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Lockwood couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, really slept. They’d come back from Aickmere Brothers well after dawn, scarfed a quick breakfast and crashed in their respective rooms. But two hours later the phone was ringing and he’d sent Holly home, so he dragged himself out of bed to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Lockwood, it’s Barnes.” Of course it was. Bloody Barnes. Lockwood didn’t even have the energy to sass him.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“I wanted to let you know that we are having a press conference at eleven o’clock. In case you wanted to be there.”
Lockwood glanced at the clock in the living room. Just past nine. That gave him plenty of time to shower and catch a cab to Scotland Yard.
“I want you to see that I am extending an olive branch in your direction, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Ah, an olive branch that you are hoping I won’t use to bludgeon DEPRAC with over the fact that the Chelsea Outbreak was solved by a group of agents gone rogue because DEPRAC was so far off base that the true source of the haunting wasn’t even inside the containment zone?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Lockwood could practically hear Barnes’ teeth grinding.
“Something like that, yes.”
“Noted. Not to worry, I’ll be there.”
“So glad to hear it.”
Lockwood hung up. Well, they didn’t have any jobs that evening. He’d catch up on sleep then.
At least, that was the plan.
What actually happened was that Lockwood was so tired after the press conference and several rounds of interviews he fell asleep for an hour before supper and was then wide awake at 2am, unable to sleep. His brain wouldn’t stop whirling, tossing thoughts at him, faster than he could grab hold of.
A reporter had asked him if he’d been afraid when the poltergeist was tearing the store apart around them and he’d laughed it off. He hadn’t told them how it had felt like a freezing hand was squeezing his chest when he’d realised what was happening and he didn’t know where any of his team were, scattered across the store searching for Bobby.
Another had asked whether he thought such a small team had been wise, given the nature of the hauntings. He’d said that a small elite team was more nimble, able to adapt to a changing situation more quickly. He’d pointed out that they had all made it out alive and relatively unscathed. He hadn’t told them about being picked up and flung halfway across the store, watching the fear in Lucy’s eyes as she vanished from view.
The last reporter had asked him to describe the underground chamber when he’d found it. He’d talked about the bones and the shades and the pervasive feel of death. He hadn’t told them about the way the fetch had wound its way around Lucy. How even now, he wasn’t sure why she’d even been alive for him to save. How sure he’d been that he was too late. Again.
Somehow he hadn’t been too late and Lucy had been fine, at least physically. No sign of ghost touch, only a twisted ankle from the fall. But she’d clung to him and sobbed into his shirt when he’d found her—and once the screaming had stopped. She’d refused to say why. He’d wanted to hold her close, at least until she stopped trembling, but she’d pulled away from him, guarding her eyes, hiding her feelings.
And could he blame her? After he’d failed to save her from the poltergeist. After he’d let her become completely ensnared by the fetch. After pushing her away for weeks.
She’d been so quiet since they’d emerged from the tunnels. He’d hardly seen her all day. He had the uncontrollable urge to go up to her attic to check on her, to make sure that she was really there.
He’d pulled the others across the widening gap in the floor first. It had been the logical decision, the right decision to leave her for last.
“Just you, Luce,” he’d said, holding out his hand for her to take, and she’d smiled at him, her faith in him so strong, even then.
But God, the shattered look in her eyes as she’d fallen away. The desperation in her voice as she faced down the fetch. The terrible scream as he cut through the ghost to save her life.
He sat up and shook his head like a wild animal, trying to dislodge the visions of Lucy in mortal danger.
How was she still alive?
He was up and moving before he’d even fully registered what he was doing. He tossed on a shirt and took the stairs three at a time up to the attic. He opened the door as silently as he could and crept up the stairs into the loft.
The skull sat dark on the windowsill, the moonlight casting its long shadow across the floor. The bed was rumpled, blankets thrown back, sheets askew.
Lucy wasn’t there.
He checked the little bathroom under the eaves but he could feel that the room was empty. He fairly flew down the stairs to the ground floor. If she wasn’t in her room she was probably in the kitchen. She often came down for a midnight snack or cuppa if she couldn’t sleep.
“Lucy?” he called softly, pushing the door open. The kitchen was dark. Empty. Lockwood felt the panic rising in him. Where the hell was she?
“Lockwood?”
He spun at the sound of her voice. The library, of course she was in the library.
He was at the library door in two long strides, but there he stopped short. The room was dark but for the moonlight spilling onto the floor. Lucy was curled up on the little sofa, her pale face tinged blue by the light of the moon. Her eyes glittered darkly up at him and his breath squeezed from his lungs at the sight of her, otherworldly and strange.
“Lucy,” he breathed, taking a cautious step toward her. He didn’t feel any relief at having found her and he wasn’t sure why. All he knew was that something was very wrong.
She watched him approach, but didn’t speak. Only when he was nearly hovering over her did he catch the faintest sound. A tiny sniffle.
Lucy was crying.
He knelt beside her. From this close he could see the track marks her tears had carved down her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered hoarsely. “And I keep… I keep remembering my team. The one I had up North. They died and it was my fault.”
“Lucy, no,” Lockwood said, reaching a hand up to her cheek. “That wasn’t your fault. You know it wasn’t.”
“I could have done more. Maybe they’d still be alive if I had. I should have…”
“You couldn't have known.”
She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. A single tear escaped from behind her lashes. Lockwood brushed the tear away with his thumb.
Lucy’s face crumpled and she reached for him blindly. Lockwood sat beside her on the couch and pulled her into his arms. He didn’t know what to do, so he just held her and let her cry, her face buried in his shoulder. He could feel an expanding spot of wetness on his shirt. It was cold and sticky and unpleasant but he ignored it.
Eventually her sobbing subsided to hiccups. Lockwood tentatively stroked his hand up and down her back, trying to soothe them away.
“Lockwood,” Lucy’s voice was rough from crying. “Promise me something.”
“Anything,” he said.
“Whatever happens, promise you’ll look after yourself. And George.”
“Lucy, don’t talk like that,” he said, his voice strangled. “Nothing is going to happen. You’re not going anywhere.” God, he hoped that was true. He would do anything to make it true.
“You don’t know that,” she whispered.
“Luce, look at me,” he said gently. Lucy didn’t move for a long moment. Then she scrubbed at her face with her long sleeves before finally looking up and meeting his eyes.
There was so much he wanted to say to her. To tell her that he would die to keep her safe. That he would do anything to keep her near. The words never seemed to come when he needed them.
“You’re alive,” he said. “I’m alive. We got through Aickmere’s just like we’ve gotten through everything else. Dangerously and chaotically, I’ll grant you,” he smiled. “But we made it.”
Lucy’s lips twitched at the corners into the faintest Mona Lisa smile. In the moonlight they were a dusky rose colour, shining wet with saltwater tears. She looked up at him, her eyes searching for something, some reassurance.
Lockwood squeezed his arm around her shoulder in an awkward half hug. “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” he said, trying to sound comforting. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Lucy looked away from him for a long moment. Then she leaned against his tear dampened shoulder, her head a weight over his heart.
“You don’t know that,” she whispered.
Lockwood pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her and just holding on. There didn't seem to be anything else he could do. After a time, he heard Lucy's breathing turn to soft snores. He smiled to himself, thinking that she sounded like some cute fuzzy little animal. The last thought he had before sleep claimed him was that they should really think about adopting a cat.
—
He woke up the next morning lying on the library sofa alone, an afghan thrown over his legs. He touched the indent on the cushion beside him, the only evidence that Lucy had been there, but it was already cold. He rose and stretched out his aching back, scurrying up the stairs before Holly could catch him and scold him for not sleeping in his bed again. She didn't catch him and he went about getting ready for the day.
If he felt any unease about Lucy's mood or behaviour the night before, he chalked it up to post-case let-down and hoped their planned celebratory brunch would help lift her mood. The thought never crossed his mind that even then, she might be thinking about leaving.
But by the next morning she was gone.