Chapter Text
It started, as most of their more curious adventures did, with the words: “Charles, don’t touch–”
Well, Charles did touch.
Sue him.
When they walked into that little children’s library in the quieter parts of London, he had counted on quite a chill evening. They didn’t even bring Crystal, who had muttered something about her GCSE’s with the look of a woman on the edge – better to leave her to her own devices. Really, how haunted could a place with illustrations of circus animals all over the walls be? Very, as it turned out. But, to be fair, that’s not why they were here.
The librarian – an elderly ghost woman in disturbingly pink attire – had hired them to investigate the strange and sudden disappearances of some of her regulars. Apparently, she hosted a sort of night-care for lonely ghost children – which Charles tried not to think too much about or he might bawl and that would be a bit unprofessional, even for him. Either way, some of the kids that usually hung around the library to play hide-and-seek or read or simply not be alone, had recently vanished and reappeared twenty-four hours later without explanation and too scared to tell the librarian anything. Thus, the Dead Boy Detectives were hired to sus the oddity out.
Which led to then riffling through the shelves for any clues.
And to Charles spotting the big, old storybook with the red gem incased on the leather-bound, rune-embossed cover – a gem that had a pretty evil glint to it, like an eye searching for victims. So yes, of course he had touched it, even as Edwin was already rushing to stop him, grabbing his arm.
And that’s when a gust of wind rushed through the pages. And darkness closed around them.
When Charles dropped, it felt like an impact. Real impact with hard ground, stones and something moist. Then the smell … it almost overwhelmed him.
Earth. Deep dark earth. Wet leaves and grass. Something sharper – pine.
The scent alone was almost enough to overpower the senses he usually had – so it took him a moment to register the chirping of birds, the rustling in undergrowth, the music of cicadas. As he raised his head, he found himself on a forest floor. Tall trees grew into the blue sky above him, only letting flecks of sunlight sprinkle the earth below.
Sunlight. Warm sunlight. He felt it touching his face and for a moment he wanted to sob.
Then he remembered: The book. A spell – a curse maybe. Edwin.
Before he could get up or call out, there was a choked-off sound right next zu him. Much like Charles himself, Edwin had taken a tumble, now lying on his back, spread-eagle on the ground. But instead of the strange elation that had rushed through Charles, he stared up into the sky with … well. Charles knew that look.
Terror.
Because suddenly, he could feel again. And the last time he had felt anything … fuck.
“It’s alright”, he said, loud enough so Edwin could hopefully hear him over his panic. Quickly, Charles scrambled to his knees, not bothering with standing up, simply inching closer to his best mate and leaning over him. Firmly, he put his hands on either side of Edwin’s head, eclipsing the sun, the sky, everything in his line of sight. So he could only look at Charles. The one familiar thing. He tried not to have feelings about hovering over Edwin, layed out on the ground below him.
“You’re alright, mate”, he repeated slowly, but clearly as horrified eyes stared at him. Edwin wasn’t breathing. He kept still as if he was cowering back in the dollhouse – probably better than having him run away. On a normal day, Charles was glad that Edwin was quick on his feet – but he did not fancy the thought of giving chase himself.
“I got you”, Charles murmured, putting one hand on Edwin’s shoulder, trying to ground him. “I know it’s a lot. And I can only imagine how bad it is for you. But you are not in Hell. Do you know where we are?”
Patiently, he waited as a series of unfocused, unreadable expressions flitted over Edwin’s face, before it settled on irritation. “The storybook you were not supposed to touch.”
“Jup. Got sucked right in. Hoovered up. Guess we now know what happened to those kids, huh?”
“But how …”
A bit too late, Charles realized Edwin was sitting up, so he suddenly found himself face to face with his best friend. In an instant, the warmth of the sun felt almost suffocating – almost. Edwin didn’t seem to register their proximity (rude), too busy taking in his surroundings, now that his mind had snapped back to the case at hand. Frowning, he dragged his fingers through the earth and picked up a leaf, glaring at it as if it had personally offended his mother. “The sensation must be part of the enchantment. Illusion magic, I suppose.”
“You did say the runes look like they might draw on the subconscious”, Charles reminded him, finally getting to his feet and holding out a hand to drag Edwin up – who accepted it with graceful indignity. It didn’t feel much different from any other time they touched. Maybe there was a bit more heft to Edwin’s body, an actual weight, but that was about it. By now their souls were pretty much one and the same, as far as Charles was concerned. Of course he knew how Edwin felt. Most of him anyways… Bloody Hell.
“I did. However, I might have underestimated the scope of it. If my theory is correct, we should be careful. I cannot begin to guess what this curse might draw out of our minds at any moment.”
Suspicions risen, they took a beat to survey the darkening shadows beyond the earthy path they stood on. The forest was thick with trees and brush to either side of them and even though there was plenty of rustling going on, Charles did not see any animals. Not even a squirrle in the trees above.
“So how do we get out of here?”, he asked as his eyes scanned the treeline for any danger. Grimly, he remembered putting down his backpack at the library – like a fucking rookie. But at least he could gather up his bat from the ground a few steps ahead.
“We must navigate such an illusion like one might investigate a fire”, Edwin intoned in his best lecture-voice – which ranked amongst Charles’ five most favourite Edwin voices, right under the one he put on when he felt like bitching about or to someone. “Finding its point of origin. It must be built around a splinter of reality from which the curse erupted. Something real and tangible in its centre, an ancher.”
“So… find the storybook, whack it, get out?”
A fond eyeroll. “Succinctly put, as always.”
Momentarily, they looked left to right, up and down the road. Both of them unsure which way ‘the centre’ of the illusion was supposed to be. Then Charles saw something on the ground. Glittering like diamonds in the bright sun. He took a few steps forward and crouched down, picking up a quarz-like pebble. Holding it over his head, he waited only a fraction of a second for Edwin to take it, before he saw another one, a few feet up ahead. This one he gathered up too.
“Ariadne?”, he asked, remembering one of the Greek myths Edwin liked to tell him on quiet nights, with his feet in Charles’ lap. Or Charles’ head in his. Recently he had started to pet Charles’ hair, which was … nice. More than nice.
“Perhaps”, Edwin said, but his tone was hesitant. “Or the Minotaur.”
Guidance or trap. Aces. “Don’t have anything else to go on, do we?”
So they followed the stones.
Deeper and deeper into the woods.
Silently.
Charles kept his head on a swivel, walking shoulder to shoulder with Edwin. Tension was tightening the muscles in his jaw and neck and for once he could feel it so distinctly it was almost painful. If the illusion was drawing on the memory of physical sensation, it was doing a bang-up job.
The canopy of leaves and twigs above their heads grew ever thicker, until it strangled off the sun and caught them almost in darkness – it got harder to see the shiny pebbles. The sounds of birds and critters all around got quieter. Until it died down. The idyllic forest he maybe would have liked to take Edwin on a walk through on any other day, turned into something sinister around them.
Just as Charles wanted to open his mouth and ask Edwin if they should find a different way – maybe leave the path – a new scent caught him by surprise. A perfume so unlike what was supposed to be in a forest, it had him stopping in his tracks.
Cinnamon.
That one was the first he recognized. And tears shot in his eyes. Because it was so reminiscent of drinking Masala Chai in his mother’s kitchen – that cup of comfort that had often been her only way of saying I am sorry and I love you.
“Charles?” Edwin had stopped too, turning towards him. He was frowning again, obviously disturbed. But right now, Charles was way too shaken to care. Which should have been his first clue that something was deeply wrong.
Sugar. Brown sugar – that caramelized sweetness hung heavy in the air.
Ginger – ground, not fresh, he remembered the difference.
A hint of black pepper …
“Charles!”
He had not realized he was walking again – let alone running. But his feet seemed to have a mind of their own as he found himself chasing that scent that seemed to fill his mind. Childhood. It smelled of childhood, that was it. One he had only gotten in stolen moments and sparks of happiness, quickly tempered down so they might not be shattered.
He only stopped once the house came into view.
There, on a clearing surrounded by pines and with the rapidly setting sun tinting everything in golden orange, it stood.
And he could barely hold back a hysteric laugh.
A fucking gingerbread house.
This had to be a bloody joke.
More of a square hut, really – the walls brown and doughy. White drips of icing sketching on the roof texture, studded with colourful gum drops and hard candy. Sugar canes on every corner, like support beams. Chocolate bar shutters on the windows, sprinkles lining a pathway to the door like gravel. There was even a bloody mailbox made out of biscuits and Charles was pretty sure the flower pots out front were oversized peanut butter cups.
It all just stood there in the clearing, the icing shiny in the sun, maybe melting a bit.
“You gotta be fuckin’ with me”, Charles murmured, just as Edwin caught up to him, mouth opened – surely to chide him – but quickly closed with an audible snap.
“Is that acutally …”, Charles started again, but Edwin simply nodded solemnly.
“Two kids, being abandoned in a strange forest”, he sighed, obviously annoyed with the pathos of it all. “A trail of stones, rather than the trail of bread picked up by the birds high in the trees.”
“Are you saying we are fuckin’ Hansel and Gretel?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I can’t believe this wanker of a book is brother-zoning us–”
“Shhh!”
Charles had not expected Edwin’s hands on his mouth. For a moment he was a bit lost in those soft fingers against his lips – the slight roughness of a callous on the corner of Edwin’s thumb. He had never known this was there. And he had been so sure he knew everything about Edwin’s hands, since he spent so long just staring at them –
So maybe Charles had figured some things out, lately.
Thankfully, it had not taken him forever – although what did seem to take him forever was scratching together enough nerve to say or do something about it. Surely, Edwin would not wait for him forever. Charles just had to get his shit together and act like a fucking man instead of a boy for once.
Certainly, he had not intended to get weak knees on a case – very mature of him. But before he could lose all of his marbles, he registered his partner’s sharp gaze locked onto the house.
Where the gramcracker door swung open.
And Esther Finch emerged.
The next thing Charles recognized was the memory of a pounding heart, as he sat on the forest floor, back pressed against a tree. And Edwin pressed against him. Somehow – obviously by his own doing, not that he had registered it –, he had managed to put his arms around Edwin’s waist and torso, draw him in close and drag him to the ground, keeping his friend caught between his limbs like Charles’ was a particularly desperate coala bear.
They did not make a sound.
Now his hand was covering Edwin’s mouth, almost engulfing his jaw in his haste to keep quiet – hide – fucking disappear.
For a second, he was back in that kitchen. Chained like a dog. The screams of his dearest person in his ears as he gathered the courage to burn himself through the bloody iron. The person who had confessed to him hours before – the person he had asked for time. Fucking Hell, he would get that time–
A gentle hand covered his – the one he was pressing to his friend’s mouth. They shared a glance and Charles was suddenly caught in the fact that he was touching Edwin’s lips. As Edwin had just touched his …
Then, he snapped back to reality – or, well, the illusion of it at least. Leaning carefully to the side, he poked his head out from behind their tree and just saw the flowing fur coat of the witch vanish in the shadows on the other side of the clearing.
He counted to one-hundred before he released Edwin, but the other boy only moved slightly, straightening up just a bit from where he was pretty much perched on Charles’ lap. “Is she gone?”
“Just left.”
“She cannot be real, Charles.” Unclear if that was a statement or a plea.
“Right.”
“The illusion needed a witch. It plucked the first one out of the forefront of our memories.”
“Sure.”
They stared at each other.
Then, “Witches have books.”
“Maybe storybooks”, Edwin agreed and finally stood. Only with its loss did Charles realize how real his weight had felt. How there had been a certain warmth where Edwin’s legs had pressed into his. However, he did not have time to examine the strange curling in his stomach, because said legs were already making their way towards the fucking biscuit-house!
Catching up quickly, Charles checked over his shoulder before he took the final steps towards the door. Edwin was already busy inspecting the structure, narrowing his eyes at the gummy bear doorhandle. “Interesting.” He said it like one would say Fuck that.
“You think we can eat any of that stuff?”, Charles asked – maybe a bit hopefull. If he could smell thanks to the illusion, surely he could taste. Right? (He tried desperately not to think about how Edwin’s lips might taste.)
“Are you actually suggesting eating the house of a witch?”, Edwin asked, incredulously but with a hint of amusement in his tone that brightened his sharp words. “Are you forgetting what tale we are stuck in? Do you want us to end up cannibalized?”
Instantly, Charles scrunched up his face. “Nah, forget it. Can’t just eat everybody’s house anyway, you don’t know where all of that’s been.”
“… Not my point, but I at least the desired outcome”, Edwin muttered and turned the gummy bear. The door-cracker creaked open. Crumbs drizzled down onto the threshold. A waft of sugar and spices drifted towards them, even stronger than it had been outside. The gingerbread house was almost dark, except for the warm glow of some candles that seemed to have been fashioned out of… candy cigarettes? Now that was just uncalled-for.
Here’s the thing: It wasn’t Esther’s house, like it had been in Port Townsend. But it kinda was. The shapes of the rooms were similar, although probably not fully accurate – pretty much how Charles remembered it. Warped with panic but almost accurate. There were no further doors, just open clefts in the gingerbread that dripped with treacle. The creak of wooden floorboards was replaced by the crunch of what seemed to be some sort of crust beneath their feet. Like a really dry pie. No real butter in that one. Charles couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose as he realized there was something greenish-grey and fuzzy growing between the seams of the individual pieces that made up the flooring. The fact, that he had just thought about actually eating this house …
“Charles, over here!” He turned and caught sight of Edwin, already standing in front of a heavy bookcase seemingly made from unnervingly sturdy caramelles shingled together like legos. The books were some of the few things in this place that did not look that edible and Charles was a bit relieved. The idea of literally consuming literature might have broken Edwin for good. Instead, he was riffling through the tomes, discarding them quickly, one after the other.
“These are all empty”, Edwin grumbled, furrowing his brow before turning a fruit-leather-bound book in his hands to show Charles the blank pages. “Irritating, but good to know the illusion has its limits.”
“Maybe it’s hidden somewhere–”
Croaking.
The flutter of wings.
Edwin’s eyes blew wide, suddenly shiny.
They moved at once, weaving through the hallways that somehow seem so much grander now – they found the kitchen. Or what was a fully sugarcoated idea of the kitchen in Esther Finch’s house. There was a cauldron where the hole used to be that led to the bottomless snake pit. And a liquorice cage in the middle of the room, big enough to hold a boy. But only occupied by a bird.
A black bird.
A crow.
“Monty”, Edwin whispered as he drew close.
The crow squawked at him, hopping a bit on its perch and tilting its head. Charles didn’t speak bird, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t a sign of recognition.
“I’m so sorry”, he heard Edwin whisper. His long fingers brushed the cage’s bars and the crow ruffled its feathers. “I never wanted to leave you behind.”
Something in Charles’ gut clenched. After Esther’s demise, he had only followed one impulse: get Crystal and Edwin out of that house. They had already lost Niko. He could not lose anybody else. So he made them run.
It had taken Edwin about an hour to calm down enough and ask about the crow. To plead with Charles to go back in there and get him. Release him. He might die in that house, Charles …
But when Charles had returned to Esther’s house, the crow had gone. Not a trace left, not even a feather. Later, Edwin would do some research on witch familiars. It seemed the magic that bound Monty to Esther would have disintegrated with her death – but it was that same magic that had made him more than a simple animal. Made him smarter, more durable, age slower. Best case scenario: Monty was living his best bird life somewhere in the woods. Worst case … Charles had cut Edwin off before he could say it and put all the books on the subject in his bag-of-tricks for a time-out.
Now, Charles opened his mouth to say something, anything to console his best friend. Even though he really didn’t know what he could say.
But then the crow screeched.
And the backdoor – so perfectly blending into the gingerbread around them – opened.
***
The last thing Edwin had ever heard of Esther Finch were her screams as a goddess drenched in blood dragged her out the house that had been filled with his pain. She was not less scary in a house made of candy. Actually, it only seemed to further her menacing aura. Raising an arched brow she considered them for a moment. “Nibble, nibble, like a mouse. Who is nibbling at my house?”
“Never mind”, Charles murmured darkly, stepping in front of Edwin – of course he did, no matter how deeply it made Edwin’s chest ache sometimes – and brandishing his bat. “Just the wind!”
T he first strike was so violent, it shook Edwin to his core. Reminded him of the way Charles had beaten the Night Nurse at the cliffs of Port Townsend. Quietly, he thought the real Esther Finch might have been lucky. Not even Lilith could have rivaled the wrath of his partner right now. Although her facsimile easily dodged the swing, her cane coming up to block it.
Before he could get lost in panic again, Edwin made himself turn and dart through the kitchen. For now the false witch seemed disinclined to use magic, meeting Charles in combat. Maybe the illusion would not translate her powers – but he could not be sure. He had to find a way out.
A croak made him turn towards the cage. Monty – well, the crow was fluttering about, picking at the tightly wound liquorice bars.
“Oh, you’re gonna make a fine snack”, Esther quipped behind him and there was the crash of wood against wood, before a dull thump. Edwin glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the witch hit the edge of the open doorframe, her skull thudding against it. Her grin widened. “Always liked my boys well spiced.”
“Now, that’s just nasty in so many ways”, Charles huffed, aiming a well-placed kick towards her stomach.
The crow screeched again, catching Edwin’s attention. It was still scratching at its enclosure. At the same spot. Or maybe … maybe not a spot per se.
A direction.
Pointing.
Towards the cauldron, Edwin realized.
Bubbling, steaming, even without any fire lit under it.
There was a crash from the direction of the fight and Esther spat something downright disturbing about sucking the marrow out of their bones, once she was done with them.
“We don’ even have any bones, lady! Stop bein’ weird!”
E dwin got low to the ground that cracked into crumbs under his boots. Now that it seemed to have given its message, the crow – maybe, somehow Monty, somehow that boy with the cheery smile and half-dead eyes – was silent again, as he made his way towards the grand iron pot. Dizzingly, he realized that he could feel the heat it was emanating and it was almost enough to catapult his mind back in time and space. Into the swealtering heat of Wrath, the sweat of Lust, the–
“Fuckin’ Hell, just stay the fuck down, won’t ya’, woman?!”
T here inside the cauldron, something was bubbling. Black like tar and smelling like death – Edwin knew it well (something like rotten oranges) . The sound of the boiling faint l y underscored by a arythmic hiss. Like a snake tasting the air. Edwin knew then.
“Charles! Over here!”
O ne metaphorical heartbeat later, the false Esther basically flew towards him, tackled by Charles – who came flying as well. It was disconcertingly easy to grab her by the fur coat. To look into the face of the woman who had tortured him. Chained his best friend. Who had killed … And to push her face first into the cauldron.
It was not the quick thrust into the hearth little Gretel had to manage. Edwin had to strain to keep the witch down, Charles grabbing her arms behind her back and giving her a final shove.
It was violent.
It was cruel.
It was so silent in the gingerbread house.
Until it shook and trembled around them. Cracks in the walls splintering them into shards of gingerbread. After all, enchanted molasses was a poor substitute for cement.
“We need to book it, mate”, Charles snapped, grabbing Edwin’s wrist. He felt Charles flinch at the contact and glanced down – a few drops of the tar-like substance had splashed on his friend’s hand. The brown skin turned raw and red around them, beads of blood pearling on the surface.
Not good. They were not supposed to bleed. Not here. Only in …
“Edwin!”
“Yes.” He shook himself out of his stupor, wrenching his eyes off the blood and back towards the cage. “Monty–” He was still in there.
“It’s not him, mate.”
“We can’t leave him.”
“Edwin! This whole thing is gonna come down on us.”
“Not again!”
“Fuckin’–” Charles jumped forward, only narrowly avoiding a piece of the ceiling crashing down, a drizzle of caster sugar raining down on them both. The cricket bat made quick work of the liquorice – another material not necessarily known for its strength.
The crow cried out.
A moment later Edwin found himself grabbed by Charles and basically hauled – halfway carried – out of the dying house. He barely noticed, only stumbled along. His eyes were stuck on the silhouette of a crow, wings spread wide, drawn across the darkening sky.
“Thank you …”, he whispered. Maybe to the bird for rescuing them. Again. Maybe to Charles for indulging Edwin’s hysterics, how irrational they were …
Charles.
Edwin came to a halt, realizing he wasn’t being dragged along anymore. Looking around himself, he did not see the clearing anymore. Did not smell the inviting scent of sugar, spice and everything sickening. He was alone in a thicket of brush. The sun had settled in the blink of an eye.
Charles was gone.
And Edwin Payne was all alone in a deep dark forest.
As a scarlet cape settled on his shoulders.