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“The Severed Twelve?” Francis asked, taking Morgan’s coat off their shoulders.
“Client thinks it’s some sort of serial killer,” Morgan said, “Or maybe a group of them. They weren’t sure, and I suppose I’m to figure it out.”
“Why go to you?” Francis hung up their coat on the coat rack. “I would think a serial killer would be more under the purview of the constabulary.”
“Yes, you’d think, wouldn’t you?” Morgan said, as Francis handed them all the loose items they'd left in their coat pockets. They took the items gratefully, turning their back to their partner to reunite their affects with their separated brethren from Morgan’s pants pockets. Everything was now in one untidy pile on their desk--notebook, pens, handkerchiefs, loose scraps of paper, their cigarette case and one half-smoked cigarette they neglected to put back inside it. “I asked the client about that, and I got the usual answers-- you know, the constables can’t be trusted, they’re no good, etcetera.”
“Maybe we should be grateful,” Francis said, his voice suddenly much closer behind Morgan than they’d anticipated. “If the constables were actually any good at solving crimes, you’d be out of a job.”
Morgan turned around, letting out a delighted chuckle when they realized they had effectively been pinned between Francis’ body and their own desk.
“Welcome home, by the way,” he said, and kissed them.
As soon as he touched them, they felt… off. Queasy and strange, in a way that, after a few moments, they were able to recognize as the early heralds of a migraine. The pressure near the side of their nose quickly transformed into a sharp pain, like someone was attempting to jimmy a knitting needle into their eye socket.
Maybe the migraine would explain why they suddenly felt so confused. Where were they?
At home, with Francis. They’d moved into his Moloch Street townhouse months ago.
Where were they supposed to be?
…At home, with Francis… right?
“Are you alright?” Francis asked.
“Sorry,” Morgan said, “I think I’m getting a migraine. I’m all disoriented suddenly.”
“Oh, dear. Maybe you should go lie down?”
“Yes…Yes, I think I will.” They rubbed their face, as if that might help them feel confident inn when and where they were. “What day is it today?”
“It’s Echinacea,” Francis said, with concern, “You’re free for the rest of the evening, and as far as I know, you don’t have anything scheduled until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Right.” Yes, of course. They knew all that already.
“Get some rest, love,” Francis said, placing a kiss on their cheek, “I’ll wake you for supper if you’re not already up.”
Morgan nodded, and headed off towards their bedroom. Maybe a nap was what they needed.
Morgan woke, disoriented and covered in sweat.
Where were they?
At home, alone. They’d been living in a fancy house by Wolfstack Docks for years, on a street with other nouveau riche zailors who wanted to show off the zee’s wealth and didn’t mind the overwhelming smell of fish.
Where were they supposed to be?
At home, alone. Although that last part was debatable. There was usually someone around, even if it was just their staff. They rolled over and patted the extra space next to them in bed and found it cold.
They walked to the window and looked outside. It was too stormy to tell what time off day it was, but there was just enough light that they could determine that it wasn’t night. They scrambled for their pocket watch, finding it in the mixed clutter of accessories atop the bureau. They opened it to find they’d forgotten to wind it and it had run dead. Well, at least that was normal.
A string off plausible memories revealed themselves. They’d taken a cab home, since the board meeting had left them with a horrible headache. They’d been urged to take a nap when they’d gotten home, by… By? Their spouse, of course. Why would they think anything different?
Morgan dressed themself without calling for anyone, much to their valet’s inevitable dismay, they were sure. Their hackles were raising higher the longer they fumbled in their empty room. Something in London was wrong, and Morgan knew by now that they couldn’t depend on anyone else to step up and fix it.
They pocketed their planner and headed downstairs. As they stepped outside, they found a rat on their stoop, sheltering from the rain.
“Afternoon!” the rat said, brightly. Morgan couldn’t remember if they were acquainted, or if the rat was just being overly friendly to preempt potential human aggression. Morgan didn’t make a habit of being cruel to small and helpless things. In fact, they could be quite helpful from time to time, picking up information from across physical or social barriers that Morgan couldn’t cross.
Unfortunately, one little rat was probably not going to have the answer to what was going wrong in London. Still, that was no reason to be rude.
“Good afternoon," they said, privately relieved to have that cleared up, “Quite the weather we’re having, hm?”
“Oh, yes, you’re absolutely right,” the rat said, “The rain does appear quite lovelorn today, doesn’t it?”
Ouch. Ouch ouch ouch. Spots flared behind Morgan’s eye, and the pain returned in full force. Their migraine was back. And from simply talking about the weather? Unfair. But it was no matter, when there was work to be done. They’d power through, as they always had.
They headed off, passing familiar doors, then crossing one street, then another, and another and another, until the doors were no longer familiar.
Morgan’s client had told them that the most recent victim was found in a loft on Mercy Street. It was a bit of a walk from where Morgan lived, but it was the only lead they had, so off they went with Francis in tow.
As soon as they arrived, they realized they should have expected the door to be locked (it was a crime scene, it wasn’t like the cops were going to leave it open for any private detective to just waltz in) but they hadn’t nonetheless.
“...I suppose I could just… knock it down?” they said.
“Let me,” Francis said. From one of his pockets, he produced a small set of lockpicks and began working on the door.
“Since when can you pick locks?” Morgan asked.
“Since the last time you needed to knock down a door,” he said, “You had so many bruises, it broke my heart. I figured the best way to prevent you from hurting yourself was to… intervene, I suppose.” The lock clicked open, and he turned to Morgan with a smile.
“There. In you get.”
Morgan gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
“Whatever would I do without you?” they asked.
“Oh, you would have found your way, I’m sure,” he said, “Perhaps just not as easily. Or as stylishly.”
Morgan chuckled and headed into the building, taking the stairs two at a time.
The crime scene itself would have been deeply unremarkable if there hadn’t been a corpse in it only a few days ago. Nothing immediately jumped out to Morgan as an obvious clue, but that was to be expected. Anything that obvious would have already been collected by the cops. Morgan needed to find something that the cops had missed. Perhaps something it would be very inconvenient for them to reach.
Their memory prickled. Hadn’t they just been thinking about something like this?
“Should we--” Francis started, but Morgan held up a hand to silence him, and then put a finger to their lips.
They heard something, quiet enough that it would easily be drowned out by conversation, or even the normal sounds of people moving about a room. Little claws against wood floor. A small animal moving about, trying not to be heard.
Morgan dropped to the floor, and under the couch, they found the source- a small rat, holding a severed human finger in its teeth. As soon as Morgan spotted it, it spotted them in return, and attempted to scurry away with its prize.
“The door!” Morgan yelled, and Francis slammed it shut, cutting off the rat’s escape. It squeaked indignantly, and Morgan leapt on it, trying to ignore the way it scratched at their hands with its tiny claws.
“Drop the finger and I’ll let you go!” they said. The rat dropped the finger onto the floor.
“Fuck you, copper!” it spat, giving Morgan a few painful bites before it wriggled out of their hands. Francis opened the door for it, and it ran off, cursing Morgan all the while.
“Thank you!” Morgan called after it. Francis moved to help them up, but they waved him off, gesturing towards the severed finger on the floor. He sighed and picked it up, putting it in an evidence bag while Morgan pushed themself to their feet.
“Well,” they said, dusting themself off, “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”
Francis chuckled and shook his head.
“We should clean those bites before they get infected,” he said.
“Aw, you’re not gonna kiss it better?”
“Not until we’ve cleaned them. There’s rat saliva in there.” Francis pulled a flask from one pocket, and a red silk handkerchief from another. He wet the cloth with the liquor, then dabbed the bites. Morgan winced at the sting.
Francis folded the hankie into a makeshift bandage, and wound it around the hand that was the most wounded, tying it with a neat knot. He pressed a quick kiss to Morgan’s knuckles before letting go off their hand. Then he took a nip of the liquor before putting it away.
“None for me? I’m in pain.”
“You’re the genius, Morgan, and I am but your humble assistant. You need to stay sharp.”
They sighed dramatically, and took out their notebook to write a few things down.
Morgan’s planner was wrong about the day. It had to be, because Morgan had been so sure it was Wednesday, but the damn thing had the gall to claim it was Thursday! That didn’t make any sense at all. They’d had a board meeting that morning, and they had meetings on Wednesdays, which meant it couldn’t be Thursday.
They tossed a few coins to an urchin boy for a copy of the Gazette just to check the masthead, and found it was in perfect agreement with their calendar: today was Echinacea. Huh. Morgan must have been mistaken after all.
They didn’t have time to dwell on it, as the Gazette’s usually eye-catching headline appropriately caught their eye:
HELL IS MISSING
…That was…bad, probably? They didn’t even know how to assess it. Hell was missing? How? Where did it go? According to the paper, Londoners woke up today to find their western neighbor gone, as if it had never been. Telescopes pointed towards the White City saw nothing at all. Morgan’s Great Hellbound Railway would need to change its name, because it now went nowhere. The Brass Embassy could not be reached for comment.
“Couldn’t be reached”? Morgan had just seen Virginia that morning. They’d march down to the Embassy themself and get some damn answers, this instant!
The route to Moloch Street was one of the most familiar paths that Morgan could imagine.They’d walked this so many times, they could do it blindfolded (and once they had the thought, they were tempted to try, but now was not the time). They used to hate coming out this way, right after they lost their soul. There were too many devils and, perhaps worse, too many people trying to get the attention of said devils. Any time there was a crowd, they could convince themself that they saw the back of Francis’ head, or the hem of his favorite coat, and they would instantly feel sick. They hadn’t seen him since he’d plied them with wine and honey to make them sign his infernal contract, and at first, seeing anyone who could possibly be his coworker at the Embassy made them want to vomit, leaving them more panicked and afraid than they’d ever been against any actually life-endangering threats.
When they worked with Jacob to plant a bomb in the Embassy, they’d managed to power through, unwilling to let him-or London-- down. Working with the Bishop had helped them even more, reminding them that they were but one of the countless number of Hell’s victims, and that striking back at the infernal was a worthwhile pursuit in any way they could manage it.
At this point, if they saw Francis again, they were only afraid of how far they were going to go to test the idea that devils can’t be killed. Seeing random devils on the street-or even in their own board room-- didn’t phase them anymore.
…But it was still a little suspect that, as they approached where they knew the Embassy to be, they’d seen neither hide nor hair of any devils whatsoever. As they rounded a corner, Moloch Street flickered like a broken zoetrope, and instead of another paving stone, Morgan’s feet found only… sand?
They weren’t on Moloch Street anymore. They weren’t even in London. They were on a tiny scrap of rock, no more than a half-mile wide, surrounded by the Unterzee. They could see the lights of London far to the west, leagues further than they had walked to get here. When they turned to look back at where they’d come, there was only a narrow cavelet, yawning darkly.
Well… if they managed to walk here in the first place, they must be able to walk back, right? Maybe if they just… closed their eyes and tried to retrace their steps? It wasn’t like they had much to lose by trying. There wasn’t any other way back to London that they could see, so their option was trying this or dying like a marooned zailor.
Their foot had hit sand right when they reached what they thought was the Embassy’s corner, just past the offices of Abaddon & Bael, which meant… A few steps forward, a left past where the chestnut seller would be, swinging past the one lamppost that burned hotter than the others, and their shoes should be touching down on cobble—
As if on cue, they nearly slipped on slick city streets, and their ears were assaulted by the sounds of drivers yelling at them to get out of the damn street. Back in London again. That was a relief, but left them with no more answers than when they’d left the house that day.
Over the usual cacophony of city life, Morgan could hear a familiar voice declaiming nearby. The Bishop of Southwark! He would know what to do. Or, at least, he would let Morgan bounce ideas off him, and the whole exercise would make them feel better.
They followed the sound of his voice to a plinth beneath a nearby lamppost, where he was preaching to a modest crowd with great froth and enthusiasm.
"London is finally rid of her scourge,” he proclaimed, “No more must we tolerate those vipers in our midst!” He carried on in that vein, and the crowd gradually warmed up to match his excitement. After all, if the Bishop was this excited by it, then it must be a good thing!
The Implacable Detective appeared next to Morgan, her expression grim. Evidently, she did not share the Bishop’s optimism about the situation. And frankly, neither did Morgan.
“So, what do you make of all this?” Morgan asked.
“I’m glad someone is having a good day,” she said, “What’s your least favorite day of the week?”
“Uh… Wednesday?” They had to get up early for their board meetings.
“What’s the fastest route between Spite and Veilgarden?”
“Childcake Street.”
“Name three Masters.”
“Mr Fires, Mr Wines, Mr Cups.”
The Detective nodded, seemingly pleased by Morgan’s answers.
“I see,” she said, “And what’s your least favorite day of the week?”
“Echinacea?” Why was she asking the same questions twice? No matter. She’d get the same answers.
“What’s the fasted route between Spite and Veilgarden?”
“Bad Monkey Road.”
“Name three Masters.”
“Mr Tiles, Mr Generals, Mr Lemonade.”
Those weren't the same answers.
Morgan shivered.
“Whatever’s set Hell to wandering is rewriting the rules,” the Detective said, “And not everybody has kept their wits about them – they think it's always been so."
Their conversation was interrupted by an uproarious cheer from the Bishop’s adoring crowd. He leapt down from the plinth and dusted himself off.
“Fletcher!” he said, spotting them behind the crowd, “There you are! Good to see you. And Detective! What brings you out here?”
“Presumably, you can guess the reason,” she said.
“But what’s to investigate?” he said, “Hell is gone, and good riddance!”
“But we don’t know where where, or why,” said the Detective.
“Oh, cheer up!” He turned towards Morgan and seemed genuinely surprised they weren’t sharing his good cheer. “Fletcher, I thought you of all people would be happy about this.”
“I wish I could be, your Grace,” Morgan said, “But what could make an entire city disappear like this? What sort of force can change the information in my own head? What if this is all some sort of trick Hell is pulling to make us let our guard down?”
“Perhaps you could ask a devil,” the Bishop laughed, “If you could find one!”
Morgan clenched their fists, trying to resist the urge to strike the man who had been so kind to them. While the Bishop was usually down for a good scrap, the two of them fighting in the street like urchins would just make them both look bad, and it wouldn’t get them any closer to answers or stability.
“Whatever you think of the new status quo,” the Detective sighed, “it is new. If things can change so suddenly, they can do so again.”
“And we might not even be able to tell,” Morgan said.
Southwark waved them off, but the Detective continued.
“I received word of a messenger,” she said, “The last one to leave Hell before it vanished. He’s due to arrive on Tuesday.”
And when, exactly, will that be?
“Well, when he gets here, you can ask him,” Southwark said, “Until then, leave me to celebrate. Unless you change your mind, Fletcher, in which case, you’re always welcome to join me.”
Morgan wished they could, but they couldn’t ignore the pit of fear growing in their belly.
“Please, your Grace,” they said, “What day do we have board meetings?”
“We had one this morning!”
Morgan grabbed the front of his cassock, if only to keep themself from tearing out their own hair.
“And what day is it today?” Morgan yelled, “We meet on Wednesdays, but suddenly, we’re meeting on Echinacea? How do you get from the boardroom to my house? Where do I even live? How can take this all in stride?” The Detective put her hand on their shoulder, and they released the Bishop.
“Sorry,” they said, “I have been finding this whole situation very… unsettling. Celebrate as you please. But keep an eye out while you do, and we’ll meet later at… I don’t know, the Medusa’s Head. And we’ll discuss.” The Bishop looked like he was going to interrupt, but Morgan cut him off. “Please, your Grace. Just as a favor to me.”
“Oh, fine,” the Bishop huffed, “But I hate going to the Medusa’s Head.”
“Ugh, I hate going to the forensics lab,” Morgan grumbled.
“Oh, it will be fine,” Francis said, “You love labs and science and whatnot!”
“...Well, true,” Morgan said, with a small chuckle, “But they only let me in the lab at all because your friend works there, and he hates me.”
“Jaques doesn’t hate you.”
“Francis.”
“...Alright, maybe he hasn’t been… the friendliest,” Francis admitted, “But only because he’s jealous of you.”
“Of course he’s jealous of me,” Morgan said, “He wants your attention so badly, he practically starts drooling when you enter the room.”
Francis laughed.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said, “Unfortunately for him, I have exacting standards for whom my columns cover, and as Jaques knows, had he met them, it would have happened already.”
Morgan was very aware of Francis’ “exacting standards,” though they seemed to have never struggled to meet them. It had caused some hubbub when Francis’s main journalistic beat had changed from society to crime, suspiciously soon after making Morgan’s acquaintance. Jaques had felt doubly snubbed, a spare heir who’d gotten an education in the sciences, only for his family’s fortunes to sink low enough for him to actually find himself in need of employment.
It was taken, ah ha ha, as read that anyone that caught Francis’ eye was at minimum, a burgeoning up and comer in London, and Morgan’s reputation had indeed inflated a bit as of late.
Personally, they didn’t put much stock in it. While it was nice to think Francis believed in them, they had a difficult time accepting the idea that he had some sort of knowledge about them that they didn’t. He was a smart man, sure, but it wasn’t like he could see the future. Frankly, Morgan suspected part of the reason they caught more eyes is that Francis insisted on treating them as a clotheshorse, and they simply looked the part more than they had in hand me downs.
Ah, well. They loved him, even with all his arrogance.
When Francis entered the forensics lab, Jaques’ face brightened, and then fell immediately upon seeing Morgan, too.
“Hello, Francis,” he said, “I see you brought your little pet.”
“Technically, I brought him,” Morgan said, before Francis had a chance to defend them, “And I’m hardly little.”
“You know the rules, Fletcher,” Jaques said, “No admission to the lab without following protocols.”
Morgan smiled sweetly and threw the evidence back onto his desk. The severed finger inside (only lightly chewed) sloshed unpleasantly.
“Ah,” Jaques said, “I see.”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Francis said.
“...I will be billing your office, Francis,” Jaques said, “That one is notoriously unreliable.”
Morgan wanted to argue, but didn’t see much point. They were getting what they wanted, anyway. And, as Francis had said, Jaques was only saying it because he was jealous of them.
Francis bade Jaques a cheerful goodbye and put his arm around Morgan’s shoulders as they left.
“It’s getting late in the day. Perhaps late enough for a proper drink?” he suggested.
“I couldn’t imagine a finer idea.”
Morgan entered the Medusa’s Head, shaking the rainwater off their coat and hat. The pub was devoid of almost all its clientele-- whether the thunderstorm outside kept them all home, or if the two remaining patrons had driven them all out was anyone’s guess. The Bishop of Southwark paced as the Implacable Detective sat at a table with a chessboard, patiently waiting for the Bishop to make his move.
“Terrible weather we’re having,” Morgan said, “Have we always had weather?”
“Yes,” the Bishop said, at the same time the Detective said, “No.”
“Wonderful,” Morgan said, approaching the table to study the board. The Bishop appeared to be playing white, and though the game was not especially advanced, he was already at risk of losing his namesake piece to one of the Detective’s knights.
“The Bishop prefers pacing over playing,” she said.
“Not a fan of chess, my lord?” Morgan asked.
“I play sometimes with the Abbott-Commander,” he said, “That’s a lot more fun, though.”
“Oh? How so?”
“More wrestling.”
Morgan had to assume very little chess was actually played during those games, although they did enjoy imagining how one could incorporate wrestling into the rules of chess.
“Have you found out anything?” the Detective asked.
“I don’t know,” Morgan said, “How can you even tell if progress has been made when London is like this?” They couldn’t believe their life had reached a point where they were longing for the stability of the Iron Republic. “I found a shopkeeper on Hollow Street who had sold all his stock, but no one had yet bought anything. Thankfully, most of his wares were in my possession, so I just bought the damned things I wanted and returned the rest. That seemed to set cause and effect back to rights, at least for him. But I can’t think about the weather without getting a migraine, I’m no closer to figuring out when Tuesday is supposed to happen, and no one’s been able to locate the Brass Embassy.”
“For the best, I say,” the Bishop said. His pacing had taken him behind the bar, where he was pulling himself a pint.
“No!” Morgan said, with a stomp of their foot, “Not for the best! How can you fight an enemy you can’t even find?”
As much as Morgan would love for all the devils to be driven out of London, having them just suddenly disappear was the worst possible outcome. Where did they go? What were they planning? Now, instead of being confident London’s devils were primarily contained in the Embassy, Morgan felt like they could jump out at any time. They kept thinking they smelled Francis’ cologne, or heard his laugh in a crowd. Morgan was a string pulled taut, and if nothing changed soon, they would break. But it’s not like they could explain to the Bishop that they couldn’t share his good cheer because they were beset by phantoms.
“You’ve brought good news, Director,” the Detective said, seemingly content to ignore any disputes between Morgan and their mentor, “The symptoms can be treated. Things are still malleable.”
“Not too malleable, I hope,” the Bishop said, “Things cannot continue as they are. But some things should.”
Morgan whipped their head around to glare at him, ready to argue, but the Detective interrupted before they could get a scathing word out.
“Fletcher,” she said, “Take over for him, would you? I don’t think this chess game is likely to finish otherwise.”
Morgan sat down at the chessboard, relieved to be given a concrete task to do. The Bishop had left the board in a poor position, but certainly not an unwinnable one. Frankly, it was better than Morgan had initially assumed. He was not what they would call a strategic thinker, which was something they usually appreciated about him. They knew plenty of people who were too strategic in their thinking-- socialites and Great Game types alike, who spent too much time putting themselves in advantageous positions that they never actually used to their advantage, because then it would be gone.
The Bishop was not like that. He was perfectly willing to use his resources, to call in favors, to actually make moves instead of just hoarding opportunities. Unfortunately, it meant he was one of the worst chess players Morgan had ever seen.
They managed to extricate himself from most of the difficulties on the board as the Detective continued going over matters.
“Treating the symptoms alone won’t be enough,” she said, threatening Morgan’s queen with her knight, “We must address the cause, and in order to do that, we must understand exactly wh--”
There was a clattering on the cobbles, and an angular beast the size of a pony crashed through the window. It cantered around the room, its broken-glass hooves tearing up the floor as it headed for the windows on the far wall.
Both Morgan and the Bishop shifted reflexively into fighting stances, but Southwark reached the beast first, leaping over the bar to tackle the creature. It struggled and writhed against his hold, but the Bishop was a professional, having held countless squirming babies without dropping a single one into the baptismal font.
The creature’s dimensions seemed to warp as it kicked against its captor-- one moment, it was the size of a horse, the next, it was no bigger than a housecat. Watching it made Morgan’s eyes hurt, but it didn’t seem to phase the Bishop. It was like the thing was also changing his size along with its own. If they concentrated, Morgan could follow the beast through every change it made, along its path and then even further, to where it would soon escape out the window.
Oh, blast.
The beast boiled, dissolving into a cloud of sigils that easily slipped the Bishop’s hold and fled out the window, burning neat holes in the glass.
With the beast gone, the Implacable Detective rose from behind an overturned table.
“Well,” she said, “I believe we may have found our cause.”
“What was that thing?” Morgan asked. Now that the danger was one, they were making an attempt to clean up the mess-- righting tables, recovering chairs, collecting scattered chess pieces. Sadly, their game would have to be declared a draw.
“I’m not exactly sure,” the Detective said, “It seemed like it could alter fundamental rules of existence as it pleased.”
“So, something is rewriting the laws of reality?” the Bishop said.
“I think that’s the best description of what we’re seeing, yes.”
“And when we… push back,” Morgan added, “we flush these rogue laws out of cover.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“Finally!” The Bishop said, cheerfully clapping a hand on Morgan’s shoulder, “Something we can sink our teeth into!”
“It has been a while since we’ve gone hunting,” Morgan said, sharing his sudden good mood. After all, if the problems in London were manifesting as beasts, that meant Morgan could actually do something about them. Metaphysical problems were beyond their ken, but physical problems? Child's play. And Morgan was very much looking forward to taking their frustrations out on something.
The hunt was on.
The hunt for the Severed Twelve lead Morgan to, ominously, a slaughterhouse, which was the base of the ring’s operations.
They’d told Francis about the place, but they had kept mum about their plan to infiltrate it. He tended to worry unnecessarily, and besides, when Morgan had interrogated one of the Twelve’s lease-loyal rodents, he’d assured them the place would be empty. They were just looking for some concrete evidence, after all, not confrontation with the ringmaster(s).
They pushed open the building’s large steel doors, making significantly more noise than they were hoping as the old hinges screamed in displeasure. At least there was no one around to hear-
The lights flared on, revealing a warehouse full of displeased-looking people, pointing guns at Morgan.
Shit. Maybe they should have expected this
“I’m gonna kill that fucking rat,” Morgan muttered, and they took off running.
Hunting laws was good exercise, and had the added benefit of slowly setting the world back to rights. Tuesday had finally arrived, along with Hell’s messenger (although Milton had yet to tell them anything of note). London was once again free from the scourge of weather. Mister Dinners and her friends were no longer serving as the “misters of the bizarre”, and their chiropterous counterparts and been restored to their position of dubiously-deserved authority.
But whatever law was tormenting Morgan in specific, making them forget they hated devils and why, tricking them into thinking they were still a private detective on a dangerous case had yet to show itself.
Morgan wasn’t sure how sapient these rogue laws were, but if they were capable of higher reason at all, they would think the thing was hiding because it knew they were going to unmake it with extreme prejudice at the first opportunity.
Still, progress was progress. Every law they captured got them a little closer to the ones that were actually tormenting them. At the very least, they’d like if they could find where the damn Brass Embassy kept getting off to. Maybe the Embassy devils were not involved in London’s current crisis, but they were still no friends of Morgan’s, and they couldn’t relax when their enemies could be around any corner.
They set off running again, trying to ignore the cramp forming in their leg.
Morgan languished on Francis’ sofa, reviewing their notes on the case. They’d managed to escape the slaughterhouse ambush alive and only moderately injured. In fact, only one bullet actually made contact; it was just poor luck that it went clean through their calf, leaving walking frustrating and painful.
Francis had been taking care of them, which was sweet, but would have been sweeter if he weren’t also furious with them for sneaking off on their own.
“How are you feeling today?” Francis asked as he set a cup of tea beside them.
“I still have a hole in my leg,” Morgan said, “So, I’ve certainly been better. But I’ve also been worse.”
Francis huffed.
“What were you even thinking, going there alone?” he asked, even though he knew the answer from every other time he’d asked.
“That it would be empty.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you would have stopped me, on the off chance it wasn’t empty.”
“And I would have been right!”
“You would have been,” Morgan said, taking a sip of their tea. He made a pretty good cuppa, although they had the strangest feeling that they’d had a better one, in a house by the docks. They couldn’t quite remember who’d made it for them, but it was just on the tip of their tongue…
Francis swore under his breath.
“You have been intolerable since you took this damn case,” he said, his mahogany eyes almost flashing with smoldering irritation.
Maybe he had a point. They had been feeling off since--
The realization hit them suddenly, like a bucket of cold water being dumped on their head.
…since Hell had disappeared, and all of London’s devils along with it.
“Why… why are you here?” Morgan asked, looking at Francis with fresh eyes. He shouldn’t be here. He couldn’t be.
“Morgan? Are you alright?” he asked, taking a step towards them. Fuck, fuck, fuck, they had to get out of here. They tried to stand and their wounded leg gave out instantly, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the ground. It didn’t matter. They’d crawl away if they had to.
“What are you doing!?” Francis yelped.
“Stay away from me, you bastard!” Morgan screamed. They didn’t know if he was a devil or a man, a ghost or a nightmare, but for once, they were content with not knowing.
Francis was still attempting to reason with them, but they didn’t hear a word, at first because they were too panicked to listen, and then because they were distracted by a something else-- a small, nondescript creature attempting to slither out the door while everyone was distracted. A rogue law.
Morgan leapt on the thing, catching it in their bare hands like a bug. It bit them, or scratched them, or did something with its body to hurt Morgan’s hands in an attempt to make them left go. If anything, it made Morgan grip tighter, gritting their teeth through the pain.
The law rippled and shifted, morphing from a vaguely beast-shaped thing into a string of burning sigils.
No matter-- Morgan grabbed their notebook of case notes and slammed a blank page on top of the thing, trapping it in two dimensions. It writhed around the page as Morgan furiously inscribed a net around it. Eventually, there was nowhere on the page left to escape to, and it leapt out of the book, now quadrupedal and running. Morgan gave chase; their wounded leg screamed in protest, and they ignored it. After all, they never even took the case of the Severed Twelve in the first place. How could they have been injured on the trail? The pain wasn’t real.
The law was fast, but Morgan was faster, and better adapted to embodied space than their quarry. They stayed hot on its heels, closing the distance more and more, until they were close enough to touch the sharp, shifting spikes that seemed to function as the beast’s fur.
It hesitated for just a moment, contemplating where it should run, and Morgan seized the chance to tackle it.
It tried changing its shape to escape once more, but this time, Morgan had shaken off the throes of false realities and had enough sense to throw the thing in a jar when it made itself small enough.
When they closed the jar’s lid, the rogue law was cut off from anything it could attempt to rewrite. Morgan was free.
They sighed, righted themself, and took stock of their surroundings. Hunting laws often lead them to unexpected corners of London, and sometimes beyond. Rogue spatial laws had brought Morgan everywhere from the Bone Market to Moloch Street. On one memorable occasion, they ended up on stage at Mahogany Hall, and on one forgettable one, the Cave of the Nadir.
The street they currently found themself on was sparsely populated, shabby, and sad. Houses of bent timber and warped brick lined either side of the road, their frames buckling from the weight of too many storeys. It looked like the backdrop for countless crimes, and Morgan realized, belatedly, that one of those crimes had been theirs.
They were on Stonymonk Street, only a few houses down from the same building where they’d met Jacob, and the two of them coordinated their attack on the Brass Embassy.
And, perhaps, somewhat ironically, when they looked up at the end of the street, there was the Embassy itself, looking to all the world like it had always been there, and it was not prone to moving.
Morgan stared at the wretched gleaming edifice for a long, stupid moment before grabbing the jarred law and giving it a little shake.
“You little cunt!” they laughed, “Are you trying to make it up to me?”
It swirled around the jar, which Morgan decided to interpret as it begging for their forgiveness.
“Fine,” they said, “I’ll deal with you later. Let’s go make some actual progress.”
They tucked the jar into the pocket of their coat and headed into the Embassy, feeling for the first time in ages like they might, at some point, be able to actually put London back to normal.