#ch: Anthony

[hannahssimblr]

I trek down to the surf shack to get something to eat soon after, on the way passing a couple messing about in the sea. The girl, about my age, has light brown hair, straight, wet, and clinging to her shoulders. I squint at her for a minute, but as she turns her face, her profile is wrong. She's not who I thought she was.

Liam’s dad, Anthony, is at the till today. 

“Hello, Mister Turner!” He says brightly. When he smiles like that, with his crooked front teeth on show he looks a lot like his son. We exchange some pleasantries and I buy the standard limp burger with wet lettuce and a bag of greasy chips. I make sure to request double the ketchup, and then I park myself on the sandy benches out front, squeezing packet after packet onto the soggy bun. 

Liam ambles by about five minutes into my underwhelming feast, a surfboard tucked under his arm and water dripping from the blonde curls around his face. I raise a hand to him in greeting and he returns a thin smile. 

“Hi, Jude.”

“Hey. Were you surfing?”

“Yep,” his eyes flick down to the pile of napkins catching all of the sauce dripping out of my burger. If he was some girl I’d probably be embarrassed about the mess, but he’s not. He’s Liam.

“Heard you were in Dublin yesterday.” He says.

“I was.”

“With Evie.”

The way he says it is interesting. I glance up, squinting a little against the sun, but I can make out his frozen expression, the way he flexes his fingers around his board. I pause, “Uh huh. With Evie.”

“Sounds like you had a very nice day.”

“Did she say that, yeah?”

“Yeah, she told me when she came down to see me. Literally first thing in the morning.”

Seems like an arbitrary detail. I shrug, “Okay, I'm glad.”

He hovers there for too long like he wants to say something else, but I really don’t care enough to wonder, I just pick at my chips and wait for him to go away. 

“I’m going to ask her to be the date to my debs tonight,” he blurts out, and again, I shrug, “Okay.”

“Kelly told me that Evie’s dying for me to ask her, so, I will.”

“Yeah, I mean, sounds about right since she’s your girlfriend and all,” I deliver a serene smile and pretend to be ignorant of reality while a blush rises from the collar of his wetsuit.

“Did she talk about me yesterday?”

“No.”

It seems he can't decide what to feel about this, and short circuits to a nervous laugh. “Cool, I guess what we have is pretty personal, so... That's why.”

“Yeah. Good for you. I- um, do you need to dry off now or something?” I don't understand why he isn’t going away. I just want to eat in peace. 

“I’ll probably dry in the sun and then go out on the waves again after lunch or whatever.”

“Nice.”

“Do you know how to surf, by the way?” I also don’t understand why he’s puffing his chest out like that, making himself all big. I just shake my head. 

“Shame, but if you wanted to I could teach you a thing or two. You know, girls love a guy who can ride the waves.”

Oh God. Ride the waves? I cringe so hard that I have to break eye contact. What is happening? Why do I feel like he’s trying to start a pissing match with me? It’s bizarre. And besides, as if I’ve ever had an issue getting girls to like me, I can’t even work out his angle. “I’m moving to a country that’s mostly landlocked in like, six weeks, so I think I’m alright.”

“Yeah, cool, cool…” he says, “well if you change your mind you know where to find me.” 

“Definitely.”

And with a flick of his chin, he marches off, leaving me alone with my greasy lunch.

“Fucked if I know what that was about,” I mutter.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[dcmultiverse]

MY ADVENTURES WITH SUPERMAN Let's Go to Ivo Tower, You Say

[starry-on-ao3]

A friendship in the making...

She might not be the only one being territorial / Am I about to hear I've done something wrong again?

I meant me. I may have over reacted, very slightly, about the bedroom.

I'm in your way. I'll find somewhere else. I confess, I'd grown rather fond of the place.

I grew up in boarding school. It's been novel to put roots down somewhere / Then you'll stay. And we'll share.

All Creatures Great And Small (2020-)

5x4 (Uninvited Guests)

[dunbonnets]

Juliette: Darling, sweetheart, love of my life.

Anthony: ...You're angry with me, aren't you?

Juliette: Absolutely livid.

[the-tvdors]

MARY TUDOR and EUSTACE CHAPUYS relationship throughout seasons.

requested by @lost-in-the-shelves

[dailyrannells]

Whizzer & Jason + Packing Up

Whizzer will act very parental, Completely gentle, Absolutely swell.

[roguestorm]

Emmatony nation how do you feel about canon sapiosexual Emma frost

Okay I saw this message on Wednesday and didn't get a chance to read IIM 13 until today, but I still was not prepared for this:

Like I thought maybe she'd say something like "I'm only attracted to intelligent minds," not literally, "I'm a sapiosexual, Anthony."

So, first of all, it's HILARIOUS, and we all know that's the #1 criterion on which I am grading this Duggan run, so no objections there!

On another note, Emma and sexuality is a complicated topic. She's been in multiple relationships that were abusive/sexually exploitative (her high school English teacher, Shaw) and she for a long time used her sexuality as a weapon and a way of controlling others rather than as an expression of her own self and her own desires. And given how she uses her body to control/influence others, she probably does think that being like sexually attracted to other people's bodies is a weakness. And therefore she is not attracted to other people's bodies, she is only attracted to their minds. It makes a lot of sense for her as a character.

So that's what I think! How's everyone else feeling on the subject?

[artofdisneyfairies]

Disney Fairies Puppet Immersive - Concept Art by Anthony Archer

- ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛ -

[godscobhhq]

Louie from Ducktales

Name: Louie Duke Age: 22 Profession: UTP Pronouns: UTP FC suggestions: Fin Argus, Anthony Turpel Availability: Open

Biography UTP

Notable character information: Louie's laidback attitude never helped them much in school, but it makes them a great companion for Uncle Scrooge's lucrative treasure hunting.

[coredrill]

also. this is everyone’s sign to watch bravern RIGHT NOW

[eddiemunscns]

Dearest gentle reader,

It would appear as though the black sheep of the Featherington family has made her return to London. For those of you who may not recall, Persephone Featherington has always done everything in her power to make a mockery of high society’s expectations for women. Though it is highly unlikely that Lord and Lady Featherington’s eldest has returned with the intention of finally finding a husband, perhaps she will surprise the entirety of the ton with only the best of intentions. Or perhaps her return has something to do with a certain Viscount...

Taglist: @fakedatings @steveshcrringtons @cas-verse @acabecca @starcrossedjedis @malafvma @chrissymunson @reyofluke-ocs @arrthurpendragon @sgtbuckyybarnes @samwilsonns @steve--harrington--gal @asirensrage @drbobbimorse @valdrinors

[suitsusboth]

where the love light gleams✨

chapter eight now available

[feldspursfiyero]

i have a (very important 😏🐱🐶) compilation to make (excerpts from baby, you're a haunted house by spit-kitten (simon/anthony)):

ch 1:

After all, not everybody had the benefit of Simon's distinguished glare. Anthony smarted at the memory of standing before Nigel Berbrooke this summer and singularly failing to intimidate him. Nigel Berbrooke. He had as good as given up on reprimanding Eloise for anything ever since the day that he had stormed into her room with newly-bruised knees and demanded that she refrain from leaving piles of books lying around in hallways, and she had simply laughed and told him to stop looking like a scalded cat and start looking where he was going. And there was that night in Oxford - he could not remember the beginning of the quarrel, or who it had been with - just recalled looking up at somebody, stung, and a voice full of derision saying, 'God, Bridgerton, spare me the big eyes: you look like a kicked bitch. Can you fetch? Beg? Roll over?'

ch 2:

Not that the strikes themselves were anything like wholehearted: Simon was mostly feinting at his head, giving him the lightest of taps to the shoulder, to the flank – spending more of his energy on laughing at Anthony than earnestly attempting to blacken his eye. Anthony himself was more interested in trying to step on his opponent’s feet than avoiding his strikes. Eventually recklessness earned its just desert, and his efforts brought him close enough to let Simon catch him by the shoulder. And then to squeeze, firmly enough that it had Anthony gasping out a laugh of surprise and trying to squirm away from the pressure of a thumb against his collar bone. Simon, damn him, just grinned and held on; gave him a shake, like he was shaking a boisterous puppy by its scruff.

ch 5:

The difficulty came in keeping his affection, his pathetic lap-dog affection, in check.

He had let it flourish unexamined for so many years now that he found he could no longer remember where the line should be drawn between permissible familiarity and what lay beyond; between teasing camaraderie and – well, there was no way round it – and coquetry.

The delight he took in Simon's company made it all too easy to forget. He was too eager to please, to amuse, to rouse his friend from the fits of guarded melancholy to which he was still prey, and he was too swept along by the pleasure he gained from any success in that arena to heed his own words or to look ahead to where they might be leading him, and then without any warning he would find himself stranded. Breaking off in the middle of the story he was telling, hoping to make Simon laugh. Suddenly remembering that the last time he had recounted it, he had been lying boneless and aglow in Siena's bed, his head pillowed on her thigh, hoping to make her laugh. Hoping to make her love him.

The only real, sustained privacy he was afforded was when George was changing his bandages, and he would spend the entire time with his face heated, sunk in confusion, poring over his conduct so far that day and probing it for slips. On more than one occasion, Simon had remarked on his flush on his return, his 'What do you two do in there?' not sounding entirely like a joke. Well, better that he should believe Anthony was letting every one of his footmen fuck him senseless than that he should suspect the truth.

And that was really, truly the only privacy. Anthony no longer had to worry about retiring to his dark and chilly bedroom: he simply was not doing so. When the first evening since that long, strange night of the shooting had begun to draw to a strained close, he had been so obviously unwilling to part – had sat up so long in front of the fire, talking of nothing – that Simon had finally tired of his slow blinks and stifled yawns, and said, more gentle than Anthony was used to hearing him, 'You need to lie down, Bridgerton, before you fall down. Come, can you bear to spend another night curled up on a sofa like the world's heaviest kitten?'

Anthony had said, less indignant than he was used to hearing himself, that he could bear anything Simon could, and bear it better, or words to a similar effect.

'How fortunate,' his host had replied in tones of grim amusement, guiding him to his less-than-luxurious bed for the night, 'that I am a man with more than one couch. I will take this one, and we shall see whose back gives out first.' And Anthony had concentrated all the parts of his mind that had not already fallen asleep on feeling entirely normal as he watched Simon walk away to the other side of the room – not devastated at all.

He had been so exhausted that first evening that it had been easy, completely natural, to fall asleep there with the soft sound of Simon's breathing in the air. It had become – more difficult over the past couple of days. His mind had been less obligingly empty, the nights less obligingly dreamless and every morning when he woke, sleep-dazed, to see Simon sitting across from him, it had been harder and harder to remember why he was all the way over there, already dressed and attending to his post, and why it was imperative that Anthony should not reach out for him and kiss him good morning.

And it was beginning to do terrible things to his back, but he rather felt he deserved them.

--

His host cut an impressive figure in his boots and long coat, with shining raindrops caught in his hair. Far more suited to a backdrop suddenly grown wild and romantic than Anthony himself, who must already be well on his way to looking as bedraggled as the cat from the poem, after she had slipped into the fish-pond and drowned.

--

Don't, he thought, numbly, don't. But Simon continued, his voice heavy, soaked in scorn.

'I have cheering news for you: unmarried, no heir, beginning to be notorious – in his eyes, you have already failed. Every day that you linger here, tempting fate, you are failing him further. How would he react if he saw you so unmanned by such a hopeless attachment?’ – Anthony stopped breathing – ‘Lapdog to an opera singer, for God's sake. The cast-off plaything of somebody who spurns, who does not even see you. Do you think it would make him proud?'

The pounding of Anthony's pulse was almost too much to let him hear this last. Simon did not even know what he had hit on, could not know the true resonance of his words – He was caught between wanting to lunge at him, and being rooted to the spot, pale and speechless. Here it was, the kind of scene he had been running from all week – must have been fearing for years, without ever truly understanding why. Here was a glimpse of the ridicule, the disgust that awaited him if his mask of indifferent friendship were ever to slip and reveal the detestable truth.

If at any point this past week he had been unsure for a moment that he loved Simon, then he knew it now. He knew it with more certainty than he had known anything in his life, because if he had not loved him then this would not feel quite so much like some vital thread had been pulled out of him, and he was going to shake apart at the seams.

He grasped for the instinctive fury that would have flared up so easily only a week ago; he tried to let it rise and carry him forward, tried to form a fist. But he could not approach. He could not get closer; he could not make himself touch Simon. People will talk, he thought, with a kind of dull horror. Oh, God.

All of his famous temper, all of his precious disdain; it had all abandoned him completely, draining out and leaving him pathetically sick and shaky. He felt only an abject self-loathing, so thick his throat hurt with it.

And he was going to feel like this, he realised, feel a portion of this utter worthlessness, every time he looked at Simon – for the rest of his life.

'You bastard,' he said, voice horribly soft, and did the only thing he could think of. He turned and left.

ch 8:

'How are your ribs?' he asked, fixing the patient with a stern look. He really would leave Anthony alone if there was the slightest hint of pain, no matter how difficult that might be.

Anthony seemed entirely unintimidated; he simply laughed and gave a pleased stretch, pressing into the hand in his hair in the manner of a cat. A self-satisfied but particularly winsome cat. 'Now, what could that question possibly signify?' he said, with a side-long glance and a spirited grin. 'Desperate to fuck me again, by any chance? Do you have a surgeon waiting in the wings to come and clear me for duty – or shall we throw caution to the wind and simply get on with it?’

As Anthony's ideas went, that one did not sound so bad. Simon couldn't very well not grind the wretch's face gently into the pillows for his impertinence, not when he already had a convenient hand in his hair, but he did not make much of a job of it; he was too eager to kiss away his captive’s laughing protestations and turn to other, even more satisfying methods of making him writhe against the sheets.

He was starting to have a notion – appearing before him like a vision, a miracle – of what might come after you had everything you wanted. Perhaps you had it again, and again, and again.

--

The thought of being able to reach over and take Anthony's hand while he was trying to eat his breakfast, of capturing his wrist, leaning down to steal the food from his fork and getting kicked at for his trouble - of doing, in fact, what he always had done, and yet having it be so entirely different; it was absurdly pleasing. Of being able to regard him openly when he was all early morning energy, as he washed and dressed and sat obediently for his shave; of watching as the weight of Simon's gaze made his cheeks hot under George's brisk fingers, the air in the room going tight.

[dunbonnets]

Juliette: I think I'm in love with Anthony.

Eloise: Wait, Anthony, as in my brother?

Juliette: Yes, that Anthony. Thoughts?

Eloise: And prayers.

[the-boy-king-rp-multi]

Headcanon:

When angels fall- The site of their fall leaves last reminisce of their grace, creates something there, draws and pulls in humans with the angelic aura of the site. It's a particularly strong pull when someone like an archangel falls. The most beautiful flowers grow where Crowley fell all those eons ago even under the most duress conditions for plants to grow, and in the beginning decades when he fell, a gothic cathedral was built to the archangel Raphael. Centuries later now, it lays abandoned in the middle of London, unkempt and hailed as a public garden now. There's a near crumbling statue of him outside the church, unidentifiable to him with the face broken, moss overgrowing on the statue, the place mostly abandoned aside from the few who visit to pay respects to whoever the church was built for.

It makes Crowley's heart ache with familiarity and bitterness.

It's the only church Crowley can step foot in entirely without repercussions such as his feet burning, being built to him. Fallen angels churches always end up abandoned, a reminder that they've been abandoned too. Left with one heavenly place on earth, to remind them of what they lost and can never have back. The church has a well but the water isn't holy, not anymore. Crowley often goes here to reminisce and lay amongst the flowers, take care of the abandoned church's gardens. Aziraphale discovered the place decades ago and has found it a place of comfort as well, unknowing in whose name it was built to. The church looks abandoned, but the gardens have always looked mysteriously perfect. Churches hailed to fallen angels will always end up abandoned eventually- Another part of heavens punishment. Built in the tenth century, ironically the church took damage in the year of 1666. It was attempted to be rebuilt in the 17th century, further damaged in WWll during the blitz.

The Well

[desos-records]

Chapter 16: Not In Blood, But In Bond

First | Prev / Next

Ghost possession doesn't happen often, but fatality rates are high. Even if an agent does survive, there are the aftereffects to worry about.

After surviving a possession, Lucy Carlyle struggles with recovery, delving ever deeper into the memories of Visitors and, in the process, stumbling into the world of blackmarket Sources.

Meanwhile, George Karim races to learn the truth behind ghost possession in order to protect Lucy and save future agents.

And Anthony Lockwood must face his own past with the London underworld if he wants to save his friends and himself.

-

"Do you remember our deal?" George asked, cornering Lockwood in the basement office where he stood in front of his desk with his back to the entrance.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair—it stuck up all around his head so that he resembled a disgruntled porcupine—not even turning around as he stared at the map of London on the wall. Yellow and red pins stuck out from various locations, the site of every case Lockwood & Co had ever taken, yellow for Type Ones, red for Type Twos. The pins had almost doubled in number since Lucy's arrival.

"And which deal is that?" he asked, voice low in his throat.

Lockwood could do strange things with his voice, making himself sound older or smarter or more in control, mirroring vocal tics and patterns to subtly earn the trust of clients. George had noticed how he picked up Lucy's habit of dropping her voice when she wanted to be taken seriously and his own tendency to click his tongue in disapproval. Lockwood's surface changed so very easily.

Now, George thought he could hear the ring of a drawn rapier in his voice, the silence before a strike.

"You promised you would tell me if it were getting bad again."

"I'm fine, George."

"You're not telling us everything. Someone shot you and you're not even the least bit concerned? They could've killed you. And it's like you don't even care!"

Lockwood didn't answer and didn't move. With irritating desperation, George wished he'd yell or throw things or at least try and tick him off—anything, anything, but silence.

"It's more than just the relicmen or Fairfax," he continued, not bothering to hide the edge building in his voice. "And whatever it is, you can't pretend it doesn't concern us."

"It's my company," Lockwood said slowly. "I don't have to—"

"Don't give me that," George snapped. "Your name might be on the door, but we're all of us risking our lives out there. Tell me what's going on or, so help me, I will bench you myself."

Finally, he turned around and leaned against the desk as if needing it for support. Lockwood could construct a mask of himself as easily as breathing and so convincing that George sometimes forgot what lay beneath. He saw it now, in his bottomless black eyes, the grief and the anger and, worst of all, the guilt. It struck George with such force, he felt it in his chest like a salt-bomb.

"I don't know how," Lockwood whispered. A corner of his mouth quirked and he exhaled shortly. "Funny, isn't it? Me being lost for words."

"You could talk the mortar out of a brick wall," George said, tossing a life line into stormy waters. "You can talk to me."

"There are things about me, about my past, that you wouldn't like if you knew."

He scoffed. "You burn toast even with an automatic toaster. I struggle to see how anything could be worse than the fact I can't trust you in the kitchen for two minutes put together."

A sad, hesitant smile collected in Lockwood's face. "Literal or metaphorical?"

"Very literal."

Then he took a careful breath through his nose and let it out again through his mouth. George remembered teaching him how to do that when he needed to regulate himself, something he'd learnt from his mum.

"Alright then," he said, and hopped up onto his desk, swinging his feet like a kid. "What do you know about the relic black market?"

George pulled around his desk chair and flopped into it, wishing they'd started this conversation in the kitchen so he could've at least had some tea. "Relicmen steal Sources and sell them to rich, eccentric buyers too thick to come up with something better to spend their money on."

"Rich and eccentric is right. And thick, certainly, but more importantly…" Lockwood paused and picked up a small paperweight shaped like the Egyptian god, Osiris, tracing the feathers along its crown with his thumb. The metal shone bright over the spot while the rest was dull. "They're desperate for what their money can't buy."

"Which is?"

"A foot in the door to the most exclusive club in England. One with the answers to all your problems." He said this so wearily it reminded him of Barnes.

"You're being cryptic."

"It is cryptic. Relic hunters call it the Hidden Archive. Because that's what they do, collect Sources in exchange for favors. They can make the scandals of the idle rich disappear, save companies from bankruptcy, make agents turn up on the shores of the Thames rather than their homes. George, these people make Fairfax look like a child playing at pretend."

George frowned. "And nobody notices? Not DEPRAC, not the police, not anyone?"

"Believe me, they know. Barnes knows. But they have their people everywhere, planted in every institution you can think of. And they're too careful to leave evidence."

"How do you know all this?"

"Because I used to work for them."

One of the earliest cases that George took as an agent had, without warning, gone from a simple Type One to a full-blown poltergeist. The Visitor had created a vortex in a room far too small for it and he remembered the feeling of air torn from his lungs. He felt a bit like that now.

"I told you and Lucy the truth before," Lockwood continued. "I wasn't a relicman. I was something much worse."

George shook himself a little, then took his glasses off and started to rub at them. "You could do without the dramatizing, you know," he said mildly.

He could practically hear the exhausted smile when Lockwood spoke again. "I started as a canary, using my Talent to test the strength of Sources for them. Then I sold them some of my parents' artefacts and, eventually, they took me on as a runner instead—transporting Sources and artefacts to and from deals. No one looks twice at a kid with a rapier carrying a bag of silver-glass, do they?"

"And all this on top of agent training?"

"Ah. No." Lockwood flashed a quick, apologetic grin. "Not exactly. Nigel Sykes was one of theirs. My point of contact, you might call him. I'm not convinced that was actually his name, he always—"

"Wait." George slipped his glasses back on. "Were you actually trained at all? Are you even certified?"

"All my paperwork is in order, if that's what you're asking."

"Jesus." 

No bloody wonder, he thought. A thousand small mysteries about Anthony Lockwood abruptly slotted into place. 

Then something occurred to George. He sat forward in his chair. "You said you used to work for them. How did you get out? They don't strike me as the type to accept resignations."

"They aren't." Lockwood shrugged and set down the paperweight. "I blackmailed one of their main suppliers," he said, trying and failing to not sound smug about it.

"What?"

"For a while, they seemed content to let me go, but things have changed. The Archive is buying again and everyone in the underworld wants in."

"And then you told all of London we'd handled the Source of a famous Type Two."

Lockwood clicked his tongue. "Not my finest moment. Annabel's ring would be worth a small favor or two. Minor players would kill for that."

"But what does the Archive want with all those Sources?"

"No one knows. But George…" He planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward, a sharp light in his eyes. "They don't just collect Sources, but strong Talents too. People like us, we go missing when they're around. I don't want that—"

George suddenly shot to his feet, having been slammed full force with a memory. "The Jalandhari Kidnappings!" he cried.

"The what?"

He pulled open the cabinet by his desk and tore through his case files until he found the right one. Then he threw it at Lockwood, who just managed to catch it, making a sound like he'd been hit in the gut with a football instead.

"The Jalandhari Agency—this was a few years ago—was a new, up-and-coming agency working primarily in underserved immigrant neighborhoods. A real human interest story, got lots of fancy press. I've some newspaper clippings in there." He gestured at Lockwood to open the file and he obliged, starting to skim through it.

"I think I remember hearing something about that," Lockwood said, meaning that he hadn't, but was willing to humor him anyway.

"Fittes and Rotwell were in a bit of a rough patch at the time. A big scandal broke out about labor abuse and safety violations, agents were resigning left and right. Some of the best ended up at Jalandhari. Until—" George grabbed the case file and flipped it open to the appropriate section then dropped it back into Lockwood's hands.

Inside, a full two-paged magazine spread showed the bodies of six dead agents in various locations and stages of ghost-lock, all wearing orange and white uniforms with a tiger emblem on the back. The headline read Six Jalandhari Agents Found Dead, More Still Missing.

"That's a tad gratuitous," Lockwood muttered.

George went on. "Over a couple of months, the entire agency went missing. A few more turned up dead after this article, but not all of them. The rest are still unaccounted for. Everyone chalked it up to mismanagement. But guess what happened right before the first agent went missing."

Lockwood looked up slowly, one eyebrow raised. "I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Fittes caught the London Bridge Hangman."

That got Lockwood's attention, finally. He sat up straighter, turning to a page in the file with a list of the missing agents. "That's right. One of their seers ID'd the victims even though they were just howling shades hanging below the bridge at night. They managed to track down the killer only to find he'd shot himself and become a nasty Type Two. Penelope Fittes herself supervised the team."

"If Annabel Ward is worth a small favor, what do you think something like that would get you?"

"A dead agency," Lockwood said, and screwed his face up into a horrified frown. "Do you see, then, why they're so dangerous? I'm working on a way to get them off our backs. I just need more time."

George shook his head, curls flying and glasses flashing. "Not if we find the missing Jalandhari Agents and bring them to DEPRAC. If the Archive collects Talents, as you said, they might still be alive somewhere. What if they're still working for them? Or being kept somewhere? Any institution, no matter how secret, has to have a base of operations."

"You want to take down the Hidden Archive?"

"It would be a more permanent solution than blackmail."

Lockwood shook his head faintly, a wild grin forming in his face. "Brilliant, George, as usual. We'll run the idea by Lucy, then decide as an agency."

Just as Lockwood hopped off the desk and handed George the case file, a crash sounded from upstairs, followed by a heavy and final thud. Ice ran through George's blood and, as he turned and opened his mouth to suggest what the sound might've been, Lockwood was already sprinting for the iron stairs.