Work Text:
It wasn’t Grifter’s Bone, Gerard decided as soon as he saw the band setting up in the dingy old pub. There were some similarities, as he’d been told: a few vaguely military costumes, folk instruments, makeup that made them look slightly inhuman. That was all it was, though; costumes and makeup. They had the slightly powdery, gritty look of real humans rather than the hints of monsters hiding in human skin. Not that there was much of a difference, sometimes.
Gerard could have left right then. He had other leads to follow up on, and it wasn’t like this was his kind of music. There were too many goggles and not enough studded leather. But he decided he could use a break, so he bought some chips and took a seat.
He watched as the person he assumed to be the lead singer gently helped everyone else in the band get ready. The singer was a thin, lanky man with warm brown skin and scraggly black hair that reached his shoulders. His face was covered in black lines that branched from his eyes. He stood straight as a nail, like he might bolt at any second, but he checked on the rest of his band. The others helped each other, yes, but he was the one who checked on everyone. He nodded to instruments and helped adjust straps. Once or twice he even fixed people’s makeup. It was kind. Human. That was something Gerard didn’t see every day. He was so embroiled in hunting down monsters and evil books sometimes that he forgot what was really important: quiet moments, like the singer helping the bassist adjust their hat.
Gerard was almost disappointed when other fans started making their way in. The singer’s demeanor changed from quiet, stolid support to that of the front man trading quips with hecklers. His voice was rich and sonorous even when teasing the audience. Apparently the band was pretending to be space pirates. Immortal space pirates, which was probably what had provoked the bad tip that led Gerard here. The singer snarked and boasted about imaginary deeds and the audience, including Gerard, laughed with him. Now that he had seen a little bit of the man behind the curtain, though, it felt more obviously like a mask the singer was putting on.
Then the music started in earnest, and Gerard was entranced.
The singer’s voice transformed into a roiling, savage sound that would have made any true avatar of the Slaughter jealous. Gerard briefly wondered if he’d been wrong, if maybe this bright-eyed man singing of war and love with equal ferocity might not be entirely human. But no, it wasn’t perfect. There were enough moments of rapidly gasped breath in the middle of a song and slightly off-tune instruments to reassure him that this was just a regular band. A very good regular band.
Eventually the music came to a crescendo and then a close. Gerard made his way out of the building while the band was still talking. He had enjoyed himself, but he didn’t expect to see the band again. With a life like his, he rarely ran into anyone more than once or twice.
Rather than completely leaving, he stood in an alley next to the pub and took a smoke break. He watched the people as they left, happy and occasionally more than a little drunk. They were just ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, unaware of the monsters lurking out in the dark. A few people looked his way, but no one really looked , and he was happy about that. It was a good night, after all.
The side door to Gerard’s right squealed as someone stepped out. Gerard was surprised to note it was the lead singer. He’d taken off the goggles, and was digging through his vest pockets for something. He came up with a pack of cigarettes, but kept fumbling. He belatedly noticed Gerard standing there, staring.
“Sorry, do you have a lighter I could borrow?” he asked. “Mine seems to be missing.” His voice was a bit rough, and his accent now was much more precise than it had been when he was on stage.
“Sure, here.” Gerard handed him a cheap plastic lighter he kept on hand. Gerard took the opportunity to look him over more closely. The dark bags under the singer’s eyes weren’t entirely makeup, it seemed. He was tired and sweaty from the performance. His eyes were a brown so dark they looked black in the dim light. More curious, though, were the fine silver lines that Gerard spotted at his temple. The singer wasn’t an agent of the Slaughter, but he was marked by the Web. It was an old Marking, mostly faded, not enough to make him a danger. Gerard was silently relieved.
The singer handed the lighter back, and Gerard looked away. “Awful habit for a singer,” Gerard found himself saying. “Ruin your lungs like that.”
The singer huffed. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, voice acerbic. “I’ll take it into consideration.”
“Sorry, I’m…” What was he doing? “I’m bad at small talk,” he admitted.
The singer was quiet for a moment, taking in a long drag of smoke. “I’m not very good at it either,” he said. “You’re a fan, then?”
Gerard shrugged. “I just happened to be here. It was a good show. Great, honestly. I’ve seen a lot of small bands in pubs, but that was something else.”
“Thank you,” the singer said. “We work hard.”
“You must get a lot of gigs around here,” Gerard said.
“We do alright.” The singer took another drag. “I take it you aren’t local? I don’t mean-” He stopped with a little grimace, his nose furrowed. It was almost cute, honestly.
Gerard almost froze at the thought. Oh, this was bad. Was he trying to flirt with the singer of some college band?
“I, er, no,” he stammered. “I was up here for work.”
“What sort of work?” the singer asked, eyeing Gerard’s outfit.
“Rare books,” he admitted. That seemed to get the singer’s attention. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I end up around here every few months.”
“Really? How did you get into that?” the singer asked.
“Family,” Gerard said with a shrug that he hoped meant he didn’t want to elaborate. The singer looked like he was going to say something else, but the door behind him opened and a woman wearing a vaguely martial outfit and a fake mustache popped out.
“Thought you got lost, Jon!” she said. “Come on, we still have to pack up.”
The singer dropped his cigarette and stomped it out. “Thank you, Jessica,” he said. “It was nice to meet you… I never got your name.”
“Gerard,” he said.
“Gerard,” Jon echoed, smiling ever so slightly. “Perhaps you’ll catch another show some day?”
“You never know,” Gerard said as Jon walked away.
Gerard was as surprised as anyone to find himself near Oxford again only a week later. One of his contacts in the book dealing world had mentioned a Leitner, so he had to check it out. The store was one of those small, cramped places that seemed like it must have been here for a century of moldy pages and rickety shelves. The ceiling looked like it might fall in on him if he moves any of the books. The shop owner, a Mr. Nagarkar, was a tiny South Asian man with a hearing aid that barely worked. Gerard’s conversation with him was mostly shouting and requests to repeat what he’d just shouted. He was almost ready to start hunting through the stacks himself when the bell on the door chimed.
“Jonathan, there you are!” Mr. Nagarkar shouted. “Could you help this man?”
Gerard turned around, and froze when he recognized the person behind him. His hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, and he was wearing a very precise buttoned shirt and vest rather than the space pirate costume. He even had a pair of wire-framed glasses. It was hard to imagine that this was the person he’d seen belting out lyrics about spaceships and interstellar war. It absolutely was, though. It was hard to mistake those dark eyes.
“Let me put down my things!” Jon shouted. He wasn’t even looking their way; he just went to a corner of the small shop and put down his bookbag. When he did turn around, he almost missed a step. Dark eyes scanned over Gerard like Jon couldn’t understand that he was here and real.
“Er, sorry, what do you need?” Jon asked.
“I’m looking for a copy of The Language of Space by John Weilgart,” Gerard said. “A second edition text.”
“That sounds familiar,” Jon said, brows furrowed as he thought. “Let me check in the back.” He went behind the desk into a back room. From the brief glimpse Gerard got, it looked somehow even more cramped than the rest of the shop. He came back a few minutes later, a stern expression on his face.
“We have one,” he said, his tone now guarded. “It just came in a few days ago. How did you know we had it?”
“I’d heard there was one in this area,” Gerard said. “I’ve been checking a few shops.”
“Yes, well…” Jon glanced over at Mr. Nagarkar, who was diligently reading some large tome that looked like records. “Can we talk outside?”
Gerard was starting to get the picture that something was very wrong. He nodded and stepped outside, quickly followed by Jon.
“There’s a nameplate on the inner cover of the book,” Jon said in a rush. “‘From the library of Jurgen Leitner.’” Before Gerard could say anything he continued. “I checked, and the fourth edition is more complete, and you could probably find it anywhere. Even if the second edition is more uncommon, why do you need this book?”
“You’ve seen a Leitner before,” Gerard said. There wasn’t really any need to ask. It was obvious from the near-panic in Jon’s voice.
“I have.”
“Which one?”
Jon hesitated. He looked around the alley, but they were the only people around. It was midday, and this little shop wasn’t anywhere near a high street. “ A Guest for Mister Spider ,” he whispered, as if saying the name might summon the Web. “It… it ate someone. So, yes, I am concerned as to why you might want a book that comes from the same place.”
It wasn’t one that Gerard had come across, but that was hardly surprising. There were hundreds of the damn books spread across the continent.
“I want to destroy it,” Gerard said.
“Really.” Jon frowned at Gerard, unconvinced. He didn’t say anything for a moment, clearly thinking something through. Gerard let him. If he wasn’t going to give Gerard the book, he could always come back later and steal it.
“I’ll let you have it,” Jon said, “if I can watch you destroy it.”
Gerard frowned. “I want to get rid of it as soon as possible.”
“I’m not eager to get eaten by a book,” Jon said. “I won’t touch it for the rest of the day. Meet me after closing and we can dispose of it.”
So Gerard waited. He took up a spot down the street with a good view of the shop door, but far enough away that it wouldn’t be obvious he was staking it out. At about six the door opened and Jon stepped out. He looked around, clearly looking for Gerard. Once he saw him, Jon walked right over. It was clear that this guy didn’t have a single clue how to be inconspicuous. Gerard stood up and led him into another alley.
They walked in silence. Gerard rubbed at the eye tattoos on his right hand. Putting them on his hands worked because it was conspicuous, made people look at him. Unfortunately hand tattoos faded quickly, so he had to get them touched up every year or so. Gerard had a feeling that the pain of getting them redone did something for the Eye, like a tiny ritual, but he tried not to think about that part too much. He’d given up a little bit of his soul for some protection and the ability to see people who’d been Marked, with the occasional useful insight or two. The less he did to feed anything the better.
They reached a dead end. Jon was hanging back, looking like he was about to run if Gerard moved too quickly.
“The book?” Gerard asked. Jon nodded and pulled it out of his bag. It didn’t look special. Leitners rarely did. It was an old textbook with a blue cover that showed a series of apparently gibberish symbols. The real book was about a constructed language that would, according to the author, make communication faster and more concise. As far as Gerard had managed to ascertain, this copy caused something like the mythical Tower of Babel. Its victims couldn’t communicate in any meaningful way.
Gerard took the book and looked it over. There was a particular winding, spinning sensation to the cover that definitely felt like the Spiral. He didn’t dare open it to inspect it too closely. Instead he took out a pocket knife and slashed the back cover. It tore like regular paper at first. Then the bits of paper started to flutter in tight spirals around the book as it put itself back together.
“Fucker,” Gerard swore at the book. If Jurgen Leitner was still alive and Gerard ever found him, he was going to punch him. Multiple times. Preferably until he stopped moving. He put the book down and took out his lighter. It took a minute, but soon the book caught. “Don’t look at it,” he warned Jon. He himself turned his back on it. Jon hurried to follow his suggestion, though he kept glancing back at Gerard.
Eventually the heat died down and Gerard felt safe to look back. The ashes had arrayed themselves in a curling fractal. He kicked them into disarray before Jon turned around.
“That’s… that’s it, then?” Jon asked. “You can just… burn them?”
Gerard shrugged. “Most of them, but not all of them. Some of them will burn you back or explode on you. Some of them just can’t be damaged.”
“How many of those things are there?” Jon wondered, looking a bit bewildered.
“Too many.”
They stood in silence, staring at the ashes.
“So, rare books?” Jon asked. Gerard laughed.
“I can’t exactly go around saying that I spend my time destroying evil books,” he said.
“I’m glad you do,” Jon said. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing up his ponytail. It was a good look on him. “I would have cataloged that damn thing today if you hadn’t shown up. Even with that name on the cover, I’m not sure what I would have done with it.”
Gerard stomped on the ashes again for good measure. “Best not to worry about it too much. You didn’t.”
Normally this was where Gerard would walk away and never see someone again. He could do that now. Only, Jon was still staring at the ashes. His ponytail was askew, and he was staring at the ashes like he was seeing the horrors that could have befallen him. That was the only reason Gerard reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Honestly.
“Come on,” Gerard said, “you look like you could use a drink.”
They wound up in a small pub a few streets down from where Gerard had burned the book. Gerard bought a round and sat them down at a side table away from where most of the regulars were hanging out. It wasn’t crowded, being the middle of the week. Jon took his glass with a thanks, but he otherwise seemed deep in thought. Gerard couldn’t blame him.
“I had halfway convinced myself I’d made it up,” Jon said finally. “That a childhood bully just disappeared and I had a strange dream about it.”
Gerard wasn’t used to this part. Usually by the time people started processing what had happened, he was long gone. But there were times when he’d wanted more than anything for someone to just listen, so he did.
“That whole thing was real, though. The book, the… spider , someone getting pulled in… And there are more of those things out there?” He shuddered. “It’s a lot to take in. You do this all the time?”
“Mostly,” Gerard admitted. “I try to get to them before my mother does. She collects the damn things.”
“Why?” Jon asked, aghast.
“They don’t all kill you, at least not immediately,” Gerard explained. “There are others that can grant the reader abilities, if they’re careful.”
“At a price, I’m sure.” Jon looked grim, with eyes narrowed and lips pursed.
Gerard nodded. “Exactly.”
“So when you said you were up here on business the other day, was that for the same book?”
“Er, no,” Gerard admitted, looking away. “That was… actually, about your band.” Jon didn’t say anything, but it was easy to imagine the look of confusion and disbelief on his expressive face. “There’s something called Grifter’s Bone that, well. One of my contacts thought you might have something to do with that.”
“Someone thought the Mechanisms was a... ghost murder band?” Jon spluttered. “Are you serious?”
“Not ghosts, but basically?” Gerard said with a shrug. “Not every tip works out when you’re dealing with this kind of thing. Better safe than sorry.”
“What would you have done if we had been Grifter’s Bone?” Jon asked.
“Turned on a fire alarm, probably. Try to get everyone out of the building. If that didn’t work, get as many out as possible before everything went to shit.”
Jon looked thoughtful at this and slowly sipped at his drink. He still hadn’t fixed his hair, and Gerard was tempted for a moment to reach over and smooth it down. Instead he focused on his own drink. Jon started to fidget with something, but Gerard didn’t look over until Jon handed him a slip of paper. Then he looked from the paper to Jon, not sure what to make of it.
“My mobile,” Jon explained. “I thought maybe we could, er, trade numbers. In case I ever run into another evil book.” He faltered, looking away after he spoke, as if he’d just realized what else the gesture could mean.
Gerard should have said no, that it was unlikely Jon would ever run into another Leitner. They weren’t that common unless you sought them out. Then again, he had already run into two. And regardless of the intention, Gerard felt a small thrill at getting the other man’s number.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, and wrote his own number out.
Gerard fully expected to never actually use the number, of course. The days turned into weeks and he never heard anything from Jon. That was probably for the best, he reminded himself. He wasn’t in any position to have friends , especially ones who barely knew about the Powers and the real dangers of the world.
When he got a text Jon was the last person he was expecting it to be from. Yet, there was his name, right on Gerard’s mobile screen. Along with the name was a short message: Gig tonight. Would you want to come?
You sure you have the right number?
I only have one Gerard in my phone.
Well, it was difficult to be more clear than that.
When?
Jon sent him a time and an address. The address was, predictably, in Oxford, and the time was barely two hours away. Gerard was about to say he couldn’t make it when his door handle started to rattle.
“Gerard, unlock this door!” his mother’s voice shouted. “I need you to make a run for me!”
I might run late, but I’ll be there .
He actually made it to the place right before the show started. Jon was whipping the audience into a cheering, laughing crowd. Now that Gerard had spent some time with him it was even more amazing what a change the stage had on him. Admittedly, the conversation they’d had after burning the book had been tempered with shock and no small amount of confusion. He’d still been almost painfully proper and relatively soft-spoken. That was nothing like the Jon who made grand gestures and spoke in a voice so deep and rough it was practically a growl.
The show was much the same as it had been last time. Gerard was still fascinated by Jon’s singing, by the strange disconnect between the folksy tunes and the band’s absurd premise. At some point he found himself singing along to a chorus and realized he was having a genuinely good time.
This time when the show wrapped up Gerard stayed. He hung back, watching as the band interacted with their fans and packed up their equipment. When about half of the crowd had filed out, Jon made his way to Gerard. He was grinning, those expressive eyes of his shining with the adrenaline of a good show.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I wasn’t really expecting you to.”
“I had fun,” Gerard said, smiling back. “You’re a brilliant singer.”
“I have a lot of help,” Jon said, as if a musical accompaniment was what made his voice so enticing. “Do you want to join us when we’re done?.”
“Are you sure?” Gerard looked back at the rest of the band. Most of them were busy packing up, but a couple looked very curious about the strange man their lead singer was talking to.
Jon rolled his eyes with a huff. “Yes, Gerard, I am. I still owe you a drink, at least.”
Gerard hesitated for a moment, but he already knew what his answer would be. “Gerry. You can call me Gerry.”