to hate about a thousand times more. But I had honestly only just figured out the connection myself, why the two men seemed so oddly similar to each other - the hair, the stature, the colour of their eyes. I hadn’t even known for sure until Everett’s reaction.

"So," I said, trying to keep hold of the advantage that the surprise had given us. "You did know about Jonah."

"No." Everett said, scrubbing at his eyes, angrily. "I knew about the affairs, obviously, that was why Mum eventually took off. Dad told me about the fae bitch and her kid just before he died. I went to the market to look for them.”

“The brother you never knew,” I said. “Must have been nice to finally find him.”

Everett sneered at me again, but didn’t say anything.

“He thinks you’re going to teach him magic. Were you ever going to?”

Everett said nothing for a second. “No.” He admitted. “Jonah contributed to the cause in other ways.”

“For one thing, he’s a damn nippy bugger,” Seawoll said, grudgingly. The DCI really was doing astonishingly well given that we’d used not only the word 'magic' several times, but had now branched out into the equally unwelcome topics of 'fairy' and 'goblin' . “Gave my lads quite the run around trying to find him. Was it your idea to use him to deliver the anthrax?”

“Obviously,” said Everett. 

“What about anthrax itself?" I asked. "Was that your idea too?"

"Yes," snapped Everett. "The murder in Bloomsbury to lure you out, the factory, the Fairydust. All of it. I came up with the whole thing."

And I would have gotten away with it too, I thought, if not for you meddling wizards... Everett was happy to tell us everything, clearly delighted to be centre of attention. A lot of people hate boasting but I love it. Boasters make my job so much easier. 

“All of that, just because you want to bump off these two?” Seawoll said, gesturing towards me. “We’ve all had the urge, son, but this seems excessive.”

Everett actually smiled. He was getting himself back under control. “No effort is too great to see the downfall of the Folly and freedom from their oppressive regime."

Well, that took a turn for the manifesto-y. 

“Freedom,” I said. “Freedom how?”

“Freedom from persecution for all fairykind. Freedom for the magic to thrive. Your people,” Everett spat, “almost killed magic, choked it to death beneath the weight of your egos. But now it has had decades to flourish and grow, free from the Isaacs’s crushing, elitist empire, and now its coming back, flowing in like the return of the tide. How dare you try to control it, or dominate it? Magic belongs to the fae, not to you! And one day everyone shall have it.”

“I doubt your master thinks the same,” I said. “The Faceless Man doesn’t strike me as the communist, vive le proletariat type.”

It was another shot in the dark, but I realised I’d made a mistake as soon as I said it. Not because I was wrong, the look on Everett's face said I clearly wasn't, but because the moment I said the words Faceless Man, Everett went as stiff and silent as Jonah had. Flashes of fear and anger and that grief again, before it was all swept aside behind a curtain of cold indifference. 

“I’m pretty sure I said I wouldn’t speak to anyone but your master,” Everett said after a long moment of silence. “And yet I still don't see him.”

“He’s busy,” I said. “Look, we know the Faceless Man trained you. I just want to know how he recruited you.”

Everett slowly sat back, sneer once more in his face. “Busy. Really. I'm guessing he's still having a little trouble with my Fairydust then.”

“That’s none of your bloody business, is it?" Seawoll said. “Tell us about this Faceless Man, right now.”

Everett folded his arms, and I could see we’d lost him. 

“The so-called 'Master of the Folly' is my adversary,” he recited. “The rest of you filth are nothing to me. If the Nightingale wants answers, he's going to have to ask me himself.”

We tried a few more times, but it was clear the interview was over. We packed up the tapes and the chairs, and left the cell. The custody sergeant who was waiting in the corridor locked the cell door firmly behind us. Seawoll rounded on me the moment the door was shut. 

"What the fuck was that, Grant?"

The custody sergeant and a couple of PCs across the corridor all pretended to be thoroughly engrossed in the same clipboard of paperwork. Junior officers didn't usually get reemed out in front of a whole corridor of witnesses, not even by Seawoll.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said,"I just--"

Seawoll interrupted before I could get another word out. "I don't know what kind of liberties that posh tosser lets you get away with but in my nick, you follow the interview plan and you don't spring surprises on senior officers in front of fucking suspects!'

It was a fair cop, and if I'd been thinking clearly I probably wouldn't have done that at all. But I was so tired.

"I'm sorry, Inspector. But I couldn't brief you before because I didn't even put it together until just that moment."

"And how did you 'put it together'?"

"Ears, sir."

" Their ears?"

"Ear shape is as unique as a fingerprint, sir, but both suspects have the same detached lobes and the pinna were a similar shape. Plus they both have dark green eyes - not a common colour - and when you look at the similarities in their build, hair colour and nose shape… put together it just seemed indicative."

Seawoll snorted. "Christ, Grant. You really are something else, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," I agreed. It seemed safest. 

"Well next time I don't care if you're a fucking geneticist; you don’t keep information from me again, do you hear? You have any more sudden revelations, you stop the interview and discuss it with the rest of the team."

"Understood, sir. Sorry, sir."

Seeing the shouting coming to an end, the custody sergeant stepped forward and coughed slightly. Seawoll loomed over her.

"Yes, Pendry?" 

"We're about to move Reedman, sir," Sergeant Pendry said with a slight air of reproach. She didn't add and you’re in my way so why don’t you take that PC and go yell at him somewhere more appropriate?

"Fine, fine," said Seawoll, and jerked his thumb towards the end of the corridor. 

"Come along, Constable Grant," he snapped. "We have some things to talk about."

"Yes sir," I agreed, relieved that I'd got away quite so lightly. Hopefully by the time we reached his office, he'd have had time to go even more off the boil. 

We walked further back up the corridor towards the main custody desk, and I glanced back as I heard the clunk of a cell door opening. Reedman was being led out of his cell by two solidly built constables. He looked hunched and defeated as he shuffled out into the corridor. 

"You...uh," said Seawoll and paused his strides to look back at me. It wasn’t like Seawoll to hesitate from saying something outright and I thought the big man looked oddly uncomfortable. "You did some good policing in there, Grant. Some shitty teamwork, but good policing." 

"Thank you, sir." I said. Maybe Seawoll felt guilty about the yelling. Or maybe he had remembered that I was technically on medical leave and shouldn't really be interviewing anybody at all.

"Well, let’s not wait around for the grass to grow," Seawoll said, turning away. “I need a pint, and you need to piss off back to your own nick where you belong.”

Then, I heard a voice from behind me. Someone said, "We are just the first wave.” 

Me and Seawoll both looked back and saw Jonah Reedman standing in the middle of the corridor, but suddenly he didn't look hunched over anymore. He was standing up straight, even as both arms were being held by the two burly constables. Tears were pouring down Jonah's face but his chin was high. He was staring straight at me.

"We are the first," he said, "but others will follow. They will flock to Ethan and he will set them all free."

"What the fuck? " said Seawoll.

"Mr Reedman, keep moving please," said the custody sergeant, who was waiting by an open cell door just beyond. 

Jonah looked at me again and then with a crystal cold clarity I suddenly knew we had seriously fucked up. 

"The Faceless Man says hello," Jonah said. 

"No!" I yelled and started to run forward. 

Jonah yanked his right hand free from the constable's grip and slammed his palm against his own chest.

Then he exploded.

It was only the fact that I happened to have spent the last month before this all began pretty much exclusively practising aer congolare in front of an erratically firing paintball gun down in the Folly target range that meant either me or Seawoll survived that first blast at all. My mind had shaped the formae before my conscious thought even had a chance to think oh shit, and the aer shield shimmered up just as the first concussive wave hit. The blast, a shocking mass of light and sound, struck my shield like a car had driven into it at 60mph, and it threw me back off my feet. I went flying back and hit Seawoll and we both went down under a tide of fire and concrete. 

You know in movies when someone has been caught in a massive explosion and they do that thing where everything looks like it's in slow motion and they muffle all the sound apart from a high pitch ringing? Turns out that's remarkably accurate, apart from the fact that no special effects department will ever quite be able to recreate the lighting sharp stabs of pain, the stench of burnt flesh and hair, and the overwhelming blank terror that fills every useful part of your brain with numb animal panic. I suspect action movies wouldn't be quite so popular if they did.

The lights flickered. I opened my eyes and saw a haze of dust and debris. Seawoll was lying beside me, crumpled against the wall. He wasn't moving. I rolled my head to look back up the corridor. The custody cells before me were destroyed; chunks of concrete and brick, twisted metal and huge slabs from the ceiling above, and all of it painted in obscene smears of red, grey and white. I absently realised that the shapes littering the ground were lumps of human flesh and severed limbs, still wearing tattered clothes, as well as dollops of torn entrails, and over it all was a fine mist of blood. It looked, I remembered thinking, remarkably like the inside of a microwave if someone had overheated a bowl of chunky tomato soup.

The fluorescent lights flickered again. I couldn't hear anything but a shrill, high pitched ringing sound which drowned out everything else. The only warning came when two slabs of concrete at the end of the corridor started to move. The twisted remnant of the last Ice Box cell door was shoved aside and a figure stepped out into a shaft of dusty daylight. Ethan Everett. He glanced around the sea of blood, lumps of flesh and shattered bone that had thirty seconds ago been four people including his own brother, and he waded straight through it without a second's hesitation. Then I saw his gaze fall on us. 

"Aer congolare," I tried to make my mouth say again, and my shield sputtered weakly into life.

Everett strode over and batted my shield aside like it was nothing. He looked down at me on the floor and I saw his mouth move. The shrieking alarms and the ringing in my ears carried the sound away, but I saw him say "I'm going to kill you." He raised his hand. 

I didn't wait until I felt his forma take shape; I just threw out my arm and choked out "Impello!" as clear as I could. 

Impello, Nightingale tells me, isn't a proper duelling spell. No-one would ever choose to use just a first level spell as a defense, not when you could combine it with a host of other formae to do something really sick like tear a building in half. "Utilising just the base forma in a duel," he had once told me, "is something akin to going after one's fencing opponent with a bar stool, or half a brick." And although the implication was that such a thing was just not cricket, a half-brick to the head will definitely end most arguments in your favour, and I knew for a fact that Nightingale wasn't above fighting dirty if it meant being the guy that walked away breathing. Besides, I had to work with what I had, and Impello was the one forma I could always produce, no matter how numb and shocked most of my brain was. It had saved my bacon against both the Faceless Man and the Pale Lady, and it did so again.

The spell caught Everett like a slap. It swept him off his feet and he was hurled back down the corridor, skidding into the pool of blood and landing on a concrete slab that had fallen from the ceiling above. He didn't move.

I knew we didn't have long. I'd bought me and Seawoll maybe thirty seconds, depending on how hard Everett had hit the ground. I had to get up, try and get both of us out of here, find help… But I couldn't move. My whole body was numb with a kind of heavy shock that feels like lead weights were attached to every limb. I tried to push up onto my arms, move my legs, but my feet slid weakly against the blood and I had no strength. 

The alarms still shrieked and the lights flickered and buzzed. I could feel a heavy vibration beneath my back. At the end of the corridor, past the dented cell doors, Everett slowly got up to his feet. The daylight streaming in through the huge hole in the wall lit up on his face and showed me the naked hatred in his expression as he raised his palm towards me, and I knew this was it. No more fucking about. This time I was absolutely going to die. 

Everett clenched his fist and there was a sudden burst of light, but surprisingly it came from behind me. Torchlight. More thudding vibrations and I realised I was feeling the clomp of boots through the floor; dozens of feet and the flashing of torches running along the corridor behind us. Back-up had arrived. 

Unarmed, unprepared back-up.

"Armed hostile!" I yelled, though my own voice sounded distorted, like it was underwater, and I didn't know if anyone would hear it over the alarms. "Stay back! Armed hostile!"

The incoming footfalls didn't seem to slow but Everett turned away at my shout and I saw him run for the collapsed wall and the hole that lead out into the street. Then Stephanopoulos was crouching over me and I could see she was holding a torch in one hand and a TASER in the other. Her mouth was moving and she was saying: "Peter. Peter, Can you hear me? Where did he go?"

I turned my head and pointed beyond the blood-soaked debris and the scattered body parts towards the hole in the wall.

But Everett was gone.

Chapter Text

The shock of the detonation was like being dropped from sleep straight into a deep ice-cold well of black water. I woke with a breathless gasp and felt my whole body convulse - my chest clenched tight like a fist and with every inhalation air seemed to snag in my lungs. I was coughing now, horrible, wet coughs that shuddered through my chest cavity, up my throat and into my aching head.

A smooth hard object was pressed into my hand and then my hand was guided up to my mouth; I felt the cooling flow of air seep through the blockage in my lungs and I felt my chest start to relax. But even through the cold rush of the oxygen I could taste blood, smell burnt flesh and smoke, gagged on the twisting, unsettling wrongness of magic used contrary to the natural order, magic used to hurt the innocent, to kill...

Abdul was close. I could hear him speaking, and I let the smooth undulation of his voice calm me as I fought for control of my breath. At last I managed to drag in enough air in that I could force a sound out. I dropped the breathing mask and reached out, fingers closing on Abdul's arm.

"Peter!" I forced out, hearing my voice crack. "You have to--"

Coughing stole the end of my sentence. Abdul was still there, leaning into my field of vision.

"It's Abdul, Thomas. Peter isn't here right now. You’ve been ill and you're a little delirious. Just breathe nice and slow for me. Don't try to talk yet."

"No," I said, trying to meet his eyes, trying to express my urgency, my fear. "Peter. I have to get to Peter. A demon trap…"

I fell back into coughing once more, my chest tight with frustration and breathlessness. I could see Abdul  frowning. He lifted the oxygen mask towards me again and I made a motion with my left arm to shove it away. Abdul caught my wrist and held it. 

"Thomas, listen to me," he said, slow and steady. "You're very confused right now, but some fluid has settled in your lungs while you've been asleep and your airway is a little inflamed. I need you to lie still and take in some oxygen and then you’ll feel better. Skygarden was over a year ago; there aren't any bombs here. Peter has just gone over to the station at Belgravia and I promise you that he's fine."

The station… but I had felt the explosion. I had felt it, and I had to get there as quickly as possible. They were all in danger, if not already dead. I pushed myself forward, trying to get to my feet but Abdul was still blocking my way, and then to stop me moving he put his hand on my right shoulder.

The reaction was an instinct decades old. A quick lightning flash of the formae in my mind and Abdul was thrown back. He thudded into the wall across the room, and as I held him there away from me, pinned against the wooden panelling, I realised that in all thirty years of our friendship, this was the first time I had ever used magic on him. Abdul’s face bore an expression of shock.

“Let go of me,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, still breathless, trying to explain. “But I have to get to Peter. I felt it, Abdul. An explosion; someone set off a demon trap at the station.”

Coughing prevented any further explanation, but it didn't inhibit other motion so I threw the bed covers aside, ready to stand. A flicker of movement across the room and I saw Molly in the doorway, watching us, wide-eyed. 

“Thomas,” Abdul said again, and I dragged my eyes back to him. He was still pinned to the wall, held very still, and his face was angry in a way I had never seen before. “Let. Go. Of. Me.”

Oh yes, of course. The binding spell. I blinked and let the formae unravel, dissipating to nothingness. Abdul dropped away from the wall as the spell released him and stumbled a couple of steps to keep his balance. He didn’t come back towards me.

“I apologise,” I said, trying to pull the tatters of my self-control closer. “I didn’t mean...but Abdul, you have to understand; I have to find Peter. The bomb...”

I moved to slide my feet out of bed, but Abdul snapped at me. 

“You’ll stay exactly where you are. I'll find Peter.”

He turned to Molly and threw a commanding finger in my direction. “Watch him. He doesn’t put one toe out of bed, do you hear me?”

He stormed out of the room. It was only the fact that I saw he had his mobile phone in his hand as he went that stopped me from trying to follow after him. 

Molly drifted over to me, a silent shadow, and glared at me until I pulled my legs back under the blankets. I realised that I was dressed in pajamas and it was only then that I placed for the first time where I was; a bedroom on the ground floor of the Folly that I had occupied for some months when I had been recovering from the Covent Garden shooting. The scar on my back from that incident was painless and well healed, apart from those dratted coughs and chest infections that seem to linger on interminably. But the older bullet wound, the one in my right shoulder; that throbbed with pain, and my whole body felt stretched and rung-out, like it hadn’t since I had grown old decades ago.

Molly had crouched down beside the bed and retrieved the oxygen mask from beside the cylinder and held it out to me. I was almost afraid to look at her, sure I would see disapproval, condemnation for my weakness and panic, for the way I had treated Abdul. But when I finally glanced up I saw nothing but fear, the same sickening worry and shock that I was experiencing. 

"You felt it too," I realised. 

Molly nodded, sharply, and turned her head to look south. South, towards Belgravia. It hadn't been a dream, or a hallucination. A demon trap had been triggered. 

Outside the bedroom door I heard Abdul speaking, quickly and quietly, presumably into the telephone. If he'd managed to get through to Peter, that meant at least he wasn’t dead.

Abdul came back into the room but my brief hope was quickly extinguished. 

"Voicemail," he said, shortly.

"Call the station," I instructed. 

Abdul didn't move. "Peter's probably just in a meeting."

"He would still answer his phone."

"Then maybe he's on another phonecall, or he's interviewing a suspect, or kipping, or taking a piss," Abdul pointed out. "There's a dozen reasons why he might no' pick up. Doesnae mean something's wrong." 

He crossed over to his medical bag, while pointing to the oxygen mask that I was still holding in my hand. "That's no’ for decorative purposes, Thomas. Use it."

"Call the station," I now all but begged. "Or Miriam. Anyone."

He came closer and I dropped the mask entirely, grabbing his sleeve. "Please, Abdul. I am truly sorry for what happened just now but this is real. This is happening. Peter is in trouble, and Molly felt the blast too--" 

I wanted to say more, but I had run out of breath. Fortunately Abdul had raised an eyebrow at my last words and now was looking between the pair of us, consideringly. I don't know what it was he saw in our expressions. 

"I need to take some more obs, and deal with your breathing first…" he started to say, but Molly was already standing up, patting down my suit jacket where it hung from the wardrobe door and pulling out my mobile phone. She pointed the device toward herself, then waved Abdul in my direction.

"You'll call the station while I handle this?" Abdul asked, to clarify. Molly nodded. "All right. When someone answers, just pass me the phone, okay? Good lass."

Molly had already started to navigate around the device's menus with a startling competence. In the meantime Abdul slapped the oxygen mask back over my mouth quite firmly and then began his familiar poking and prodding, although this time in silence broken only by the occasional short command. I knew he was angry with me, but at the moment my fear for Peter was drowning out all other concerns. 

I closed my eyes while he clipped some device on my finger and listened to my lungs, and I tried to focus on what I had sensed during the awful blast which had jolted me into consciousness. The vestigia had dissipated in less than a second but I had sensed an iron taste like a mouthful of blood, the nauseating stink of burning chemicals and human tissue, an oil-slick terror, and the whetstone grind of a flat razor. The Faceless One.

I opened my eyes to find Abdul looking at me, cautiously. 

"Thomas? Are you still with me?"

I cleared my throat. "Yes. Yes, I’m here" 

I looked over at Molly, but she was still holding the mobile phone to her ear. Through the distant earpiece I could hear the tinny shrill of the ringing phone, still unanswered. Eventually she ended the call and turned to us, shaking her head. 

"Anything?" I asked.

Abdul coiled up his stethoscope. "No-one is picking up at the station. That might not mean anything." He didn’t sound entirely confident.

"Try Constable Guleed's number, or Inspector Stephanopoulos," I instructed. Molly nodded and went back to the menu.

Abdul, meanwhile, had cracked half a dozen white pills from a plastic strip. He held out the pills and a glass of water towards me. I hesitated. 

"Antibiotics," he said, shortly. "And painkillers."

I took the pills first and put them in my mouth before I reached for the glass. Abdul watched me with a frown but I swallowed the medicine without complaint. 

Just as I was about to inquire if there was more water, Molly made a sudden sharp movement with her head. She spun around and held out the mobile phone towards me, eyes wide, expression tense. Someone had answered.

Before I could even think to reach for the device, Abdul had smoothly intercepted it and stepped aside, putting it to his ear.

"Hello? Yes, it's Dr Walid here. I'm calling from the Folly…"

He listened for a moment, glanced over at Molly and then pointed firmly in my direction. She nodded,  acknowledging her role as my newest jailor, and Abdul slipped out of the door, the mobile phone still to his ear. 

The wait for his return was almost unbearable. Despite his justifiable anger about the palma iactus capto, I knew that wasn't why Abdul had taken the phone out of my earshot. He was, as always, trying to act in what he thought were his patient's best interests - keeping from me that which he knew could injure, until the harm could be mitigated. But being cognizant of his reasoning made the wait no less agonising; lying here not knowing if Peter was harmed, perhaps even dead, or might right now duelling for his life against the minions of the Faceless Man. He shouldn't be alone. I had failed him, letting myself become compromised with this sickness, leaving him to fight this impossible battle on his own when I knew he was not ready. I had not been the master he deserved and his teaching was insufficient, incomplete. If he died then I--

Molly sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed, jolting my thoughts from their depressive spiral. She reached out and pulled on my left arm where I was cradling the right until I obliged her and let go. She slipped her small, white hand into mine, and then squeezed my fingers, gently. The gesture of wordless comfort actually made my eyes fill and I had to quickly press a handkerchief to my face to hide it. I tried to say something in return, offer some reassurance for her that everything would be well, but the words stuck in my throat like needles.

I was coughing again, breathless, when Abdul came back into the room. I studied his face quickly, trying to glean anything I could from his expression, but as with all medical and emergency personnel, it was one of schooled neutrality. Even knowing him well, I couldn’t tell if the news he had was good or otherwise.  

“Easy, Thomas,” he said over my coughing, “Just breathe, slow and shallow.”

Molly let go of my hand and passed me the water.

“Tell me,” I said to Abdul, as soon as I could speak. He placed my mobile phone on the desk and sat down in the chair beside the bed.

“That was Sahra,” he said, and then paused. “The most important thing you need to know is that Peter is alive. He is no’ badly hurt.”

The relief almost took my breath away again, but I knew that it also wouldn’t be obvious on my face; police officers have to be just as good as doctors at keeping their thoughts from showing in their expressions. I just closed my eyes for a moment and nodded. 

“What happened?”

“You were right. An explosion in Belgravia station, just a few minutes ago. They think it was a suicide bomb. Peter was nearby at the time but Sahra has seen him walking around since, so he’s on his feet at least. They’re still evacuating the building and assessing the scene but - Thomas, there were some fatalities. Sahra didn’t know who.”

“Did you ask her if--” I began but Abdul interrupted. 

“That's all there was time for. She had to go and help, but she said someone would check in when they knew more.”

“Very well,” I said. I pushed the blankets aside and stood up. Molly leapt up like a startled cat.

“Woah,” said Abdul, standing up too and reaching out. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I am going to Belgravia,” I said, trying to keep my balance against a swell of vertigo. “Peter needs me.”

“Did you no’ hear me?” Abdul said. “He’s well, or near enough to it. He’ll manage.”

I shook my head, impatiently, fighting down the impulse to cough. “The Faceless Man doesn’t just strike once. He uses a double charge device intentionally to target those responding to the first explosion. He’ll attack again, now they’re distracted.”

“Only if he’s an eejit,” said Abdul, his accent deepening with his tiredness and frustration. I saw Molly was watching us silently. I wished she was not present to see this disagreement, but it couldn’t be helped. “The place will be crawling with police, armed units, fire crews and maybe even the army by now. No-one will get within 200 feet of the station, I promise you.”

“That’s irrelevant. If there’s any chance the Faceless Man is anywhere nearby, so must I be. I have a duty to perform.”

“Aye, and so do I,” Abdul said. “And I can assure you; you’re no’ going anywhere.” He gripped my upper arms with wiry strength and met my eyes, unflinchingly. “Listen to me, Thomas,” he said, quiet, intense. “You are very sick. Not just this pneumonia relapse - you’ve had back-to-back hallucinations, a tonic-clonic seizure, and you have been unconscious for five hours. I can no' stress enough how serious this is. You are too sick to leave.”

I pulled my arm out of his grasp. “I don’t accept that.”

“It isn’t a negotiation,” he retorted. “It doesnae matter if you accept it or no; the choice is out of your hands. You are going to remain here until your condition has improved.”  

I felt myself growing cold and distant in my anger. While we were having this argument, black magicians could be attacking the damaged police station, killing officers and civilians alike. What did my condition matter?

“We are wasting time,” I stated, dispassionately. “I might be a little under-the-weather, but I still have control of my faculties.”

Abdul actually snorted with laughter. “Oh aye, and your judgement is no' impared at all."

"I don't have time for this. Molly, please fetch me some clothes, I--"

Molly clapped her hands sharply to get my attention, and then pointed at Abdul, and then the wall where I had thrown him. 

"That has nothing to do with this," I replied, though I felt my confidence waver. My head was aching. "Please do as I ask."

Molly folded her arms and didn’t move, a surprisingly overt refusal.

"Molly's right," said Walid. "You just attacked me with magic, Thomas. You're not in your right mind.”

“It wasn’t an attack,” I snapped. “A...push, perhaps. I am in complete control.”

“This is your idea of control?” Abdul said, and abruptly he turned and pulled up the side of his jumper and shirt to show the skin beneath. The ribs where I had thrown him against the wall were mottled deep red with fresh contusions, and the stripe where he had struck the edge of the chimney was starting to swell. In a few hours his whole upper back would be discoloured to a deep, stormy purple.

My magic had done that. Mine and mine alone.

Abdul turned back, dropping his clothing into place once more. He stared at me, challenging, but I no longer knew what to say. All that fire of determination, all that impulse to run from the Folly and throw myself straight between my apprentice and danger...it was gone. I had hurt Abdul, my friend. In this, I could no longer be trusted.

“I...I’m sorry.” I said. My legs felt unusually unsteady and I slumped back onto the edge of the bed. “I had no intention...”

“I know that. Of course, I do,” Abdul said, quietly. “I would not even have shown you if I hadn’t needed to get through your head.”

I looked up at him, almost overwhelmed by dismay and gratitude in equal measure. Abdul Walid. A rare man and a rarer friend, one who had volunteered to be trapped in this nightmare with us for days, locked away from his family and his patients, doing all that he could to try and stave off what seemed to be my inevitable decline into probable insanity or death. And he had never once complained.

“Abdul," I said, quiet and shamefaced. "I fear I have behaved abominably. I have taken you quite for granted."

He laughed. “Aye, too right. And you, Thomas Nightingale, are the stubbonest bastard I've ever met.”

 “Please accept my apologies. For everything.”

“You’re forgiven, of course,” he said, immediately. “But do not do that again, please.”

Though I was still badly shaken, I met his eyes with nothing but sincerity. “Abdul - I swear it. And I will abide by all of your medical strictures.”

“So you’ll stay at the Folly until the situation changes or I say you can leave?”

I sighed and felt as if all the strength drained out of me on the exhale.

“Yes,” I said, tiredly. “I’ll stay.”

"Good," he said, and nodded approvingly to Molly. It hadn’t been easy for her to disagree with me earlier, I knew that, but perhaps she too has a better grasp on reality than I at present. I shivered, rubbing my arm. In the far distance I thought I could hear the howling of wolves.

"You're running a fever," said Abdul. "And your oxygen saturation is still too low. Back into bed with ye, while we wait for more news, and I'll get you some more fluids. Then you're going to let me take a peek at that shoulder. Don't argue with me, I can tell it's hurting you, and you've barely moved your right arm since you woke up."

I had no intention of arguing but neither had I noticed suffering any new injury to my arm. I was therefore surprised to realise that I was indeed again sitting with my right arm stiffly across my torso and my left hand clamped to my shoulder. I forced myself to relax and let my left hand fall away. The joint throbbed unpleasantly and the fingers tingled and burned.

Molly disappeared and then returned after a few minutes with a flask of soup and cups of tea. While I drank under her watchful eye, Abdul made good on his threat and subjected my shoulder, arm and hand to a thorough exam. In the end, even he was forced to conclude that there was nothing to see.

"Though until I can get you in an MRI it's hard to say for sure," he said, sounding rather wistful.

"Another time, perhaps," I said, shaking the pins-and-needle sensation out of my hand and determined that I would ignore any discomfort from this point on. 

While we continued to wait for further news from Belgravia, Abdul described what had happened over the last few hours while I had been unconscious. I recalled talking Peter through the application of blood rituals but then very little from that point on, just snatches of distant memory like fragments of an old dream. Abdul warned me quite fervently against attempting to fight back against the memory attacks again. Apparently the results last time had been less than beneficial. I couldn’t recall more than a flicker of images and sensations for what Walid said were hours of relived memories. A pine coffin. The swell of distant sirens and the ice cold of the Thames. Lorna Hannay’s blood, the scent of chalk dust and furniture wax, and charred human skin. A burn of shame and failure, of horror, and a timeless grief that felt like it would never end.

There was still no word of Peter, and it was now nearly 9pm. Abdul used his mobile phone to check the internet sites of the national newspapers for anything about the bombing, but despite scrolling banners and bold red headlines proclaiming breaking news, they had little that was actually new to report apart from vague rumours, blurry video footage and pictures of the rubble and police barriers blocking Buckingham Palace Road. Abdul did something to our mobile phones so that they would issue an alert if any new information was reported, but for now it seemed like there was nothing further that could be done. It certainly didn’t feel like we were doing enough and I found myself already beginning to chafe against Abdul’s constraints that I would remain here under his watchful eye. Perhaps he too was aware of this, for after it had been deemed I had consumed enough soup and tea, I was permitted briefly to escape the supervision of my jailors for a hot bath and a change of clothes. 

As Abdul had suggested the steam did seem to improve my lungs and lessened the ache in my shoulder. I felt vastly improved now that the hot water had removed the funk of illness and the worst of the mental fog that accumulates from sleeping too long in the day, though a headache still pulsed behind my eyes. I slowly dressed in the clothes Molly had laid out for me; a polo shirt, my oldest suit trousers and a thick cream Aran jumper that I last recalled wearing when I had been in my late 60s and more susceptible to the cold. I was shivering now but not, I thought, from any chill of the air but perhaps a chill of the spirit. Apprehension and dread.

Living through the memories themselves wasn't truthfully all that terrible - I didn't recall ever being aware that anything was wrong while I was in the middle of them, beyond the circumstances of my life at that moment. But the anticipation of the event had grown worse, now manifesting as a cold and sickening dread, a slow coil of apprehension in my stomach, the inevitable horror of knowing another attack was always coming, that this was going to keep happening over and over and I could seemingly do nothing to prevent or slow the effects. The uncomfortable knowledge afterwards that Abdul and Molly had watched me in the midst of my lowest moments, that Peter has been forced to live them beside me, as Merville or Caffrey or Hugh Oswald. That he might never forget the things he'd seen. I wasn't ashamed of the way I had lived my life, but there were many moments I would have wished never to think of again, and certainly not to share against my will with those I respected most.

The next memory overwhelmed me just as the last of the water spiralled out of the bathtub. There was a sudden burst of intense pain behind my eyes and my vision whited out; I smelled cardamom, incense and hot dusty roads, and then there was coal smoke and goat dung and the distinctive clatter of the rack and pinion as the train wound its way up into the mountains. The relief as the hot, dryness of the plains gave way to a cooler atmosphere as the engine climbed into the rolling hills and through the glassless window of the carriage I saw eucalyptus plantations and cinchona trees under low grey cloud. Too soon I would reach Ootacamund and then I would have to speak to the Governor, explain why his beloved daughter’s child had died in the womb, why I had not been able to prevent it. The revenants - the vetāla - were gone, that at least I could report, although I knew that would do nothing to return to life all the infants of the town who had been born cold and still, or restore the minds of those who had been driven to madness by the sight of their loved ones rising from the grave to stalk between the villages, seeking fresh victims to consume. I closed my eyes and she was right there; the child who had followed me along the road from the charnel ground, grave earth clinging to her rotted clothing, the flesh cold and waxy on her face as she opened a mouth filled with worms...

I woke up to find myself lying on the floor of the bathroom in the Folly with Abdul leaning over me, calling my name. 

“Thomas? Thomas. Welcome back.”

“Abdul,” I managed. 

“Aye. Take it slowly, that’s it.”

With his help I sat up, leaning against the side of the bathtub. Abdul handed me a damp flannel and I wiped my face and eyes, breathing hard.

“How long…?” I asked. 

“Relatively fleeting,” he said. “About ten minutes, give or take. Your shortest one for a while. Perhaps that means this is wearing off?”

Perhaps. I certainly knew that the enchantment could not have run out of material for fuel; I feared there were plenty more horrors still left in my ransacked mind. Perhaps I was just growing too tired to sustain them. 

“Any news of Peter?” I asked, but Abdul just shook his head.

It took awhile for me to get my bearings back, but eventually I felt steady enough that Abdul was willing to help me up to my feet and then escort me back down to the library. Molly was there sorting through a set of books and papers. Apparently Peter had been working on preparing the druidic ritual while I had been asleep. I thought there may be progress to be made reviewing his notations. 

Despite having been waiting for it to happen for almost an hour, both Abdul and I jumped when my mobile phone which was lying on the desk started to ring. Molly, who was closest, picked it up and pressed the button to receive the call. She listened for a moment then held out the device to me. I took it and sat back in the desk chair.

Down the line I heard Peter's voice saying: "...put Dr Walid on, Molly, I have to--"

"Peter," I said. "This is Nightingale. Are you hurt?"

"Sir, you're awake!" Peter said. I was very relieved to hear his voice even though it sounded strained and on edge, like an exhausted soldier standing in the midst of an eerily silent battlefield, poised for the next attack. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine. Where are you, are you safe?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Someone's driving me to St Thomas's."

"Tell me what happened," I said, and as Molly craned in I realised the others would want to hear. I glanced at the screen; Peter had once shown me how to make the sound transmit out loud, though I couldn't recall... 

Abdul beckoned for the mobile phone, and when I handed it over he quickly tapped at it. 

"Peter, it's Walid," he said loudly, placing the device down in the blanket between us. "You're on speaker. Now, are you hurt?"

"I'm all right," he said. "I got a shield up in time. The paramedic said I broke my wrist but it doesn't really hurt."

That would be the shock, I thought. It would explain the way his voice sounded. 

"The demon trap," I said. "I felt it detonate. Peter, did the Faceless Man attack the station?"

"No," Peter said. "It was Reedman, the fae kid. He just blew himself up, right in front of us. They were bringing him out of the Ice Box and just... I don't know how but I think he somehow found a way to turn himself into a dog battery."

"That's im-- ," I began, and then paused. I had slowly learned, over the past few years, that the word 'impossible' was seldom accurate, and many things that I would previously have believed impossible had been flourishing right under my nose for decades. My own education and the way I had been taught to think about the world seemed positively pedestrian when compared to the leaps in logic and ideas that Peter was able to dream up. No doubt those who were using similarly inventive talents for more awful goals were also beyond my comprehension. 

A living human, killed in a second to power a bomb.  The whole concept - it was hideous. Repulsive. Depraved. But...possible. 

It was possible.

"Thomas?" Abdul prompted.

"I would not have thought such a thing could be done," I admitted, rubbing my temples. "But I am come to realise that we have not yet scratched the surface of the Faceless One's ingenuity, nor of his depravity."

"What's the damage?" Abdul asked. "Sahra said there were casualties."

"Gwen Pendry, from the custody desk, and a couple of uniforms, I don't know their names. They were moving Reedman when he activated the device."

"They were killed?" Abdul asked. I didn't need the clarification. I have seen in close proximity what demon traps can do to living tissue.

 Peter laughed, an awful desolate sort of sound. I remembered how little he had yet seen, the things I had tried to keep him from. "Yes. They were definitely killed. Some other officers were injured when the floor came down I think, and maybe some prisoners too. Seawoll got taken off an ambulance a while ago, they didn’t know how badly he’s hurt. I tried to shield him but..."

"What about Miriam? Sahra?"

"They're fine, they were on a different floor when it happened. They're helping the fire crews and the bomb guys now. It all just happened so fast. I couldn't do anything. And Everett, sir ...Everett escaped. I think that's what it was all about, breaking him out. I couldn't stop him either..."

"You kept yourself alive," I said, firmly. "And Alexander too, from the sound of things. For now, that's enough."

"Get to the hospital, Peter," Abdul agreed. "Don't worry about any of the rest of it for now."

"Yeah," said Peter, still sounding a bit lost. "Yeah, okay."

"Do you need me to come down there?" Abdul asked.

"No, you better stay with Nightingale. I'm okay here. Bev's going to come pick me up later. I guess I'll see you all in a few hours once I've been swabbed and statemented."

"Peter," I said, before he could hang up. "I'm...very glad to have heard your voice."

"You too, sir," he said, sounding as fervent as I felt. "You too."

Research notes: Nightingale in India 

In 1925, Nightingale arrived in Madras as an attache of the Foreign Office. His primary duty was to maintain the King's Peace with regards to the Uncanny; a broad remit that covered everything from forging new agreements with local Demi-monde leaders and attending diplomatic functions for the Viceroy of India, to dispelling pernicious ghosts, cryptids and other supernatural entities deep in the wilds of jungle and mountain. Nightingale himself was captivated by the majesty of India, in particular he found the variety of fauna and flora an object of fascination. The commission itself, however, was no sightseeing tour and was not to be without its dangers. 

One of the most troubling cases came in the spring of 1927 when an uncharacteristically early monsoon caused inundations and floods across south-east India. Those who could fled to hill stations and higher ground, and the Governor of Madras, Viscount George Goschen, was among them, moving himself, his family and full entourage to their summer palace in the Nilgiri Mountains for the season. Fortunately the rains passed as quickly as they had come, and the damage and death toll was not as high as feared. But as the summer progressed and the floodwaters receded, they left in their wake something altogether more terrifying. Reports began to reach the Governor of a strange new kind of sickness in the area. Villagers from several families had fallen into a sudden and unrelenting madness, and there was worse still to come; over the next two weeks, three children of the town who had previously been healthy and strong were found dead, cold in their beds come morning. This was no ordinary disease and required a remedy that went beyond the rational. 

Nightingale set off from Madras as soon as he was apprised of the situation, but by the time he was passing through the city of Erode he had already received news that the sickness had spread to many more villages in the Nilgiri area. By best estimates there were perhaps a dozen afflicted with madness and seven children now dead. Whatever had the power to commit such harm must be stopped. 

It took three days of travel to reach the hill station of Coonoor, where the first cases had been reported. Nightingale heard how each of those struck by the insanity spoke of the same strange visions, of the dead returning and of unquiet graveyards. Though Nightingale had never before encountered anything of its like, the confirmation of its validity quickly became apparent. As he walked through a poor charnel ground outside the city, he encountered his first direct evidence - a grave torn open and, not twenty feet away, the body of a dead man, clothed all in funereal white. They said the man had died four days prior of an old illness, but no sign of decay was on the remains which lay, cold and quite dead, sprawled across the grass like a fallen puppet. The vestigia was strange: a mix of rot, rancid water, cow dung, apples and wet ink. And the strangest thing of all - the victim’s hands and feet were twisted backwards.

They had never been sighted in the West, and so little scholarly research had ever been undertaken on them in English, Latin or Greek. Vetāla, they were called, from the Sanskrit; hostile revenants that haunted cemeteries and charnel grounds where the dead had been buried, not cremated as Nightingale knew was more often the custom of the Hindus. Research indicated that the revenants had no form of their own and took possession of corpses to move around, halting their decay while so animated, though the unnatural presence of the ghoul contorted the corpse’s peripheral limbs into grotesque forms. At night, the vetāla left the body in order to feed, draining the life from children and the unborn. 

One such creature would be challenging enough, but this was nothing short of an infestation, and matters only grew worse. Two days later, the daughter of the Governor lost her own unborn child, but it took another week, five more infant deaths, ten more cemeteries and three too-close encounters with roaming vetāla before Nightingale learned how to banish the evil once and for all. It required luring the vetāla down from the hills and then trapping it within the body it inhabited until a remarkably unperturbed Hindu priest ready and waiting nearby could complete the appropriate funeral rites over the disturbed corpse. Once the body had been completely cremated and the ashes scattered into the river, the vetāla too would be destroyed, released from the twilight place between life and the beyond, no more to trouble this world.

It took another eight exhausting days before Nightingale could be sure that the last of the revenants were destroyed. There had been eleven of them all told, clustered around the district in a concentration far higher than any Nightingale could find mentioned in recorded history. But as he had bound the last vetāla with magic, ready to incinerate the corpse it dwelt in to dust, the revenant had done something none of the ten others before it had done. 

It had spoken. 

The corpse’s voice had sounded like it was dragged up from the depths of the grave; a scrape of earth on stone little more than a whisper. Nightingale had not paused to listen, however; he had done his duty and burned the spirit and its tormented victim to ash without hesitation. But afterwards he had asked the boy acting as his translator if the Hindu priest knew why this particular spirit had spoken.

“He says they know of many things, Sahib,” the boy had answered. “He says the vetāla do not suffer the bonds of time about them. They can speak many truths if they chose to or are made to - what has been and what is to come. He says this spirit’s words were for you. Only you can know what they mean.” 

“I do not wish to hear them,” Nightingale had said.

“He says that I should tell you anyway,” the boy said, and spoke;

‘The Withering is coming. You are the poison and you will be its cure. You are cursed, Saarikaa, cursed with life. Death will always be at your shoulder, beyond war, beyond madness, but he will ever reject you. When at last he takes your hand, a great many things will end. Accept what is Granted or be consumed by your curse. ’

Nightingale had parted from the priest and the boy at the train station at Mettupalayam, and he pondered what he had heard as the mountain railway wound its way up towards Ootacamund. Not the disquieting strangeness of the vetāla’s cryptic words - those he would endeavour to forget for many years - but instead what the priest had told him; that the spirits had access to knowledge of the past and future. They could prophesize should they so choose...or if they were made to. 

The answer lay at Aranmore Palace in Ootacamund in the end, where a junior secretary to the Governor, recently arrived from Massachusetts, had even more recently disappeared. A little further digging and a few telegrams on Nightingale’s part exposed that the man who went by the name of Sampson Holloway was a former member of the Virtuous Men, and one who had in fact been expelled from their ranks not two years prior for ungentlemanly behaviour. It was clear from the writings he had left behind in his flight that Holloway had deliberately desecrated charnel grounds in the area to attract the vetāla. He had been attempting to capture the revenants and, presumably, gain their prophetic powers for his own ends, with no thought as to the consequences of his actions or the deaths that would follow. A wizard of the blackest hue indeed, but despite a lengthy search, Nightingale could not trace him, and as far as he knew Holloway was never seen nor heard from again.

Nightingale remained in India for another four years. In that time he returned occasionally to England, visiting the Folly and sometimes family (it is known, for instance,  that he attended his brother Freddie's wedding in the spring of 1928, and later stayed with his sister’s family during her daughter Rachel's tenth birthday). In 1929 he was in Kashmir, mediating between two warring river spirits when word reached him that he was summoned back to London. He arrived back to find former schoolmate Archie Boatright dead by his own hand after a disastrous exorcism attempt, and made the uncharacteristically impulsive decision to resign his position at the Foreign Office and transfer his affiliation instead to the Metropolitan Police. 

That, however, was not to be the end of his travels on the Indian Subcontinent. Nine years later, British officials received word that a German expeditionary team had arrived in Calcutta and were attempting to make their way into Tibet. While the expedition claimed to be purely scientific - examining the geology and botany of the region - the British government feared a more sinister intention, perhaps to establish a staging post for attacks on British forces in India in the increasingly  likely event of war. Members of the Folly, such as Nightingale and David Mellenby who had been following the disquieting direction of German magic during the 1930s, had a different concern. Himmler himself had given his support to the explorers, and his obsession with Asian mysticism, the supernatural, and the occult was well known. The inclusion of SS magician and archaeologist Hans Sturmhofer amongst the expedition only added credence to the fear that he and his team had learned the location of a powerful artefact, or perhaps a long lost magical text, which might give the Nazis an unacceptable advantage in the forthcoming war. Nightingale left immediately for Sikkim, following on the heels of Sturmhofer and his party as they headed north up the Teesta River valley and into Tibet. Nightingale tailed the expedition closely for nearly five months before it was quite clear that the information on which Sturmhofer was operating was false and whatever item or knowledge he sought was long since lost to myth. 

Nightingale returned to India for the last time in August of 1942 on the orders of the War Office. It was a matter of great secrecy, and not even Nightingale knew the reason for the summons until he reached Rishikesh, right on the edge of the Himalayan foothills. The War Office, he was finally informed, had a compelling reason to believe that the Japanese were attempting a land invasion of India from the north. A force of around 300 Japanese soldiers had attempted to sneak through the Himalayas into Uttarakhand, and from there to a striking distance of Delhi. The force itself had been neutralised, but the apparent invasion attempt and the involvement of the Japanese in the war was simply not to be tolerated. The present team of specialists had been assembled to ‘clear the matter up’.  

Quite how the invading force had been eliminated was not clear, and neither was Nightingale’s role in what on the surface seemed to be a purely military affair. However, he did his duty, and accompanied the small expedition - eight other men, four local guides and a couple of pack animals - when they set out from Gwaldum the next day. It was an arduous five-day journey into the mountains, following north-east along the ancient pilgrim trail to Nanda Devi where the weather was punishing and the footing treacherous. The place, when they found it, had a foreboding, desolate air; a shadowed well of black water, hemmed in on all sides by slopes of scree and jagged grey cliffs that hid the towering snowy majesty of Nanda Devi itself just beyond. 

The bodies were not hard to find. They were scattered in and around the lake on all sides; skin frozen white, bulky packs and tan uniforms solid with ice. The scene was strangely peaceful and one might even be forgiven, at least at first glance, for thinking that the soldiers slept, or had quietly succumbed to exposure in the harsh cold of the mountains. Too cold for decay to set in; every face still bore its final death mask, frozen in place. The loss of life before them was pitiful to see, whether an enemy or not. But while it was quickly apparent that the fears of the British Intelligence had not been misplaced, there was something more powerful at work here than mountain weather. As they walked closer, the men soon began to realise that none here had drifted off into an icy unwaking sleep, but that each and every man at that cold lake had died a sudden and violent death. The black splashed onto the rocks was blood, the skulls before them were shattered and bones were smashed, jaws cracked open and arms fractured, as if the men had been battered to death by many heavy blows. And when the expedition had started to pile up the bodies to count them, they found something else. Beneath the recent dead were more; thousands of white bones, shriveled blackened skin, rags and tatters of cloth, and while the preservation was astonishing, there was no mistaking that those bones were old. Very old. Hundreds had died here, again and again over centuries in this desolate place, and every one of them had its skull shattered.

There was an ancient folk song that Nightingale had heard the village women singing, years ago. A young princess, soon to be forced into an unwelcome marriage, had fled into the Himalayas and as a last escape had given herself up to the stones of the holy mountain Nanda Devi. At some later time, outsiders had crossed by her mountain and defiled her shrine and so she had destroyed them, bringing down a sudden and terrible ice storm with hailstones as hard as iron and the size of a man’s fist. While the song spoke of a time centuries ago, it would seem that the genius loci of the mountain dwelt there still, as powerful and capricious a goddess as Nightingale had ever encountered, and it seemed her rage at trespassers had grown no less. When he had reluctantly shared his conclusions with the leader of the expedition, one Colonel Earl Stinton who had an uncle at the Folly, the latter had ordered Nightingale to locate the spirit of the mountain immediately and bind her into an Agreement as he thought proper - to serve the King, to be subjugated beneath the Empire, and use whatever occult powers she possessed to defeat His enemies. Nightingale had listened patiently, and then, as the storm clouds gathered around them, cutting off their path down the mountain with a blistering cold, he had climbed up alone  to the shrine of the Genius Loci of Nanda Devi to humbly bargain for all their lives. The arrangement that he proposed was a simple one. If she would accept Nightingale’s apology for the unintentional transgression and take his offering, a plain gold wedding ring that had been his mothers, the expedition would leave the mountain immediately and Nightingale would do all in his power to ensure that no-one of disrespectful intent trespassed here again, and that the pilgrim paths would be maintained to let the worshipful lay offerings at her feet.

Thirty minutes later the blinding snow lessened and fell away and the clouds opened up. Nightingale returned to the lakeside and led the expedition back down the mountain as quickly as they could. Upon their return to Rishikesh, Nightingale reassured Colonel Stinton and the British Government that he could be supremely confident that the Nanda Devi pilgrim trail was appropriately defended and possibly the one place on the entire subcontinent that they need have absolutely no concern for. 

Nightingale himself took the lesson to heart. Follow the orders of those who don’t understand the Uncanny with a healthy degree of skepticism and creative interpretation, don’t trespass upon the realm of a Genius Loci unless you are very confident of your authority to be there, and make sure you are never, ever caught without an offering. 

Chapter Text

"The Dummy's Guide to Not Getting Magically Murdered" (Grant, P., Folly Press, forthcoming) has the following to say on the subject of demon traps.

Demon trap : a nickname given to an Improved Demonic Device (IDD). A form of magical landmine often used as a boobytrap. They were invented by a squad of bloodthirsty raveging psychopaths, aka the Vikings, and perfected a millenium later by another, this time the Nazis. Demon traps are a method of killing the maximum quantity of people with the minimum amount of danger to the caster, who can be kicking back fifty miles away when the bastard thing goes off. 

The ‘demon’ part refers to the soul of a person/ creature tortured to death. In the absence of an unlimited supply of people and in the event that you also happen to be a sick bastard, dogs can be substituted. The life essence acts as magic fuel/ the bomb accelerant. The soul is trapped at the point of death by a second level enchantment that binds it to the trap (Note - how the hell does this work? ask N).

A demon trap looks pretty much exactly the same size and shape as the vibranium shield Iron Man’s dad gives Captain America before it undergoes its patriotic paint job. Rings incised in the surface form part of the enchantment which traps the demon inside. Two rings side by side on the surface = two demons. Nightingale calls this a ‘double boss’. One to cause the initial explosion, one to kill first responders and cops. Sometimes decorated with sarcastic bullshit. 

Handling guide : 

Step 1: Don’t. 

Step 2: If Step 1 is unavoidable, identify edges of the trap using a green stick/sapling or other inert material. 

Step 3: Get Nightingale to do his thing. When disarmed, the explosive force of the bomb can be channeled into absorbent material, i.e. concrete building. Still can be felt up to 6km away. Surface rings observed to turn to sand - why?  

Effects of detonation without dispersal are so far unknown.

Well. That last part was going to need an update. 

I have the PDF of the Dummy’s Guide saved on my phone, but as the microprocessor in my latest model was just so much silicon dust right now, that foresight didn’t help much. Still, as I really didn’t know that much about demon traps it wasn’t hard to remember more or less word for word what I’d written in the guidance, and nowhere had I heard before of spells that could instantly kill and transform the now dead person's soul into an explosive demon in one moment. 

But despite that, as I was poked and scanned and swabbed and x-rayed, all I could do was wonder if there had been any way I could have prevented this. Obviously letting Reedman out of the insulated cell was absolutely my fault, but I had been so sure he wasn’t a practitioner. Should I have been able to tell? Could Nightingale? And, magic aside, the whole time me and Jonah Reedman had been talking, he had been sitting there knowing he was about to blow himself up. He must have said something, given some clue that I should have picked up on. And I still didn’t know how he had he triggered the fucking thing. 

Bev had arrived at the hospital about ten pm and casually glamoured her way past the security and hospital staff to hang out at my bedside, which was great because no matter what I said she wouldn’t let me sit and brood. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she kept saying, firmly. “The only one responsible is the guy that set off that bomb. And maybe whoever it was that made him do it.”

I eventually agreed, but still couldn’t help adding, “I’m still always going to wonder if I should have spotted it somehow. If I could have done more.”

“Well, you couldn’t,” she said, matter-of-factly. “If you could have spotted it then you would have, right? Even if you had somehow known what he was going to do and, I don't know, tackled him to the floor or something, you'd just be dead now too. And that'd be a shame, cause I've just got you trained up the way I like. You can't fix everything, Peter." She sat beside me and held my filthy, blood-soaked hand and I thought about how I loved her so much. I didn’t cry, but it was a closer thing than I'd like to admit.

Eventually Bev had to let go when they wheeled me off for an X-ray. I honestly hadn't even noticed that I'd broken my wrist in the blast until the paramedic on the scene had pointed it out - having a psychotic magical maniac about to blow your head off can give you one hell of an adrenaline boost. I also had a dozen scrapes and cuts from flying debris and an impressive array of bruises from being thrown backwards at 40mph. And I was the lucky one, because I'd hit Seawoll before I'd hit the concrete. The DCI had taken most of the impact of both me and the wall and even now was being examined for possible neck and spine injuries. If he and I were very lucky, it would just be whiplash. If we weren't, it could mean the end of his career, and probably mine too. But at least we were both alive. Until he killed me himself, that is.

After about two hours, once I’d had my arm set and a dozen stitches in various places, the constable who had been sent to statement me about the bombing arrived. Thankfully it was Guleed, which meant at least I didn't have to try and come up with a fictional account of events that would somehow circumnavigate the words magic, spells or demon without the end result sounding like I was delusional, complicit, or lying out of my arse. She told me that Everett was still in the wind, and the bomb squad were completely at a loss to explain the nature of the IED. Neither of those pieces of news was a surprise in the slightest. I gave her a recounting of events that was the truth as far as I knew it - Reedman had somehow detonated a magical landmine in the middle of Belgravia, and no, I didn't know how, and that Everett was extremely dangerous and should not be approached without Falcon assistance - and let her and Stephanopoulos figure out a way to explain it all to the Deputy Assistant Commissioner and the CTC. 

Finally Guleed was done, and all that was left was for me to sacrifice all my bloody clothing and yet another pair of Doc Martens on the altar of forensic science, and I was finally allowed to go wash Jonah Reedman’s blood off me. Because reports of the bombing had already hit twitter streams and news feeds, the ward doctor had clocked me as job immediately and let me use the shower in the surgeon’s changing room. Even more welcome, Bev had also brought a bunch of spare clothes I’d left at her place so I could go home in my own clothes and not scrubs or a borrowed noddy suit. 

In the end it was nearly 2am when I finally escaped from A&E, with a bad headache, a big box of prescription painkillers and a brand new blue fiberglass wrist cast. Bev offered to take me back to her place. I was seriously tempted and probably would have if it wasn't for the knowledge that it would be leaving Walid and Molly to deal with Nightingale alone. Besides, come tomorrow morning I was going to have a shitload of work to do. 

So we headed back to Russell Square in Bev's newest mini, now electric blue. Despite St Thomas's only being about 15 minutes drive from the Folly in nighttime traffic, I managed to fall so heavily asleep that by the time Bev was shaking me awake in our parking spot next to the jag in the courtyard,  it took me a while to figure out where we were. 

The Folly looked shuttered up and dark. It occurred to me rather too late that without Nightingale to lower the wards, Bev wouldn't be able to come inside the building proper. My brief debate about whether to try ringing my governor to get him to come operate the airlock was quickly quashed when Bev reminded me that a) my phone was fucked, and b) just how unimpressed Dr Walid would be if I were to wake Nightingale up at this time of night, particularly to do magic. We decided discretion was definitely the better part of valour when dealing with a pissed-off Scotsman, and instead crashed out in the coachhouse loft on the futon I'd recently had installed for late nights at the AWARE terminal and maybe the occasional sneaky sleepover with Bev.

This wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind, but I was in no mood to complain by the time we had wrestled the thing into submission, pulled out the covers from a blanket box and collapsed under the duvet. I slept like the dead, and if I dreamed I didn't remember it at all. 

I woke up some unknown number of hours later to find daylight shining through the roof windows. Bev, who was already awake, was finishing up a can of pretzels pinched from my stash of gaming snacks and watching BBC News 24 with the sound low. 

With the failure of anyone famous to eat a bacon sandwich in a weird way overnight, the Belgravia police bombing was still the top news story. The rolling footage at the moment was from an unbelievably luckily Swedish art student who had been filming a squirrel drinking old beer dripping out of a bin in Ebury Square Gardens. He'd missed the actual explosion itself, but the phone had swung around in time to catch the last of the breezeblocks and bricks that formed the near wall of the station being blasted outwards, and rubble smashing into cars and vans parked along the road. Smoke and dust poured out of the hole in the rear wall as the camera shook and the art student shouted something I assumed was in Swedish. The phone's speakers picked up the sound of clashing alarms, from a dozen cars and from the building, and some distant shouting and crashes, and then suddenly a shadow appeared, stepping over the rubble of the wall. The figure stumbled out onto the pavement and I saw it was Everett. The idiot student who had clearly been watching too many movies yelled "Hey!" and ran forwards, maybe intending to actually tackle Everett to the ground. Thankfully we were saved from having to explain to the general public how someone had gotten their head inexplicably blown off on the national news because the Swede tripped over a bench and Everett disappeared up the street and out of sight without a glance back. 

The suspect seen fleeing the scene, the news reporter announced, had been unofficially identified as Ethan Everett, a 21-year-old student. He was thought to be associated with the Belgravia suicide bomber, whose identity had not been released. Everett was still at large and was known to be armed and dangerous. Members of the public should not approach him but instead report all sightings to the dedicated tipline. Meanwhile the relatives of the police officers who lost their lives in the attack had been informed and were being supported by specially trained Family Liaison personnel. 

"Hey," said Bev when she saw I was awake and snuggled back up against me. I put my arm around her and buried my face in her hair; she smelled like cocoa butter, cherry cola and willow bark. She didn’t ask me if I was okay.

"Hey yourself," I said into the back of her neck, and then with some trepidation asked. "They said anything about casualties?"

"Nothing new," Bev said. "Four dead, including three police. Seventeen injured. They haven't given any names."

I nodded into her hair. That was what I had been expecting, but at least there hadn't been any further deaths or new attacks. A second device at Belgravia had been my chief concern yesterday after Everett had escaped. I had tried to search the cells and the corridor as thoroughly as could in case Reedman had planted another trap, but as I'd been barely able to walk and everything was covered in human-organ soup it wasn't surprising that I hadn't been able to find anything.

"You were well out of it last night," Bev told me. "I had to stop you dragging your boss out of his bed just to open the wards."

"Hmmm," I said, without moving. "I was tired. I got blown up, you know. It'll do that to you."

"And your back-up phone's been going off nonstop. I think it's your mum."

I groaned. "Can we just hide up here forever?"

"Nah," she said. "Too far from the river. And anyway, you owe me breakfast. I'm starving.”

“What happened to all the snacks in here?” I asked. 

“You seem to have run out."

"Oh yeah? How did that happen?"

"Magic?" suggested Bev with a look of wide-eyed innocence. I kissed the smile off her face; she tasted like chocolate and seasalt.

"Guess we'd better go face the music," I said, once we had enjoyed a lengthy snog. It was a shame, I would have happily suffered death by starvation if it meant I got to stay up here in the loft and make out with Beverley Brook forever. But Nightingale needed me and it was probably time to stop hiding, so we headed over to the back door of the kitchen and Bev waited on the porch while I went in to see who was around. The kitchen itself was empty - no Molly and no Toby. I checked my watch in case it was still hideously early. It was, in fact, a quite respectable 8.22am and looking around I could see the signs of Molly’s usual morning culinary efforts - pans soaking in the big ceramic sink and the smell of freshly-made bread. 

I wandered up into the hall, calling out “Hello?”

In the distance I heard voices in the direction of the library, then Dr Walid came hurrying out into the hall. 

“Peter!” he exclaimed, and before I could object, dragged me in a firm hug. Now, I‘m not much of a hugger and generally neither is Walid - I’ve noticed that medical professionals on the whole aren’t, particularly those that have to spend much time around dead bodies. But I had nearly died last night so for once I just rolled with it. Turns out Walid gives really good hugs.

“You’re still in one piece then, thank God,” said Walid as he slowly released me. He didn’t let me escape far though, as his hands quickly clamped around my upper arms and subjected me to a quick but thorough visual examination. I’ve seen him use the same trick to keep Nightingale still on more than one occasion.

“When you didn’t come home last night I thought they must have admitted you to the wards for some reason. I was going to give you ‘till nine to show up before I went on the hunt.”

“I’m fine,” I reassured him. “They let me go last night but we stayed in the coach house so's not to disturb anyone. Honestly,” I said as he inspected the glued cut by my hairline with a frown. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Oh, you’ll live, no doubt,” said Walid, not sounding in the least impressed. He examined my plaster cast with a tut. “But you two really need to stop getting yourselves into these situations.”

“I can guarantee I didn’t do it on purpose,” I said. “Is Nightingale okay?”

Walid finally released me, and stepped back with a sigh. That just meant I could see in more detail how drained and tired he looked. 

“He’s holding his own, for now,” Walid said. “There’s been no more seizures at least, though the pneumonia is enjoying a bit of a relapse. He’s not currently hallucinating, so you should be okay to go in. But Peter - we need to find a way to end this. I don’t know about him but I’m about to reach the end of my sanity. It’s been a long, long night.”

“Ettersberg? I guessed. “The war?”

“Colonial India,” explained Walid. “For the most part, with some post-war thrown in just for decoration. And the latest one was him searching for you when you disappeared in the underground last year.”

I winced, but I hadn’t even realised Nightingale had been having further memory events. I hadn’t felt any of the usual side effects while I was at Belgravia or the hospital; perhaps that proved my theory about the spell having a limited geographical radius. But last night I had only been in the coach house and still didn't sense anything. Maybe I'd just been too tired and in pain to pay attention to anything but myself. That’s survival instincts for you.

As we headed towards the library, Walid said, quietly; "Just be careful around Thomas, okay? He’s not as in control as he thinks he is.”

But before I had any time to unpack that cryptic statement, we were inside the library and there were Molly and Nightingale, surrounded by books. Molly gave me a sharp little flash of her teeth, that after two years I now recognised as a pleasant greeting. It was still terrifying, particularly as she’d tried to eat me once, but at least I now knew the difference. Or I thought I did.

“Peter!” 

Nightingale stood up the moment I entered, as he always does - those Edwardian manners really run bone deep - though I noticed he kept his left hand on the desk for balance as he did so. He looked even more shit than Walid, as off-white as his cable knit jumper with a patch of feverish colour high on his cheekbones and deep shadows beneath his eyes. But the eyes themselves were as bright and sharp as ever. He might be getting the stuffing kicked out of him by this Fairydust, but he was still Nightingale. And at least by now I had seen pretty compelling evidence to suggest that he’s previously survived worse.

“Peter,” he said again, looking me over critically. “You're not too badly hurt?"

"No, sir. I'm alright," I reassured him, surprised by the depth of relief in his voice. "I was lucky Stephanopoulos and her gang turned up when she did though, or I think I’d be just another statistic on the dangers of extremist ideologies right now."

Nightingale didn’t disagree. “Tell me what happened at Belgravia," he instructed. "I need to know about the bomb. Have there been any sightings of Everett?"

“Look,” I said, “Before I explain anything, would you mind doing the wards for Bev? Only she spent the night driving me around, and I did promise her breakfast to make up for it.”

“Yes, of course. Quite right,” agreed Nightingale. “Molly, could you perhaps…?”

There was a swish of skirts and Molly was already on her way out of the door. 

“Molly actually already insisted on waiting breakfast for you,” Walid explained. I was rather taken aback; I’m not always sure Molly likes me that much, and I’m confident she doesn’t like me as much as she likes serving meals strictly on time.

“Let us go and invite Miss Brook in,” Nightingale said. “And then you can fill us in on what happened while we take breakfast. I am certain that you shouldn’t have any trouble talking and eating at the same time, Peter, given that it is a skill I have witnessed that several times before.”

I actually laughed out loud at that, probably in some kind of stress reaction. But it was just... reassuring to hear Nightingale complain about my table manners, like everything wasn’t going to shit, like it was just a normal day. It made everything seem just that bit more manageable. 

We headed out into the kitchen, where Bev was waiting, and the pair of them went through the whole rigamarole of speeches and spells required to open the airlocks. Bev presented Nightingale with her ‘offering’, the last snacks pinched out of my stash, and as usual he accepted her gift with grace and dignity.

“How much of all that obligation and offerings stuff is actually necessary, do you think?” I wondered, after watching Nightingale place the solitary fun-size Mars Bar carefully and ceremoniously on the sideboard. Molly would probably pinch it later. "I mean, what would happen if you didn't do it?"

“I really have no idea,” Nightingale said. “But I also have no inclination to try and find out at the present time.” 

Given that he actually had to sit down for a few moments to recover after performing the spell to close the wards, I could believe it.

As soon as he’d caught his breath, we headed into the breakfast room. It was a testament to how insane the last few days had been that Molly’s usual extravagant breakfast repertoire had been drastically cut down to just one item - scrambled egg on muffins, with the option of smoked ham for the religiously non-observant amongst us. That morning I followed Walid’s example and bypassed the ham. Just the smell of the cooked meat was enough to make me feel shaky and nauseous. At least Molly hadn’t served black pudding. Or tomato soup.

I needed the energy though so I forced down a muffin and a bit of egg. I’m not squeamish but I like to think that being recently coated in chunks of exploded human body would be enough to put anyone off their full English. It had only been just over twelve hours ago that I had seen Sergeant Gwen Pendry, PC Matthew Gordon and PC Vikram Janagan step out into the corridor alongside Jonah Reedman, only to be instantly vaporized into bloody mist. However much I tried to avoid it, the moment was playing over and over in my mind. Ideally I would have liked time to come to terms with that before I had to talk through it all again. A hour or two at least, or maybe a couple of days. A week, even. Some therapy would have been nice, too. But that was never going to happen, not when we had a dangerous cop-killing fugitive on the loose, and the only recordings of the interviews with our primary suspects had gone up in smoke when the station exploded. With Seawoll still out for the count, what I could remember of the interview with Everett might be the only clues we ever got to finding him; I had to try and recall the events as accurately as I could before time and trauma obscured it. So I forged right ahead and reported everything I could remember about the two interviews, the brothers’ histories and the detonation of the bomb. I tried to be as succinct as I could though - a new memory event could take Nightingale off at any moment - but it still took up most of breakfast and we were back in the library before I was done. The others listened to my account largely in silence, though Bev had already heard some of it already.

At last, Nightingale asked; “You are confident then that the Faceless Man is behind these events?”

I hesitated. “He has to be involved. Both Reedman and Everett knew him, though they wouldn’t say anything more. Everett claimed that the anthrax, the Fairydust and the set-up in the factory were all his own idea though, and I believe him.”

“Perhaps the Faceless guy just sent Everett out to come up with his own scheme?” suggested Bev. I'd been considering something similar myself.

"It's possible," said Nightingale, frowning.

“There were no flags to any of our Little Crocodiles in either of their notes. But Faceless definitely trained Everett, even though he wasn't at Oxford,” I said. “I still don’t see the connection though."

“I think I do,” Bev said, suddenly, and pointed back to one of the HOLMES printouts. “Everett's dad was doing medical research, right? Transplant rejection?”

“Ah,” said Walid, suddenly. “I see. The chimeras.”

Bev nodded. “Maybe your faceless guy was recruiting doctors and stuff to help him make the chimeras and taught them magic in payment. Maybe Everett's dad then taught his kid."

"That could mean there is a much larger group of unsanctioned magic users than we were previously aware of," Nightingale said. "If more have been trained to mastery than just the names on the Crocodiles list then we could soon be overrun by illegal magicians." 

As he spoke he was pacing up and down the library with an air of restless exhaustion. Nightingale doesn't pace as a rule; he's usually strictly economical about his movements, always graceful and in control.  But it looked more and more like that control was slipping. He was holding himself strangely too though it seemed absent-minded, with his left hand wrapped tightly around his right upper arm, bracing the shoulder like there was something wrong with it.

"For God's sake, Thomas,” Walid snapped as Nightingale completed another lap of the room. “At least sit down."

Nightingale complied without argument, which was also unusual. Was it my imagination or was he looking a little shifty? Had the pair of them had some kind of row? Either way, there was no time to deal with that - every moment we were running out of time.

"What about the demon trap?" I asked. 

"I don't know," Nightingale said. "I've never come across anything like that before. I find the concept highly troubling. A spell that could kill a person, and then harvest all the energy of their death and channel it into explosive power instantaneously...I have to admit that I do not have any idea how that could be done." 

"And I was sure he wasn't a practitioner," I added. "I was totally certain about it, or I wouldn't have let them take him out of the Ice Box."

"Maybe you just made a mistake?" Bev said. 

God, I hoped not.

"You didn't hear him speak a spell, or feel the formae he used?" asked Nightingale.

"Nothing. He just put his hand up to his chest and exploded."

"Are you sure it was even a magical bomb then?" Abdul asked. "Maybe your suspect was just an ordinary guy, with some sort of ordinary IED hidden about his person somewhere?"

"No. He was searched on arrest by CTC and then again when he arrived at the station. He didn't have anything on him, in him or associated with him. And it was no ordinary bomb - you must have felt it, sir."

Nightingale nodded. Dr Walid said, "So you actually did sense the explosion? I thought you were still hallucinating."

"As well as the physical damage they cause on detonation," Nightingale explained, "demon traps also expel a great deal of magic that can be detected for miles by those with sensitivity to it, like Molly and I.”

“We felt it, too,” said Bev, which surprised me. She hadn’t mentioned that before. “I was with Effra and mum. It felt like sadness and abandonment and it smelled of blood and burning chemicals - you know, like that plasticky smell when people burn car tires. And it stank of wizard magic.”

“I felt the Faceless Man's signare,” Nightingale said. “As well as fear, and something twisted - loyalty and betrayal."

They all looked at me. I swallowed.

"Yeah, pretty much the same.” I said, trying to think back. “And..."

I stopped, remembering vividly and with a disorientating rush the horrible screaming torment of the magic in the bomb; a desperate loneliness, a mangled obsessive kind of love, and then everything else that followed - the stench of burning, the splatter of blood and gore across my face, the sting of fire and debris, of slamming into the wall, of realising this is it, I'm going to die. Of knowing it might be my fuck-up, my failure to realise in time what Reedman was intending to do which just led to four people being vapourised. Suddenly, eating any breakfast at all seemed like a huge mistake because I was pretty sure I was about to hurl onto the carpet. When had it got so cold in here?

"Delayed stress reaction," said Walid from some distance away, and I felt someone pushing on my neck and shoulders, tilting my head down towards my knees. 

It took a long while, hunched over in my chair, before I felt like I could breathe normally again, and the first thing I was aware of were fingers carding through my hair and rubbing comfortingly against my skull. The scent told me the person beside me was Bev.

I sat up carefully, rubbing my face, relieved to see I was no longer the centre of attention. Walid and Nightingale were over on the other side of the room, heads bent low over a book. Molly was standing nearby, holding Toby and staring. 

"Hey," said Bev and gave me a hug. "Feeling better?"

"No," I muttered as I dried my eyes. "Fuck this. Today sucks."

"Yeah," said Bev. "But it's better than yesterday."

I gave a little laugh. "I guess."

She sat with me for a bit as I calmed down and came back to myself. 

"Will you be okay?" Bev asked me after about another ten minutes. "I hate to go but I'm meant to be at lectures in half an hour and they're going through the exam prep…"

"Shit, you better go," I said, pulling myself up. "I don't want to make you late." I’d heard things about the mercurial nature of University lecturers, and I was fairly confident that even the Demi-monde had nothing on the levels of petty vindictiveness that went on behind the begowned and esteemed doors of academia. I made to get up, intending at least to walk Bev to the front door but she gestured over to Nightingale.

"Na, you stay here. You got a load of work to do. Talk to your boss; find a way to end this, okay? I’ll come by again this evening."

"Yes, babe. And…thanks, for everything."

"You owe me a really nice dinner," she said, “and not forgetting my 600 quid for your Fairydust...”  

“I’ll get it from Nightingale,” I said. “Don’t suppose you got a VAT receipt?”

“Funnily enough, no,” she said, and kissed me on the top of the head before heading out. I saw Molly go out with her, their heads pressed close. That was always concerning.

By the time I looked around, Walid had now disappeared somewhere. Nightingale told me he'd had a call from the hospital.

"I'm concerned he is neglecting his other patients on our behalf," Nightingale said, though I was more concerned about Walid neglecting his own health. If Nightingale had been awake all night, so had Walid, and he'd been up the last few days as well. The guy needed a break, just as much as we did. Maybe more.

"Any progress?" I asked instead.

"I've been considering the demon trap," said Nightingale. "I still don't know what formae could have been used, but I have some thoughts on the construction of the bomb. There was a school of Pre-Newtonian magic which came into Europe from Indochina in around the 12th century, called Balavartula or the 'power from the circles'. It used a complex system of interconnecting sigils and patterns to describe the action of the formae, instead of verbal spells as in Newtonian magic. It rather fell out of use in Europe during the Renaissance." 

He held open the huge leatherbound book in his hands to show me a page covered with concentric or connected circles and octagons, surrounded by rings of other sigils and shapes. It looked like a cross between Circular Gallifreyan and one of those really fancy crop-circles you see sometimes when the guys with boards and string are really trying to make the front pages.

Nightingale continued,"Once paired with the shape of the forma in the practitioner's mind, the symbol took on the attributes of the spell which remained active even after the spell was cast. Do you follow?"

I nodded. "So you think Faceless used this Balavartula magic to create the delayed release demon trap?"

"Just so," said Nightingale. "The infused sigils could have been painted, or even tattooed, onto Reedman's skin, but shaped in such a way that they weren't complete without him touching the design. That way one could trigger the bomb without being a practitioner."

"Well, that's horrifying," I said. 

"Quite," said Nightingale, and he closed the book with a sharp snap.

Then I realised just how horrifying.

"Reedman had this done to him, on purpose. He was supposed to blow up. We didn't catch him at Euston, he was left there for us to find."

"They used him as a bomb, just to destroy the cells and let Everett escape," said Nightingale with a cold anger that I hadn’t heard from him in a long time. "They violently ended his life for a momentary tactical advantage, and didn't care who was caught in the crossfire. That is despicable."

I thought of Jonah's hand coming up to touch his chest as he looked up at me, of that strange expression of grief that had flickered over Everett's face when Seawoll had mentioned Reedman was in custody. Everett had to have known. He knew precisely what Reedman being arrested meant, that the Faceless Man had sent Reedman into Belgravia to die, to take his own life to help Everett escape. His own brother. And he hadn’t said a word.

I thought of Jonah's tear-stained face as he repeated that childishly simple manifesto. His palpable terror and his desperate loyalty. His hand pressing down over his chest as he triggered the bomb that would destroy him...

"Peter," said Nightingale, quietly. "You are not to blame."

"I know," I said. 

"You aren't listening," said Nightingale. "You are not to blame. Whether Reedman was glamoured or enchanted into doing what he did, or if he acted entirely of his own free will, you could neither have predicted nor prevented it. Do you understand? Even had you known him closely, for years, there may have been nothing you could have done to recognise the signs or know his intent. We can never truly understand the mechanics of another's heart or mind, nor comprehend what might drive them to desperate acts."

"Yeah," I said. "Not my fault. I get it."

But actually, for the first time, I thought maybe I did and I actually felt a bit better.

Dr Walid had returned from his phone call and had been leaning on the edge of the desk, watching us. "Thomas,” he said, as soon as there was a break in the conversation. “I'm sorry but we dinnae have time to talk about the bomb any more."

"We have to work out how to identify and disarm such weapons," Nightingale said, shortly. "That is our duty, not worrying about our own misfortunes."

"Nightingale's right," I pointed out. "Once the Faceless Man realises how effective his new walking grenades are he'll definitely be using them again. If there's any way to stop that we have to figure it out."

"I don't disagree," Walid said. "It makes me raging to think that some sick bastard is manipulating vulnerable kids into blowing themselves up for his cause. But terrible as it is, it cannae be our priority right now. We do no’ have much time - we have to focus on breaking this memory curse as soon as possible, before we start researching magical bomb-making." 

"The families of those officers that died deserve justice," said Nightingale. "And, if he was coerced or enchanted into acting against his own free will, then so does Jonah Reedman."

"If there is any justice to be had," Walid countered, "then receive it they will, in time. But you won't be around to see that day if this enchantment gives you both a brain aneurysm first. As a medical professional I can't believe I am saying this, but our only option is to attempt this magic blood ritual as fast as possible."

It was a good point. We wouldn't be much use to anyone in our current state, whatever Faceless's plan was, and we really were running out of time. Another memory could arrive at any moment. In fact, it was probably overdue. So we reluctantly turned our attentions back to the counter-curse ritual, trying to figure out all the other details - the 28 spells, the staffs, the altar, and the ‘human’ sacrifice. Nightingale didn't say it, but I got the distinct impression he thought we were wasting our time. Maybe he had been a lot less confident about the likely success of this ritual than he’d first implied, or maybe he'd just got fed up with arguing with Dr Walid.

And that was another thing I wanted to know, and as soon as Nightingale was engrossed in some leathery old tome I pulled Walid aside out of earshot and asked what exactly was going on between him and Nightingale. My boss was definitely acting weird - weirder than normal, that is. For a minute I thought Walid wasn't going to tell me and then he sighed and said;

"He used magic on me earlier." 

"What! Are you okay, what happened?"

"Ach, it amounted to little more than a wee push; he was half out of his mind, Peter. I've had worse off Crieff grannies when I didn't move fast enough in the queue at the Post Office. But I know that's not in character for Thomas. He isn't one to lash out. We need to solve this."

I didn't ask anymore. Walid looked ruffled rather than hurt, but an out-of-control Nightingale was still not something that I felt anyone needed to see. Although, like I’ve been trying to explain to Bev for years, control is absolutely essential to using Newtonian magic successfully, I was not willing to gamble that Nightingale couldn’t do quite a fair bit of damage before he got to that point.

The man himself had been hard at work while we’d been gossiping, and when I went back over he suggested that the base forma for the ritual should actually be sanguis, with purifico forming the first level of the spell cascade. We just about had time for Nightingale to outline all the spells he thought we'd need - interrupt, banish, clean, restore, fortify, and renew - and tell me where a number of old staffs were probably stored down in one of the basements, before the next memory event came crashing on. 

Nightingale had taken himself off as soon as the symptoms first started to appear so I stayed out of the way and carried on working. I still needed to figure out what would make a suitable sacrifice equivalent to a human life. Assuming I could use an electronic substitute again, would it just have to be larger than a calculator like, say, a microwave or a TV? Or was the electrical complexity more important than the size? Did I have to go out and buy a top end MacBook, just to trash it with magic?

As was becoming depressingly familiar, concentrating got increasingly difficult as time wore on and I was forced to enjoy all the second-hand side effects of Nightingale's ongoing breakdown that kept bombarding my brain like radio interference: echoing voices, coiling nausea, the smell of blood, a pounding headache, chills, loneliness, despair and a low gut-curdling dread.

I was just thinking about fleeing down to the firing range to start trying to drive out the sensations by blowing up household items in the name of science when there was a bustle of movement behind me. I turned to see Molly had appeared at the library door, silent and wide eyed. That meant something was up with Nightingale, but she didn't even glance at me, instead looking intently at Walid.

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

I didn’t, but we followed Molly up the east staircase onto the first floor and then down a number of corridors into the laboratories. She went up to a door I'd never been through marked with a brass number 3. Just looking at it, I could feel the vestigia or memory or emotion or whatever it was burning through me like a fever. 

I reached for the door handle, but Walid stopped me, pulling me back. “I think I had better deal with this one, Peter.”

I went for the handle again.  “No offence, Doc, but like hell you will. Not after last time. I’m the only one that has any chance of countering any magic he might throw around. You said yourself that he's not in control right now.”

“Peter,” Walid said again, firmly, and he took hold of my shoulders, turning me until we were eye to eye. “Trust me. I am no' in any danger. I know what memory this is. I know what is inside that room, and believe me, Thomas would no’ want you there right now.  There are things you dinnae need to see.”

I shook my head, and tried to move past Walid again. His obstruction was intensely frustrating, and I could feel my irritation starting to slide into anger, and then into betrayal and despair, and then a grief so overwhelming it was like staring into a black pit.

I snatched my hand back from the door like it had been burned. What the hell?

Walid must have seen from the startled look on my face something of what I was feeling, of that void of grief and loss. He sighed.

“There was a wizard,” he began. “Named David.”

“David Mellenby, right?” I said, breathing hard. “I’ve heard of him.”

“Aye,” said Walid, and he nodded towards the closed door. “This was his lab, and...”

His lab. Oh shit.

“Nightingale told you what happened?” Walid guessed from my reaction.

“No,” I said, feeling sick. “But Hugh Oswald did.”

“Then you know that, this time, let me deal with it. If you go in there, God only knows what part you'd end up playing. I’ll call if we need you.”

I nodded. He went in, closing the door softly behind him, and I didn’t hear anything from inside for two hours.

Slowly, over a long time, the echoing voices, the twisting nausea of emotion and fear and the constant flow of adrenaline faded out, leaving me drained and bloody knackered. Nightingale was feeling all this about 100x more strongly; he must be beyond exhausted.

Molly and I were sitting on the floor outside Laboratory 3 about half an hour after the effects finally faded completely when the door creaked open at last. Walid came out, guiding Nightingale gently by the wrist. Nightingale himself looked almost like he was in shock; he was white as paper, eyes glazed and unseeing, and his face was turned down to the floor. He was unsteady on his feet too, and it took both of us, with an arm over each shoulder, to get him back across the Folly to the spare bedroom we'd been occupying recently. We got him onto the bed on top of the blankets and he just stared at the wall and said nothing. Walid closed the curtains, and we tiptoed out. Molly stationed herself outside the half-open door and seemed disinclined to move, so we left her on guard and went back to the reading room. 

There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask, and yet at the same time I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answers to any of them. Walid was looking shaken too, and he's known Nightingale a lot longer than I have. If it was anyone else I would have offered him a strong drink. As it was we settled for tea.

“I used to get these phonecalls,” Walid said, suddenly, after ten minutes of quiet. “Two or three times a year. Out of the blue the phone would ring only there'd just be silence from the other end.”

“Molly,” I guessed. He nodded. 

“Thomas and I had known each other a couple of years by then. I suppose she must have got hold of my number from somewhere that first time, and afterwards I told her to keep it handy. Usually he'd just tell me to leave again as soon as I arrived, but eventually he figured out I can be as stubborn as he is.”

“How bad was it?” I asked, almost not wanting to know.

“Ach, not so bad,” Walid said. “Not after that first time. No worse than what you've seen, I expect. Molly knew how to handle most of it; it'd just been the two of them for thirty years by that point after all. But there’s always been this...hole in him, a void, and sometimes he'd just get dragged back into it and lose himself. Particularly if he'd just had a wee bit too much to drink.”

I was surprised by that. I'd never been aware that Nightingale was much of a drinker. A beer or two when the rugby was on, wine with dinner if we had closed a case. Sometimes I'd seen him in the reading room in the evenings with a glass of something amber in hand, quiet jazz soothing through the record player. But perhaps I just hadn't been paying enough attention. You can live and work side by side with someone for two years and it’s amazing what you don’t see if you aren’t looking.

“I didn't know,” I said. "About any of it."

“How could you know?” Walid said. “If he's never been willing to talk about it, how could you know? He's a complex man. But do you know how many of those phone calls I've had since you came to be his apprentice? Not one. Whatever it was he was missing -  friendship, balance, purpose...a distraction, even - I think he's found it.”

After dropping that bombshell, Walid went off to find somewhere quiet to pray, so I decided to check on Nightingale again. The bedroom door was half open and Molly nowhere in sight. I approached pretty cautiously in case Nightingale was in the middle of another memory, but I wasn’t sensing anything. Confident as I could be that I wasn't about to get dragged forcibly back in time again, I peered around the door.

Molly and Nightingale were both sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, a respectable foot of distance between them. Nightingale was hunched forwards, arms wrapped around himself looking down at his knees. I thought for a horrible moment that he was crying, but although I couldn't see his face, he was silent and I could see his breaths were regular, slow in and out. Molly's pale hand was resting on the back of his dark head. Molly didn't look up as I peered in but I thought she knew I was there. Whatever was happening this seemed like an intensely private moment and one that definitely had nothing to do with me. 

I tiptoed silently away.

Research notes - David Mellenby - Part 2

Operation Spatchcock took place in January 1944, during one of the coldest winters in a century. Afterwards, David Mellenby remembered little of the battle. He knew that thousands of men had gone in, and that Nightingale was leading a company from the Duke of Bedford’s Brigade, defending the retreat. Mellenby recalled that he himself had eagerly volunteered to join the raiding party of those breaching the bunker. He knew 800 men went into the bunker and fewer than a quarter came back out, carrying between them boxes and cabinets of papers and books, reels of audiotape, files of photographs and diagrams. He knew he had seen things inside and that he had come stumbling up the stairs into the weak cold light holding his revolver with blood on his hands and splattered on his clothes and he didn't know afterwards where it had come from. 

The first clear memory he had afterwards was of sitting on the grass outside an airfield somewhere on the South Downs, surrounded by a dozen crippled and burning gliders, and figures milling in and out of the smoke-hazed air. He saw nurses, practitioners, pilots and shocked, injured soldiers. A sympathetic face in WAAF uniform was pushing a tin mug of sweet tea into his hands and Hugh Oswald was telling him that the archive was safe. 

"But there were casualties, David," he recalled that Hugh had said, crouched at his side. "It's too soon to know how many but they think it's a lot. Maybe… Maybe half."

Mellenby had looked around and said; "Where's Thomas?" 

And Hugh had given him a bleak look and said: "There wasn't enough room. He got you up on the glider and then we left him behind. Don't you remember? We left him behind. He's gone."

They packed the library into sealed crates at the airbase. A convoy of military trucks, escorted by armed soldiers and any wizards still able, delivered the crates to the Folly and then carried them down into the lowest basement. Mellenby locked the door and pocketed the key.

The first month after the battle passed in a blur. The magical community had been all but obliterated and it seemed there were barely any survivors left who were fit to see to the running of the Folly. Mellenby certainly had no talent for leadership in a crisis and he ignored all demands of the outside world and stayed locked in his lab or down in the basement staring at the archive. But for now it was still sealed. He couldn't yet bring himself to open a single file. 

March brought a telegram with news that not one of them, least of all Mellenby, had expected. Against all the odds, Nightingale had survived. He had somehow made it out of Germany on foot and was already back in England. He was, however, badly wounded and was being treated at a Surrey hospital. Visitors were not encouraged. David didn't know how to feel.

Two months later the war ended and David Mellenby barely noticed; after all, he never set foot outside the Folly anymore and within its walls time seemed to have frozen. Some days David couldn’t even bring himself to leave his lab and he gave up using his bedroom entirely. After all, he didn't sleep. A couple of times he wrote to Nightingale though he received no reply until the end of June. Nightingale's letter, when it finally came, was just a few bland lines of greeting and polite enquiry written out in a stranger's handwriting and signed "Thos. N." in a painstaking scrawl. A postscript from Nightingale's doctor suggested that he was now well enough to receive visitors. 

So Mellenby left the Folly and took a train down to Surrey. The hospital was a converted workhouse and even to Mellenby's relatively unattuned senses, the building's sensis illic reeked of desperation and tragedy beneath a cold, institutionalised indifference that it was hard to tune out. It had been only six months since David had last seen Nightingale but even then the man that he found in that sickroom was barely recognisable. Gone was the pillar of unbending strength, the Ajax of Ettersberg. Gone was the man who had stood alone on the battlefield between his men and the tanks of the enemy, as the calm centre amidst a furious storm. All that remained was this pale, gaunt thing, who startled wildly at every unexpected noise and was barely able to speak a full sentence. Mellenby stayed for just forty minutes before he could bear it no longer. He fled back to London and he didn't visit again.

Something about the sight of Nightingale though, of the physical manifestation of the ruin he had wrought, finally prompted Mellenby to action. As soon as he arrived back at the Folly, David went straight down to the basement, unlocked the door, and opened up the first crate. He began to read. 

Nightingale was released from the hospital in December and it was only when Hugh dragged David out of his lab long enough to greet him on his return that Mellenby slowly realised how little there was left here at the Folly for Nightingale to come back to. Just ten wizards remained, and most of the servants had been let go, leaving just the housekeeper, the cook and a couple of maids, including that strange fae girl that Nightingale was so fond of. She was waiting in the atrium when Nightingale arrived home and blinked at him in a silent greeting. He took her hand. It wasn't entirely proper, but David had never given a toss about that sort of thing anyway, and who else was left to care?

Nightingale himself seemed better. Not quite like he was before the war, but then none of them were. He slept badly, drank too often, and smiled not at all. But he was calmer, more poised, and there was a cold glint of steel in his eyes that hadn't been there before. By the end of the first week he had seamlessly and quietly become de facto Master of the Folly and no-one even considered questioning it.

It took all of that winter to catalogue the research archive. Mellenby read every page himself, watched every reel of film alone and he wouldn't let anyone else assist. Certainly not Nightingale, and not even Hugh Oswald who had been there inside the bunker at Ettersberg and had seen some of the worst of it. This was David’s cross to bear. The boulder of his Sisyphus. 

And he did read every word. Despite everything he had pictured, every nightmare his mind had conjured, the reality trapped in those pages was still worse. The atrocities listed page by page, notebook by notebook, neat little columns of awful figures. He read every one and he knew, truly and intimately knew the horror he had helped to create.

But at last the catalogue was done. The others called it the Black Library, and they locked it in the basement and Nightingale had half a dozen wizards, everyone that was left, collaborate on the protective wards to seal it in.

And the work was done. It was February and the archive was catalogued. Nightingale was upstairs making sure the world continued to turn, but Mellenby's work was done. He had read every word of the Black Library and now, somehow, it was February again. He realised, almost absently, that the anniversary of Ettersberg had passed by without him noticing. But his work was done. 

He was done. 

That realisation, when it came, was a relief.

It seemed quite a simple thing in the end. The lab was already locked, so David just tidied his papers away, took his revolver from the top drawer of his desk and, without another thought, shot himself in the head. 

It never occurred to him to leave a note.