Chapter Text
Quite without meaning to, Edwin finds himself standing outside a butcher shop, of all places. He’s not sure what exactly has prompted him to stop; he’s supposed to be heading to the town library. This is the same route he takes every day, he’s sure, and yet today he’s peering in through the glass door, dithering about going in.
It isn’t as if he needs to buy any meat—the small kitchenette in his rented room doesn’t allow for much more elaborate cooking than microwaving leftovers, and his skills don’t extend much further besides. But something has drawn him to this shop, and it’s not the vibrantly red neon sign proudly proclaiming different cuts of meat, no matter how eye-catching it is.
He squares his shoulders and walks in, avoiding the eye of the woman chopping meat behind the counter. There’s a wide variety of meats displayed, none of which look particularly appetizing. He studies them intently anyway, in case something happens to jump out at him. He’s always fancied himself a bit of a detective, after the old Carrados volumes he used to sneak away to read in school, and a good detective follows up on any hunches he may have, no matter how odd the feeling might be.
The owner of the shop is still staring at him, he can see out of the corner of his eye. It seems as if she’s about to greet him, perhaps, until the bell over the door rings and another customer enters the shop.
Edwin turns around just in time for them to clearly change their mind and back out of the shop, pulling their ringing mobile out of their bag as they go. He catches a glimpse of curly hair and a golden earring before they’re gone from sight altogether.
Abruptly, Edwin knows there’s nothing in this shop for him. He leaves with a muttered apology for wasting the butcher’s time and heads to the library like he originally planned.
Charles wakes up not recalling what he was dreaming about and hearing the echoes of a feminine Scottish voice in his head. He has the vague impression of… instructions? Needing to find someone? He can’t really remember. Doesn’t matter, does it, just a stupid dream. Even if it’s left him with cold chills running down his spine and the sense that something is seriously, properly wrong.
Your friends will not be able to help you… an unconventional method…
Charles shakes his head to dispel the voice. Bloody eerie, how clearly he can hear it.
He’ll be late for class if he stays in bed much longer. The exchange program he’s enrolled in at Gray Wake Academy is pretty strict about attendance; too many late slips and they’ll kick him back to London without so much as a by-your-leave. And it’s a pretty lush deal he’s got here; he’s got the room all to himself, none of Dad’s shit to deal with, and a few of the girls in his classes are right fit.
The thought of sitting through eight hours of classes today is too much to handle, though. He feels unsettled in his skin, jumpy—he can skive just this once, right? No harm done, call in and say he’s got a cough or the runs or something, and take the day to screw his head on straight. Brills.
Plus it always makes him feel a bit more punk to dodge the system. Feeling much more invigorated, he hops out of bed and dresses, heading out into the biting February morning. The weather in Port Townsend isn’t too far off London, Charles thinks, which means a lot of wet and cold.
He finds himself taking a different route from his dorm, winding through the alleyways and shops in the center of town. He passes the post office, the fish market, a perfume boutique that nearly sends him reeling with the scents pouring out of it. He’s kicking a can around as he goes, idly wondering where he ought to go to sate the hunger that’s slowly growing, when he passes a butcher shop.
He’s not sure why, but he finds himself stopping. He’s pretty sure he’s never been here in his life, but there’s a sense of familiarity he gets when he looks at it. Through the glass, he can see that it’s not very busy, only the owner of the shop and another person hunched over the display case, back turned to the door.
On a whim, he decides to go inside. The bell over the door jingles when it swings open.
Before he even steps inside, his mobile rings. It jolts him right out of whatever he was thinking at the moment—I do not carry a telephone, echoes an unfamiliar boy in his head. Part of his dream?
Of course he has a mobile though—he lets the door swing closed and frowns, digging around in his bag for it. Who would be calling him—and from an unknown number?
He swings his bag back over his shoulder and answers. “Hello?” he asks, making his way back down the street. No reply for a moment, and then there’s only the sound of heavy breathing on the other end of the line. “You alright, mate?”
More heavy breathing, almost a growl. Stupid prank callers. He hangs up and tosses his mobile back in his bag. Time for breakfast, then.
The local diner, a pretty popular place judging by the number of people hiding from the weather inside, is called the Double-R, and it’s where Charles decides to haunt first. Blessed warmth envelops him as soon as he opens the door.
“Coffee with milk and a bagel?” he orders and sits down at the counter to watch the morning regulars go about their routine. He likes people-watching—they’re almost like a puzzle he can solve once he’s gotten to know them enough.
Take the bloke in the corner booth: he’s alone, eating slowly, but he keeps glancing toward the door. He’s older, probably around Charles’ grandfather’s age, and there’s an indent around his left ring finger but no ring. No wife—dead, maybe. (Hope she’s moved on.)
It feels a bit like those old detective novels, Sherlock Holmes or whatever, guessing personal details like that. Charles always thought he was a bit of a tosser, throwing around people’s personal lives like that, as if fumbling the phone charger means you must be an alcoholic. (He never did finish the books—can’t remember why.)
But there’s still an undeniable thrill that runs through him at such silly detective work, as if it’s what he’s meant to be doing. Or some destiny shit like that, anyway.
The waitress, Bailey according to her nametag, delivers his order. “Brills, thanks,” he says, but she’s turned away to greet whoever’s just walked through the door.
“You’re a lifesaver, Jenny!” she gushes, accepting a large, awkwardly-wrapped paper package that’s dripping something—blood?—onto the counter. “Tom forgot to resupply last night, and we’d never get through lunch rush without this.” Bailey turns away to put the delivery—some cut of meat, apparently—away in the back.
“Yeah, just, did he leave cash with you, or was he gonna like Venmo or something—” the butcher calls after her. She sounds stressed; her dark eyebrows are pulled into a deep frown. She catches him looking, and he quickly takes a sip of his coffee, forgetting for a minute that it’s like a billion degrees. The coffee falls out of his mouth back into his cup while he’s busy regretting ever having a tongue.
“Smooth,” she comments dryly, and he flushes.
“I wasn’t expecting to feel it,” he answers lamely, and which also makes no sense. Why did he say that, bloody hell. Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Okay,” she responds, drawing out the o. “Shouldn’t you, like, be in school or whatever?”
The question strikes some weird chord in him, like déjà vu almost. Or that could be panic at being caught, one of the two. “I’m sick,” he lies, and fakes a pathetic cough to try and sell it.
She appraises him. Shit, if she decides to call the police or something, can they arrest him? He doesn’t know how truancy works in the States, or for exchange students. And that cleaver in her apron looks scary as fuck. “You should get some fresh air. For that cough,” she says pointedly, crossing her arms. “Try Fort Worden Park.”
Weird suggestion, but it seems like she’s being cool about the whole situation—maybe. The cleaver could still come into play. “Thanks?” he says, and she continues to stare at him. Unnerved, he slides off the stool and grabs his bagel to go. “Enjoy your… er… meat,” he stutters, and flees with the feeling that she’s still watching him.
Charles leaves the diner and scary butcher lady behind with a handful of crumpled bills fished out of the depths of his jacket. He pops his collar even higher against the wind and steps out into the street. Maybe he will check out the park that weird lady suggested, just for a change of pace. And the way she looked at him, like she knew something he didn’t…
A screech comes from behind, startling him. He whips around to see a lorry barreling down the road toward him, headlights flaring. There’s no way for him to dodge in time. Even if his muscles weren’t suddenly locked in fright, it’s going too fast. He’s going to be run over— it’s not iron, phase through it, screams his brain.
Which makes no sense, but he doesn’t have time to think about it. A girl is suddenly in the middle of the road with him, one arm shoving him back to the sidewalk and the other extended toward the truck as if she’s going to ward it off. Charles stumbles back, landing on his butt, and catches a glimpse of the driver as he swerves. At this angle, his eyes look red, not like high or weepy but like proper spooky-Halloween-contact-lenses-red.
And the girl who just saved his life—it’s the headlights reflecting or something, because hers are glazed over completely white for a second.
He blinks and shakes his head, trying to gather his wits about him enough to stand up. “Quick thinking, mate, that was aces—” he starts to say, but she pulls her coat tighter around her and hurries off in the direction she just came from, throwing him an almost scared glance as she leaves. Her eyes, he notices, look completely normal now. Then she rounds the corner and vanishes from sight.
“Something I said?” he mutters, then looks over to where the driver has pulled over and is stumbling down out of the cab. A small crowd is forming, a few people obviously on their phones calling for emergency services. Charles ditches before anyone can think to confront him about it—or why a teenager like him isn’t in school on a Thursday morning.
The walk to the park is short, made shorter by the trip he takes down some alleyways. Two cats perched by some rubbish bins at the end scatter when he passes by. He hisses at them for good measure.
Nobody is in the park this time of year except for a group of a few particularly dedicated speed-walkers, who are currently making laps around the small pond, half-frozen over. He gives them and their furious pace a wide berth, choosing to throw himself down onto a bench underneath the skeleton of a weeping willow. Looking up through the branches is kind of like looking in a cracked mirror, if he squints. Like looking into another dimension, as if gravity could reverse and send him falling upwards into another place…
Charles is shaken out of his thoughts by the arrival of someone else. It’s another boy, probably around his own age, though the similarities end there: the stranger is every bit as prim and proper as Charles purposely isn’t. Neatly parted hair, well-dressed, carrying a small notebook and pencil. He’s even wearing a bowtie.
Either he’s just stepped out of another century, or he’s on some serious business. “What’s in the notebook?” he calls, and the other boy’s head snaps up, just as the notebook snaps closed.
“My research notes,” he answers. “I am Edwin.” He holds out one gloved hand to Charles. Charles sits up from his sprawl to shake hands. Even through the leather, the handshake feels strangely warm.
“Charles,” he replies. “I haven’t seen you around school. Though I guess you’re about as local as I am,” he jokes. Edwin’s voice is strangely comforting, and Charles chalks it up to the familiar accent. Even if he does sound a bit like he stepped out of a Regency novel.
“You’re correct, I do not attend school in the area. In fact, my attendance has been excused for the rest of the term,” Edwin replies, somewhat cagily.
“What for? Out on good behavior?” Charles has the strange urge to tug at that perfect bowtie.
“If you must know, my parents thought the seaside air would serve me well after a particularly difficult period of health.”
“Shit, mate, I’m sorry.” Fuck, he doesn’t have like, cancer, does he? Don’t people with cancer usually look worse off? “I thought that sort of thing only happened in really old books and shit. Then again, I did get told to come here by a scary butcher lady after faking a cold, so…”
“Playing truant, I see. Well, I suppose it must have been fate that brought us together, then.” Edwin gives him an almost unnoticeable smile. “However, I’m afraid I must leave you now. My research cannot wait.”
“Maybe I could help,” Charles volunteers. “What sort of research, anyway?”
“Ah. Well. You’ll laugh,” Edwin hesitates, clutching protectively at his notes as if Charles is going to snatch the notebook out of his hands. It hurts to think about this boy facing down bullies who would steal his stuff and make fun. Charles has never liked bullies.
“I won’t. Promise.” He crosses his heart to prove it.
Edwin takes a deep breath before launching into an explanation at a speed that has Charles’ head spinning. “I believe there are supernatural forces at work here in Port Townsend. There have been reports about strange sights and sounds, unnatural phenomena, people acting abnormally, as if possessed…” He lists off what are apparently several more omens and signs as evidence. Some of it is bog-standard church teachings he always dismissed as tosh, but most of it is brand new information. Edwin explains it all as well as any expert in his field.
“Wow, mate. I don’t know what to say—”
“You don’t believe me.” Edwin snaps the notebook closed as abruptly as his expression closes off.
“No, I think it’s brilliant. Makes sense and all. But how’d you even learn about all this?” Is this why Edwin’s parents sent him to the seaside for his health? Did they call this nonsense, delusional, a nervous breakdown?
“I read,” Edwin answers crisply. “There are quite a few arcane secrets hidden in books if one knows where to look. And if one is willing to keep an open mind.”
“And these arcane secrets… they’re telling you there’s something bad in this town,” Charles summarizes. “Fuck, mate, what are we even supposed to do about that?”
“The clues point to an uptick in demonic activity, particularly situated around the warehouse district to the west. Though I suppose there are other possibilities. Ghasts, perhaps, or wraiths,” Edwin allows. “But demonic influence remains my most likely hypothesis. And as to how we solve it, if we can trap the demon, or demons, then an exorcism should do the trick.”
“Right.” Charles doesn’t know why his first mental image is of a red, pointy-eared devil wriggling around in a giant mousetrap, but that’s definitely probably not what Edwin means by trapping it. Then a thought occurs. “What sort of clues, exactly? I saw something really weird on the way here.” He explains his near-death experience and the strange girl who saved him.
Edwin takes detailed notes the whole time. “It’s certainly in keeping with the rest of the evidence I’ve gathered,” he says when Charles is finished. “An abnormal number of accidents for such a small town, residents not acting themselves, even the red eyes. Perhaps we should start by tracking down these individuals you encountered—the lorry driver and the teenager?”
Charles shrugs. “You’re the brains of this operation, mate. I’ll follow you.” Privately, he’s a little pleased he’s even been invited along—making friends has always felt a little forced, just trying to fit in with whatever group he’s running with at the moment, but something about being with Edwin feels so natural, so easy.
Edwin first leads him back to the scene of the crime, which has largely dispersed by now, so little luck there. Asking around about the driver leads them to a warehouse by the docks, which leads them to a bar the employees frequent, and it’s there that two teenage boys get into trouble attempting to enter.
Charles doesn’t think to dig out a fake ID fast enough, then can’t even find it—must have left it in his bag or something. Edwin seems confused as to why he even needs to show one at all, insisting that they’re not there to drink, only to interview some of the patrons. The manager summarily throws them out. Hard to do detective work when people can see you, innit?
“What now?” Charles asks, rubbing his arm where it had been grasped none-too-gently by the bouncer. Edwin looks behind Charles, and suddenly a heavy hand lands on Charles’ shoulder.
“Now you come with me, young man, and explain to your teachers and parents why you thought skipping school was a good idea,” says a stern voice. Charles turns and for a moment, the impression of huge white wings burns itself into his mind. He blinks and the image resolves into a police officer, looking unimpressed. Charles winces.
“I’m not from here,” he tries, hoping that his accent might give him a pass. “Neither is he, really, we’re just visiting.” He gestures to Edwin, hoping at least that he might escape retribution.
“Nice try, Mr. Rowland. I know you’re in the exchange program at Gray Wake Academy, where you’re supposed to be in class right now. You shouldn’t be running around with the likes of him all over town. He might lead you to some unpleasant places.” She nods at Edwin, which, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, the likes of him? He’s about ready to gear up for a fight when Edwin interrupts.
“You ought to go, Charles. I’ll see you later.” Charles is about to feel offended when he catches the significant look Edwin is giving him. He nods. The bar is a dead end anyway—they need to meet up elsewhere and reassess their next steps.
The officer drags him back to school, even though final period ends in ten minutes. He gets to sit in the office for all of it and the following hour and a half, waiting for his turn to speak with administration. After that it’s a very uncomfortable phone call back to London, where even the threat of his dad’s voice has Charles shrinking in his seat, and then it’s the promise of detention for the rest of the term. Bloody brilliant.
When they finally let him go it’s completely dark out. The walk back to his dorm is miserable, made worse for how alone he feels on these streets. Just one day spent with Edwin, and Charles already knows he has to see him again.
He stops first at the library and checks out as many books as they’ll let him about the supernatural—demons, fairies, zombies, whatever he can get his hands on. He spends the rest of the evening hunched over the old tomes, even though they kind of make his vision swim and talk about some pretty nasty stuff. He doesn’t even regret it, even though he wakes up the next morning with gritty eyes and an aching neck, having dreamt of descending down through the seven levels of Hell. There were spiders involved, maybe, or a room full of blood? He shudders, glad that the horrific images are already fading.
Edwin is running. His bare feet hardly make a sound as they slap against soiled concrete. Lungs burning, eyes straining to see the next corner past the gloom. Behind him something is skittering, too many legs crashing against the walls as it pursues him.
He needs to go up. Get to the stairs. Get out. He’s tripping over each stair, falling upwards, scraping his palms against white shards of bone that litter the way out. Up, up, he’s climbing, until he’s almost out, almost there—
Something snatches his hand and yanks him backwards. His stomach swoops. Total despair fills him for a moment, a sense of devastating failure, and then his back hits the ground and his eyes snap open to reveal not a dingy hallway as he believed, but the full moon in the clear night sky. A dream—a nightmare only.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay?”
Still catching his breath, seeing it fog out before him, Edwin turns his head to see a girl kneeling worriedly over him. Her hair is so white it’s almost glowing in the moonlight. That’s because, he deduces as his sleep-addled mind clears, they’re both on the roof of the building.
He’s never had a history of sleepwalking, but then again, he’s never had such a realistic dream, either. He supposes such a vivid emotional event could drive a physical response…
He sits up and dusts himself off. “It appears I must thank you for my rescue. I was not aware I was in any danger, but I suspect had you not intervened, tonight could have ended disastrously.”
“You almost walked right off the roof,” she says softly, eyes wide and terrified. “You would have died!”
Something deep in him shivers. “Luckily, I’m alright. But however did you know I was up here?” By his reckoning, it must be the small hours of the morning. A teenager like herself should have been abed hours ago. As should he.
“I’m staying in the room above yours,” she explains. “I heard you on the steps and followed you up. Were you running from something? You seemed… scared.” She hesitates, as if she’s about to specify further, but never does.
“Just a nightmare. Already fading. Silly, I suppose, that the body should react so strongly to that which exists only in the mind.” Embarrassment pinkens his cheeks now that his heart has stopped its racing.
“I don’t think it’s silly,” she says earnestly. “Do you want to talk about it? Me and my friends… it helps us, sometimes.”
Friends—he can’t remember the last time he had one to talk to. He’s always felt like the odd man out—always a step behind or in front of the other boys in his classes, never in sync. Earlier today, with Charles, was the most Edwin can ever remember interacting positively with one of his peers. “I’m quite alright, thank you. As I said, the dream is already fading. I can hardly even remember what it was about.”
Somehow, the girl looks even sadder at this pronouncement. “I’m Niko, by the way. If you needed a friend.” She holds out her hand. Edwin shakes it. Her grip is warm, despite the chill of the night around them. “Gosh, you’re freezing! You should come inside. I can make you some tea, or maybe some noodles.”
The idea is appealing; he can’t seem to shake this chill. And, he suspects, he may have trouble falling back asleep easily tonight. He accepts and fetches one of the library books he checked out about the supernatural to read while the tea brews.
“Did you know zombies are real?” Niko asks, seeing the title of the tome perched on her small kitchen table. She sets down two cups of tea. “Not that I’ve ever seen any, of course. But it’s true.”
“There are many things out there that the general public refuses to acknowledge as real. Though I, too, have never seen one. This town seems to have a more sinister problem, itself.”
“Oh?” Niko asks, badly hiding her interest. She sips her tea. Edwin narrows his eyes.
“Yes,” he answers carefully. “Do you know anything about it?”
“I can’t say I do,” she answers, just as carefully. Edwin gets the feeling she literally can’t say. Perhaps a spell of some kind—the fae in particular are known to be very tricky with their wordplay. Perhaps Niko has run afoul of something herself, and it’s preventing her from saying it outright.
The way she’s looking at him seems to indicate so, too. Her eyes are keen, like they’re willing him to work it out.
“I see. I suspect there are demons at work here in Port Townsend,” he says baldly. “There have been strange accidents, people going missing, getting hurt. Particularly near the cannery district, although events have happened all over town.”
She nods. “One of the boys at my school—he was almost run over in the middle of the street yesterday.”
“You know Charles?” Unless there have been two teenagers nearly killed this week. “What a strange coincidence. I only met him earlier today. Unfortunately, before we could investigate these odd occurrences further, he was pulled away. I haven’t found another lead besides going to the cannery district itself, which I would prefer not to enter without a better idea of what lurks there first.”
“I haven’t seen Charles in a little while,” Niko replies. “It’s probably smart to avoid that side of town, though. People say there are gangs and stuff that hang out. There’s even supposed to be a cult that meets there,” she shares conspiratorially.
“I will take it under advisement,” he promises.
After that she asks if he’s tired—he isn’t—and then if he wants to watch an episode of an animated show she likes. Scooby Doo —it must be American, because he’s never heard of it, though he does end up enjoying himself quite a bit. She puts on more episodes, the two of them squished together onto her bed peering down at the small laptop screen, and before either of them knows it the sun is rising.
“I’ve kept you up all night,” he realizes, with some small amount of guilt. “It was lovely to meet you, Niko. I should go.”
“Take care of yourself, Edwin. I hope you find Charles again!”
With that, he excuses himself and returns to his own room, preparing for another day of detective work.