Chapter Text
Lockwood fiddled with his cufflinks as he stood at the bar of a swanky nightclub in London. He was happy to be back in the city again after his and George’s trip north. London was also so much better for his brand of devilry. George always did better when there was a university around. A tiny bottle blonde with fake breasts approached him.
“Hey there handsome,” she crooned.
“Hello,” he said smoothly.
“You want to get out of here?” she asked. This was the part of the city that Lockwood detested. Everyone was so much more forward. He liked playing with his prey, toying with them before making a deal. His mind drifted back to Lucy, and the deal they’d made weeks ago. He found his mind drifting back to her more often as the weeks passed. He longed to see her again.
The other soul in the body squirmed.
“Sorry darling,” Lockwood drawled to her woman, “You’re not my type.”
The woman looked him up and down. “Tosser,” she huffed walking away.
The other soul squirmed harder against Lockwood.
“I’d like to make a deal,” it said.
Lockwood rolled his eyes turning to face the bar. He looked up into the mirror that reflected the lights and energy of the club.
“I can’t make a deal with you. You have nothing hell wants,” Lockwood said plainly.
“Not a deal with hell. A deal with you,” the presence explained.
“You have my attention,” Lockwood replied.
“I am willing to give you use of my body 75% of the time, as long as Lucy remains under our roof, our protection,” it offered.
Lockwood chuckled to himself. “80% outside the residence, 50% in the residence. In perpetuity.” He could feel the presence bristling at the offer.
“80% outside, 40% inside. Contingent upon Lucy. Best and final offer,” the presence countered.
Lockwood sighed. The body he'd stolen had a sharp mind.
“We have a deal,” Lockwood said staring at himself in the club mirror.
He gave the presence control of the body's right hand, and they made a handshake motion in the mirror. “Deal,” the presence agreed.
Lockwood turned back to watch the dance floor. A younger man caught his eye. Lifting himself off the bar, Lockwood stalked off to find his next deal.
**
When the letter arrived, leaving her shitty town was far from her mind. The coroner’s inquest was taking up all her time, and the grief took her evenings.
Dear Lucy Carlyle
Please accept our congratulations for being accepted to the University of the Arts, London, and the BA (Hons) Illustration and Visual Media program. We are also delighted to offer you a full scholarship funded by the Lockwood Foundation. In exchange, you will be enrolled in a work-study with the Foundation working on various projects.
We look forward to receiving your confirmation of matriculation no later than 15 Aug.
Sincerely
The UAL Admission Department.
Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes. She didn’t even remember applying to UAL. Her college art teacher had suggested it, but the possibility had been thrown aside when she’d looked up the cost. She couldn’t afford it and her mother would never let her meal ticket go.
Without giving it too much thought, Lucy picked up the house home and dialed the number on the second page of the letter.
“Hello UAL Admissions, how can I help you?” a chipper voice asked.
“Hi. My name’s Lucy Carlyle. I just received an admissions letter for the fall,” Lucy said shifting from foot to foot.
“Ah yes, Ms. Carlyle. Mr. Lockwood said to expect your call,” the voice answered.
“Mr. Lockwood?” she asked puzzled.
“Yes, he recommended you for the scholarship,” the voice said.
“Oh. Well, I was calling to say that I’ll take the spot,” Lucy said.
“Good. We’re so excited to see you,” the voice said, “I was also told to let you know, normally we’d assign you a dorm, but the scholarship comes with housing.”
Lucy turned the thought over in her head. “Housing? Alright. Do you have an address?”
“Yes, sweetie the address is 35 Portland Row. They’ve been told to expect your arrival around the 1st of September.”
Lucy scribbled the address on a space receipt. “Thank you.” The other end of the line was already dead.
Lucy ran up to her tiny room and hid the receipt with the address in her worn copy of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. She stuffed the letter into her pillow. She lay down in her bed, staring at her various posters and calendar. She had seven weeks before she could leave this place and all its terrible people behind.
Lucy glanced over at her side table where her book and CD player sat. She reached for her music, placing the headphones carefully over her ears, and allowed the familiar sounds of Bauhaus to lull her to sleep.
**
“You will not leave this house, young lady,” Mrs. Carlyle said. Her large frame stood between Lucy and the door.
“I have a place at Uni, Mam,” Lucy said, “100% paid for.”
“What exactly did you do to pay for it?” her mother sneered “No better than any of your slut sisters.”
Lucy boiled with rage. She needed to get out of this house and to be on the next train south. She would leave this wretched woman and this shitty town far behind.
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe you’re the reason they all left and never came back? That maybe they figured out that sleeping around was the only way to get out from under your thumb,” Lucy yelled.
SMACK
Lucy’s head whipped back at the force of the blow. Stars danced in her vision. It had been years since her mother had hit her. After the last trip to the A&E, there were too many questions and prying eyes, so she’d stopped. The beginnings of a migraine bloomed at Lucy’s temples. She squeezed her eyes shut as she pulled herself together.
“Get out of my way,” Lucy growled through gritted teeth.
“You will not leave this house. You are still a child, and I am your mother,” Mrs. Carlyle yelled.
“I will do as I please. I’m 18 in two weeks. You were never my mother. You were the sad sack of shit that I was unfortunate enough to be born to,” Lucy seethed “Now move. Or I will move you.”
Mrs. Carlyle stepped to the side, “You’re dead to me girl. Do you hear?”
Lucy spat at her mother’s feet as she walked out of her childhood home for the last time.
“Don’t come crawling back here when you’ve flunked out or gotten pregnant,” Mrs. Carlyle yelled at her back.
Lucy stood tall as she walked away. She didn’t even realize she was crying until there were tears streaming down her face.
**
The train ride to London was quiet and uneventful. Lucy tried to sleep off her migraine at first, before switching to a simple sketch of the person sitting across from her.
The trip from King’s Cross to Marylebone was a smooth trip. As she emerged from the Baker Street station, she pulled out the sheet with handwritten directions to 35 Portland Row. She began walking in the first direction when a whistle caught her attention.
Lucy’s head swiveled back and forth for a second, before her eyes landed on a familiar lanky frame, this time in a red suit.
She walked over to him. “Didn’t expect you to meet me at the station,” she said once she was in earshot.
Lockwood chuckled to himself, taking her duffle from her shoulder. Lucy tried to protest.
“None of that. You’re my guest for as long as you stay at Portland Row,” he said. Lucy shivered.
Their journey was meandering, allowing Lockwood to make small talk. He asked Lucy about the little things: what her sleep schedule was like, what her favorite foods were, her pet peeves. Whenever she tried to ask him the same things, Lockwood would deflect.
Lucy was amazed as they turned down a residential street lined with Georgian townhomes.
“I’ll give you the full tour once we get you settled,” he said leading her to a townhome on a corner.
The front garden was overgrown yet somehow contained an elegant wrought iron fence. A boot scrapper was embedded in the side of the bottom step. A small sign on the fence proclaimed A. Lockwood and Co. – Appraisals By Appointment Only
“You run your own business?” Lucy questioned.
Lockwood nodded “It’s a family business, been going for just over a hundred years. We specialize in occult objects, but now that Ali’s on board as our researcher we’re able to branch out into more fields.”
He unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow Lucy inside.
The entry and hallway were warm and homey. There was unusual art and objects decorating the walls. A small table stood to her right with a bowl for keys and a crystal skull lamp.
A young man wearing a 2000 AD t-shirt and black boxers stood like a deer in headlights at the end of the hallway with a small plate and mug of tea.
“What the fuck, Anthony?” he yelled.
“Ali, this is Lucy Carlyle. She’s the Lockwood Scholarship recipient for this year,” Lockwood said.
“Lockwood Scholarship? You never mentioned this before,” Ali said.
“It’s a standing award for deserving artists through UAL. Great Grandfather Lockwood founded it,” Lockwood explained.
Ali rolled his eyes. “I’ll be in my room. There’s some gormeh sabzi in the fridge.”
Lockwood nodded. Ali hurried up the stairs disappearing with a door slam.
Something in Lockwood’s demeanor shifted. Lucy swore he was suddenly standing differently.
“Alright, to your room,” he said bounding up the stairs.
Lucy followed him up several flights of stairs.
“This is the attic, now your room,” Anthony said, “I used to sleep here when I was little. It’s not much, but you have your own bathroom. You won’t have to share with me or Ali.” He dropped her duffle on the bed and allowed Lucy to place the suitcase there as well. Anthony opened the curtains and allowed her to see the view of the London skyline.
“I saw those newspaper clipping on the stairs,” Lucy said.
“Oh those,” Anthony said, his gaze dropping to his feet, “not very modest, are they? I’ve been meaning to take them down.”
“No, they’re fine. I’m just wondering how you came to live here. How does your family have a scholarship at UAL? How does this work within the context of our deal?” she rattled off. This was so strange. Anthony was so different than the Lockwood she remembered from that night.
Lucy couldn't help but return her gaze to the window and its amazing view. Her rapt attention to the skyline broke as she heard Anthony shuffle behind her. When she turned back, he was already halfway down the stairs and out of the room.
It didn’t take her long to unpack. She had brought the bare necessities to get by and her art supplies. She’d hoped to find a job at the university or nearby to help earn extra money for things like clothes and food before term officially started. Lockwood had mentioned that a corner store on their walk, Arif’s, was needing a new delivery person. Maybe they’d be willing to work with her Uni schedule.
With all her things in her wardrobe and her art supplies neatly arranged on the desk, Lucy was ready to see the rest of the house. A small black cat with white markings on its face was sitting at the top of her stairs.
“Oh hello,” Lucy cooed at the cat. It stared up at her blinking slowly. She reached out to let the cat smell her hand. It sniffed twice before rubbing its cheek on her knuckles.
“I see you’ve met Skull,” a voice said interrupting her thoughts. Ali was at the bottom of the stairs. He seemed different than when Lucy had seen him earlier and vaguely remembered him from the club where she met Lockwood. He was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and walked with an air Lucy couldn’t quite place.
“Skull?” Lucy let the name roll over her tongue. “Odd name for a cat.”
“It’s because of his markings. When we found him, Anthony thought he was an animal skull. That is until Skull tried to bite his hand.
“I just wanted to say welcome to Portland Row. My door is always open if you need to talk. I’ve known Anthony Lockwood for a long time and lived here nearly as long,” he said. Lucy couldn’t help noticing the pause between the two names.
“Thanks, Ali,” Lucy said. Ali chuckled a bit as he turned to leave as if something was inexplicably hilarious to him. Skull followed Ali down the stairs and back to the landing leaving Lucy alone again.
She returned to the desk intent on capturing her view. The sky was turning a shade of pink and orange in the dying light of the late summer day.
It was easy for Lucy to lose herself in art. When a cough startled her from the creative haze, she jumped a little in her chair. Lucy turned around not to find Anthony, the self-deprecating 20-year-old who’d shown her the room, but rather Lockwood. His posture was the biggest giveaway. Anthony slouched his shoulders forward as if to make himself smaller. Lockwood, however, stood ramrod straight. His left hand floated near his hip for a moment as if expecting something that wasn't there. It flexed as he caught himself, before sliding into a trouser pocket. His eyes were different too. They were sharper, somehow, and more calculating.
“Evening Ms. Carlyle,” Lockwood said. His voice was different too, just a touch deeper than Anthony’s but noticeable.
“Good evening, Lockwood,” she said her voice tailing up at the end of his name as if questioning.
“Right. Shall we tour the house?” he asked.
“Please,” she said standing from her desk and stretching. Lockwood offered her his elbow just like that night. She took it as they walked down the stairs.
On the landing below hers was a single door. They stopped in front of it.
“This is my sister Jessica’s room,” Lockwood said, “she’s off in Milan or somewhere equally as fashionable. Every few months she’ll crash for a few days before jetting off on another adventure.”
“What does she do?” Lucy asked.
‘Fashion Journalism,” he said. Lucy nodded in understanding.
They continued down the stairs to the next floor. “This is my room,” he pointed to the door just to the right of the stairs. “Ali’s” the room across the landing from his. “Don’t go in Ali’s room without knocking. As you saw earlier, he’s not a fan of trousers and has a thing for morning yoga.” Lockwood’s lips ticked into a quick smile as if remembering something funny.
The next floor as the main bathroom, which she was welcome to use if her bath gave her any issues with the understanding that Ali was not the neatest of people.
On the main floor, Lockwood showed her the sitting room, the library and the kitchen. The kitchen table was covered with a neat white cloth covered in scribbles. Lucy could make out 5 distinct sets of handwriting.
“This is our thinking cloth. We use it to keep track of ideas, objects, theories, and shopping lists. We’re not much for modern technology in this house so it’s our main form of communication. It’s also great for when you’re mad at someone,” Lockwood chuckled.
Their tour ended in the basement, which held the Lockwood and Co offices and their on-site storeroom. Lockwood explained that some items were kept offsite, but for the most part, the basement was the crux of their business.
“Any questions, comments, concerns?” Lockwood asked. Lucy thought for a moment, opening her mouth and closing it.
“Why did I win that scholarship? I didn’t even apply to UAL,” she asked. Lockwood reached to scratch the back of his neck.
“That is a story for another time,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Ali said something funny earlier. He implied that Anthony and Lockwood are two separate people,” Lucy noted. She skipped over her own observations on the matter.
“Ah, more discussions for another time. Just know that generally when we’re here at Portland Row you can call me Anthony. If you see me out and about, Lockwood is sufficient,” he said simply. “Anything else?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Well then Ms. Lucy Carlyle, welcome to Portland Row,” Lockwood said, “I hope your stay here is everything you bargained for.”