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beatrice-otter · 6 months ago

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Fic: Wachet Auf

Title: Wachet Auf Author: Beatrice_Otter Fandom: Rivers of London Characters: Thomas Nightingale, Peter Grant Written For: Quasar in Heart Attack Exchange 2024

Summary: In 1940, Nightingale has to catch a Nazi spy armed with a magical device. In 2016, Nightingale and others fall into a magical coma, and Peter Grant must figure out why it happened and how to end it.

At AO3. At Squidgeworld. On Dreamwidth. Rebloggable on Pillowfort.

2016.

I learned something was wrong when I got a call from the Folly, and there was silence on the other end.

"I'll be there quick as I can," I told the expectant stillness, and swigged the rest of my coffee in one gulp.

"Something's up at the Folly," I told Bev, who was not a morning person but had perked up to listen to me.

"Was that Molly?" Bev asked, and I nodded. "Wonder why she didn't text?"

"Because then we'd know for sure she had a phone," I said. "She likes her air of mystique. And also, I might not have checked it right away. She knows I'll always pick up for the Folly." But usually when someone from the Folly landline called me, it was Nightingale. Molly didn't use phones often, for obvious reasons.

I called Nightingale on the way out to the car, just to be sure; if he were at the Folly and in any condition to do so, he would have been the one to call me in, but he might just have been out on some early-morning call-out. No answer.

I told myself he might just have had it off. He didn't like the modern notion that one should be reachable at all times.

I spent the drive to Russell Square trying to think of reasons for Molly to be the one to call me like this.

Only one seemed plausible: something was wrong with Nightingale.

1940.

I learned something was wrong when I was called in, not to the Foreign Office for a new mission, but to the Home Office.

I made my way from the Folly across a London digging itself out from the damage of last night's bombs, and was directed to a nondescript office in a back corridor, inhabited by an equally nondescript functionary and a slender blond man in a sharp suit and a careless air who was polishing his monocle.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Nightingale," the functionary said. "I'm John Lewis, and this—" he gestured at the man who was now putting in his monocle "—is Lord Peter Wimsey, whom I'm sure you've heard of."

"Of course," I said, giving Lord Peter a closer look. His cricket playing had been legendary at Oxford in my time there, and then of course there was his hobby of detective work, which was often splashed all over the newspapers. I had no particular interest in his hobby, but I did greatly enjoy his wife's books.

"How d'ye'do," Lord Peter said with a nod. "Very pleased to meet you, Johnny here's been telling me all about your recent adventures in Tibet. Very exciting thing, what?"

"Rather," I said, shooting a look at Lewis. Someone had been telling tales out of school; that was classified. It had not escaped my notice that Lewis had given his name but no rank, title, or position. Just who was he, and was he really a part of the Home Office, I wondered, or was that merely a convenient cover? "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"An acquaintance of mine was recently killed while fleeing from the Nazis," Lord Peter said. "He lingered long enough to pass on some rather … disturbing information which, if true, puts it straight in your bailiwick. The Nazis apparently have some sort of occult device for communicating across long distances. Unlike radio, it cannot be intercepted or decoded, at least not with any technologies we have. Your chaps might be able to do something with it."

"I know I don't need to say what a difference such a device would make … and not for the better," Lewis said. "We're on the defensive and losing ground every day. Even the slightest edge might be crucial to our survival and, hopefully, to turning the tide. Regular radio we can intercept and eventually decode. This … we've no idea even where to start. The Germans cannot be allowed to have some sort of supernaturally undetectable means of communications."

"I'm not much for research or the technical end of things," I pointed out. "You'd be much better served to call in David Mellenby."

"Yes, Mellenby," Lewis said slowly, flicking open a folder. "Studied at the Weimar Academy of Higher Insights, still in regular correspondence with a number of German magicians. Used to be a close friend of Max Günther, who now is in Hitler's inner circle."

"The most important part of that sentence being 'used to be,'" I said, not liking Lewis' implications. "Mellenby's current project, outside his research, is the Academic Assistance Council, helping Jewish academics flee the Nazis and establish themselves here and in America. He's quite bitterly disappointed in most of his former friends, letting politics and prejudice get in the way of the advancement of knowledge."

"You vouch for his loyalty?" Lewis asked. Lord Peter watched with hooded eyes, and said nothing.

"Absolutely," I said.

Lewis nodded, which meant their analysis agreed with me. "Then you can consult with him as need be. But this is no theoretical exercise; we have reason to believe the occult device is being field-tested in London as we speak."

"Here?" I said, in some surprise. "Surely they'd want to keep such a new development somewhere safer."

"It would be easier to conceal than a radio," Lord Peter pointed out. "Nobody who saw it would know what they were looking at. Perfect for espionage. And besides, given the tensions between the practitioners and the main bulk of the German armed forces …." He gave an eloquent shrug.

I nodded, being intimately familiar with those tensions (and having used them to my advantage on a few different occasions). Hitler liked the occult, but many of the rank-and-file found it uncanny and suspect from a religious point of view. As for the officer corps, a good share of them blamed Germany's defeat in the last war at least partly on the magicians having sat the whole affair out. "Still, I wouldn't have thought they'd be willing to dispatch practitioners on a long-term espionage mission such as this."

"They haven't," Lewis said. "The device does most of the work; it does not require a fully-trained magician to use. Which makes the spy harder to catch, of course; they won't be on any student list from Weimar, and there's little chance of someone like Mellenby recognizing them."

"In any case," Lord Peter said, "if we find them and stop them here and now, we can either use them to provide misinformation, or convince them that such devices are unworkable for future use, depending on which would be most convenient for us. But that depends on us finding them … and that's where you come in."

"Your job," Lewis said, pushing a folder across his desk, "is to find the spy and, if possible, a method of listening in on or tracking the device. You are authorized to consult with Mellenby if you think it necessary, and others if you find it absolutely necessary, but we rely on your discretion. Loose lips, and all that."

"Of course," I said, hoping that there was at least a starting point in the information they'd given me. "London is rather a big city; do you have anything to narrow down where the spy might be?"

Lord Peter grimaced. "'Fraid not. You're being sent on rather a wild goose chase."

"I see," I said, heart sinking.

"You've been sent out on minimal intelligence before," Lewis said. "Why should it be a problem now?"

"Magic is usually subtle and hard to detect at a distance." I spread my hands. "Which is one of many reasons why practicing magic is a rare skill. London is large. Without some way to focus my investigation, it will not be like looking for a needle in a haystack; it will be like looking for a needle in an entire city's worth of haystacks."

"Well then, I suppose you'll have to see if you can find a magnet, what?" Lord Peter said. "And if it can't be found through magic, only ferreted out by normal intelligence—that's important to know, too."

"If you need anything, talk to Lord Peter," Lewis said. "He'll be your contact, so if the spy is watching government buildings you'll not be seen traipsing in and out."

Lord Peter handed over a card. "Do come over for tea sometime soon. My collection of incunabula has been moved outside of London for the duration, of course, but I have a rather interesting folio regarding magical rituals from the 1480s, and I've always wondered if it was actually magic, or just the sort of mystical wishful thinking one finds so often in previous eras. I could easily have the volume sent up, if you're interested."

"That's very kind of you," I said, "but I'm no scholar. There are several other chaps at the Folly who'd be much better able to give you an opinion; as for me, I'd be more interested in getting Lady Peter's autograph."

"A fan, are you?" Lord Peter said. "A sign of excellent taste."

"All the information we have is in that folder," Lewis said. "Don't lose it. Good luck on your investigation."

2016.

"Have you rung Abdul and Jennifer?" I asked Molly, staring down at Nightingale's motionless form. His chest was moving—very slightly—but other than that he was as still as a corpse. And just about as responsive as one.

Molly shook her head violently and made it clear that she believed his sleep to be magical in nature.

"Look, he's not got any enchantments on him that I can sense, and there's no vestigia in the room that's not perfectly normal for the Folly," I said. "And the wards haven't been breached, there's been no outside attack that I can tell. Even if you're right that it is magical, I don't know enough to fix it, and scans may be able to tell us more about whatever's going on. And even if they can't … if we don't wake him up soon he's going to need fluids, at the least, and a hospital will be better equipped to do that." I tried to sound confident. After all, he was only sleeping—how bad could it be? It was a bit unnerving that neither loud shouts nor shaking him nor sticking him with a pin had made any visible difference, but surely the hospital had stronger measures.

Molly was unhappy, but she didn't try to stop me from calling Abdul and explaining the situation.

"Call 999, I'll meet you at the hospital for tests," was Abdul's response.

1940.

My first step was to return to the Folly and consult with David. He had no need to see the source of the intelligence, or any of the scant information concerning where it might be used, but there was no one better suited to comment on the technical aspects of the case.

Walking through the Folly's front doors was strange, as it always was now; the glass ceiling of the atrium had been covered to prevent light from shining through to alert the German bombers that prowled our skies. It made it gloomy even on a bright and sunny day, like today. But the preparation room off the lecture hall was the same as it had ever been��shelves full of basic supplies, the remnants of the last few lectures not yet tidied away. And, crucially, it was a place where we could lock the door and not have to worry about anyone being inconvenienced or overhearing our discussion—most teaching had been moved out of London for the duration, along with all the practitioners who weren't strictly needed here and who had somewhere else to go.

"Hmm, yes," David said as he looked over the documents. "Not much to go on, is it? Freddy—that is, Friedrich von Hake—spent a lot of time speculating on whether something like this would be possible, but I always thought it was a load of rubbish. Freddy was never very practical."

I raised my eyebrows. For David Mellenby to call someone 'not very practical,' well. The mind boggled at what this Friedrich von Hake must be like.

He rolled his eyes at me.

"Why didn't you think it possible?" I asked.

"Haven't you ever noticed that magic's effects tend to be fairly short-ranged? Regardless of how powerful the formae or the wizard."

"Not really," I said.

"Consider the old raining spell the masters at Casterbrook used to use," David said. "Science couldn't hope to match it! Actual clouds and rain called at the practitioner's whim! But not enough rain to, say, water an entire field. A garden, perhaps; but not a field. Lux makes a light near the practitioner who calls it. Impello can throw things quite a distance … but the practitioner must be able to see it. And so on and so forth. One doesn't stand in one city and call down effects on another city. One doesn't even call down effects on the other side of the same city you're in. One does things one can see and hear."

"But how much time have practitioners spent trying to create formae that work at a distance?" I asked.

"That was Freddy's argument," David said. "I think I still have some letters from him arguing about it; I shall have to dig them out and see if there's anything I missed. Also, he was wondering if any of the fae or demi-fae might be able to power such a thing."

"I should think a demon trap might also do it." The Germans had started using them in the last few years, vile as they were. "They can power an effect far away from the practitioner."

"Yes, well," David said. He pursed his lips and looked down. "Yes. That might also work. I suppose I should remember that our enemies do not always hold to common decency, these days." He'd always had grand ideas about the power of science and magic to uplift all of humanity in common cause, and to be proved otherwise was distressing to him.

I nudged him. "It would explain how they don't need a practitioner present on this end," I pointed out. "And if that is how they're doing it, it might be possible to track it; demon traps are not … subtle."

"The problem would be harnessing it for repeated use," David said, gathering himself and returning to the problem. "They're not exactly designed for their power to be used a little bit at a time." He stared off into space, frowning, and I got up to leave him to it.

2016.

Once we were at the hospital and Nightingale had been whisked away for tests, I notified the Commissioner's office that Nightingale was in hospital, and then DCI Seawoll, just in case something came up.

"How long do you think he'll be out?" Seawoll asked.

"He's just sleeping," I said. "Nothing happened to him. Can't be too long before we figure it out."

Seawoll grunted disbelievingly and rang off.

Then I rang Bev. "Hi babes," she said. "I hope whatever Molly called you in on wasn't too bad, because we've got a bit of a problem and Effra needs me."

"It's tough to say how serious it is," I said. "Nightingale doesn't seem to be injured or ill, but he won't wake up. Didn't even stir when we loaded him into an ambulance to take him to hospital."

There was a pause. "Oberon won't wake up, either."

"But he seems fine, other than that?" I asked.

"As far as I know," Bev said. "I haven't seen him myself, and neither had Fleet when she called me."

"Molly thinks it's something magical, not medical," I said. "And I think she's right. Two cases on the same day? And I don't think Nightingale and Oberon have seen each other in person since the last Spring Court, so it can't be a contagion. We should ask around, see if anyone else in the demi-monde is in a coma this morning. Particularly the Old Soldiers and the like."

"Yeah," Bev said. "I'll … see if I can get Ty to give you a list of people to contact. She likes having things to do that aren't just emotional support."

"I'll tell Abdul and Jennifer," I said. "They should know this might not be an isolated incident. Has Oberon been examined by a doctor?"

"I don't know that, either," Bev said, "but I'll tell them about Nightingale, and to get in touch with Abdul."

"Thanks, babe," I said. I started jotting down next steps in my notebook. Had this been a crime of some sort? Should I run it through HOLMES and police procedure? Or was it a public health concern, to be handled by the world's foremost cryptopathologist? Or was it something purely magical? And if so … what did that mean for my investigation?

"I don't know whether Effra will find it comforting or not, to know that Nightingale's out, too," Bev said. "But I'm not sure I want to know what could take out the Nightingale and Oberon—they're both pretty tough."

"Can't be an attack," I said. "I can buy that someone we don't know about could get through the Folly's wards without a trace, and I can buy that someone could get past your sister when she was asleep to do something to Oberon without her knowledge. But I don't buy that it could happen to both of them on the same night." I wished my gut believed what my head was saying.

"I hope you're right," Bev said.

I wasn't sure I hoped I was right; an attack at least I could do something about. If it was some sort of illness, it was out of my hands. And if it was some sort of magical contagion … with Nightingale out of the picture, I was the most experienced Newtonian practitioner in England.

There had been times I hadn't been able to consult with Nightingale before, but … not many. It could be something simple and easy to fix, and I would have no way of knowing it. So much of my training had been focused on what I needed to know to go up against Martin Chorley, and Nightingale had only started to go back and fill in the gaps. This could be caused by something simple, something the Folly knew about, and I wouldn't have a clue.

I had a lot of practice in ignoring the sort of hollow feeling in your chest that you got when things were going sideways and people you cared about were hurt or in danger, but my therapist says that's a bad thing. Which just shows what he knows, because if I didn't ignore it I'd just curl up in bed and be no use to anybody.

"What are you thinking, babes?" Bev said.

"That with Nightingale down, I'm the most experienced practitioner in the UK," I said.

"Don't be stupid," Bev said. "There's loads of practitioners that aren't from the Folly. You know Michael Cheung, and then there's Caroline and her mum—and Caroline's mum knows a lot about magical healing, more than you and the Nightingale put together. And it's not like magicians have a monopoly on magical knowledge, either, and you can just bet Effra will be calling in the best."

"Yeah," I said, closing my eyes and nodding. I gave myself a few seconds to take comfort in her words—I wasn't alone, and everything did not rest on my three and a half years of training. "Thanks."

"No problem," Bev said.

I gathered my thoughts. "Obviously, if you and your sisters are investigating Oberon, you have to tell them about Nightingale. But I'd rather it not become general knowledge that he's incapacitated, if we can help it. Even if it wasn't an attack, I don't want to tempt anybody." With Chorley dead, the Folly didn't have any major enemies that I knew about … but given our experiences over the last several years, I wasn't sure there wasn't one I didn't know about.

"Sure," Bev said. "Though anybody who attempts to attack the Folly with Molly and Foxglove guarding it deserves whatever they get."

"Yeah," I said.

1940.

While David tried to piece together what little information was in the file with his years of discussing esoteric magical possibilities with German academics, I reviewed the mundane aspects of the case.

Not that there was much I could do with it; everything that might have led to identifying the spy or their target had already been investigated by Lewis's people, and from what I could tell they'd done a decent job of it. If there was an angle they'd missed, I couldn't find it.

David came through, of course, he always did, when he found the problem interesting enough; he had a habit of diving into a problem and only coming up for air weeks or months later when he'd solved it. (Of course, more than half the time the 'problem' was so esoteric—or so firmly theoretical—to be of little interest to anyone other than himself and his fellow boffins.)

"I think you're right about the demon trap," he said. "And also, I don't think Freddy is the only one working on this; he mentions Lukas Schmidt a number of times. In my last few letters with Lukas, before I stopped corresponding with him, he was … hinting at experiments that probably involved demon traps. I know he'd taken some sort of post at a hospital near Limburg, which I thought extremely odd as he was no kind of medical man, but … it would give him easy access to victims, wouldn't it." He swallowed and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"I suppose it might," I said quietly.

"At any rate, he's done work with magical resonance—that is, pairing objects so that what happens to one is reflected in the other—and I know he and Freddy had several ongoing arguments about the practical limits of how far away the objects could be and still work. Piecing together the hints the two of them dropped with what you brought me, I think that what they're working on is—"

There followed a technical discussion of which I understood slightly more than half. The gist of it was that if the Germans had figured out how to get a demon trap to release its energy a little at a time, instead of all at once, a pair of devices powered by demon traps might be able to punch through to one of the fae realms, and connect that way even though separated by several hundred miles. The good news was, it would probably produce the sort of powerful flare of vestigium that any demon trap produced in operation. The boundary-crossing of the fae world might even amplify it; chances were, if such a device were used in London, we would know it immediately. Unfortunately, when it wasn't transmitting a message, it would probably emit no more vestigium than a dormant demon trap, which is to say, one would have to be practically touching it to notice it.

"Would we be able to read the messages?" I asked. "If the flare of sending them is so powerful?"

David made a face. "That I really can't tell you until they do use it; it depends on a great many factors. Even if they're using Morse code or something like it, there's a good chance that without a paired device we simply wouldn't be able to detect the pulses amidst the wash of energy."

I nodded, having expected that, and thought through what David had just told me. "If they're using demon traps as batteries, that implies that the power would eventually run out. I assume they would need a fresh victim to recharge the device?"

"If the device can be recharged," David said. "When I saw him demonstrate the pairing effect in 1935, the enchantment had to be laid with the devices in close proximity, and the power imbued during the process of enchantment. This would suggest that even if one did use a fresh victim here, it wouldn't work. They would need to either receive a replacement, or have been equipped with several to begin with. And Lukas always did like redundancy; I should think anyone he sent out would have … several such devices, for testing purposes if nothing else. But that is pure speculation—as is much of what I think I've managed to figure out. I'm working with very little, you know, and could easily have misinterpreted or missed something."

I waved that off. "I'm sure you've done as well as anyone could; there's nobody on either side I'd rather have piecing things together."

"Thank you," David said with a smile.

"So we'll know when they use it, but won't know what they say, and probably won't be able to track the spy through their transmissions," I said.

"Yes," David said.

"Any idea what size the devices might be?"

"I'm afraid not, but I shouldn't think they'd need to be large—it's not like there are any tubes or moving parts needed."

"So they would be easy to conceal," I said. "And the city is much too large for me to search by myself. Lewis wants this done in complete secrecy, and I'd prefer it myself, but … it's simply not practical. If there's any chance of catching the spy, I'll need help." I considered the possibilities. "If we say there is a possibility the Germans might smuggle demon traps into the city—or that some of the bombs the Germans are dropping on us might contain demon traps—we could ask our people to be on the alert for them and report it if they find anything."

"It would still be looking for a needle in a haystack," David said. "But at least you wouldn't be the only one looking."

2016.

"We've run every test we can think of," Jennifer said. "Not all the results are back, yet, but the results of the ones we have are all completely normal. Exactly what I would expect from a sleeping adult. But we can't wake him. Loud noises, physical sensations, stimulants … he responds a little, and then sinks back into sleep." She frowned. "Even blaring a mix of grime and metal, like my uni housemate did during all-night study sessions, and I'd have thought that could wake the dead."

"Except he's been in REM sleep this whole time, and if it were a normal sleep he should have cycled in and out of it a few times by now," Abudul said.

Jennifer nodded.

"What's the next step?" I asked.

"Wait for the last of the test results to come back, and hope one of them shows something that will let us know what the matter is," Abdul said.

"Molly thinks it's something magical." I'd been hoping she was wrong.

"Even if it is magical, magic has measurable effects," Jennifer said. "If we can quantify those effects, we'll have at least something to go on."

"What about the other victims?" Not that we knew they were victims, actually; there might not have been anything done to them, which I needed to remember in order to make sure I didn't overlook any possibility. Once I'd heard Oberon was the same as Nightingale, I'd called around to all my contacts in the demi-monde, and had Postmartin contact the survivors of the Old Folly. The Rivers had also put out feelers, and while I couldn't be sure we hadn't missed someone, word was getting around.

"Thomas was the first we knew of, so we haven't had the time for the same depth of tests on the others," Abdul said. "And some of the ones we know about, their loved ones have decided to keep them at home, for various reasons. But so far, we haven't found any big discrepancies between him and the rest."

"We don't even know if this is confined to people with magical contact," Jennifer said. "I've spread the word—if anyone calls an ambulance for someone who can't be woken up, we should hear about it."

"Good." I flipped open my notebook. "I've been collecting information about the sleepers. No smoking guns, but some interesting correlations nonetheless. Nine found so far. All of them are old—the youngest is eighty-six. Three are Old Soldiers. The rest all either are magical in some way, or use magic—they're not just people who hang around the demi-monde because it's cool or they like listening to my dad play his trumpet when the Rivers throw a party. None of them, besides Nightingale, are Newtonian practitioners. None of them have had any contact with Nightingale that we know of in the last week. Some of them have had contact with him before—Oberon teaches painting, and Nightingale took classes with him for a while in the sixties, for example—but nothing recent."

"No connections," Jennifer said. "That'll make tracking down the vector of contagion harder."

"There is one connection, but it's tenuous," I said. "All of them have spent most of the last century living in London."

"So whatever it is might have happened any time in the last eighty-six years," Abdul said.

"I'm going to try for more in-depth interviews of the friends and family of the other sleepers, see if I can pin down anything else that might be relevant," I said, "and have Abigail searching the library for anything relevant when she gets out of school for the day."

"Surely the research should be first?" Jennifer asked.

I shook my head. "I have a pretty good grasp of the Folly history, and it's not something that's come up before to my knowledge. If it has, it's been among the demi-monde—and they haven't historically been too keen on consulting the Folly with their problems, for very good reasons. And even when they did, the Folly was too posh to listen. So if it's happened before, and if it got written down and put in the Folly library, there probably won't be much information. I'm more likely to learn something useful from talking to people or consulting with the Linden-Limmers."

"Ah," Jennifer said.

"Speaking of Lady Helena," Abdul said, "she reached out to me and said she'd never heard of anything like it, but she'd see what she could do. She'll be here tomorrow morning."

"Good," I said, and ticked "following up with Lady Helena" off my list of things to do. I'd called her earlier, but went straight to voicemail; I'd left a message explaining the situation and given her both my number and Abdul's. "And with Oberon one of the victims, the Rivers are doing their own investigation. I can leave the medical side of things in your hands, and start looking for connections among the sleepers."

1940.

"How far away would you say this … vestigium, you call it?" Lord Peter peered at me through his monocle

I nodded. We were in his library, which was still a handsome room, though the shelves were mostly bare. Lady Peter and the children were in the countryside, which had spared me the dilemma of whether or not to ask for a book to be signed for David. He was a great fan of hers, but to explain how I'd gotten her autograph would require me to explain the connection with Lord Peter, and David was only authorized to know the technical details.

"How far away would this vestigium be detectable?"

"Difficult to say," I said. "Given the amount of power the device would need to be imbued with, and the fact that it is by nature designed to transmit energy, it might be noticed by a trained observer as much as thirty feet away even while dormant. I doubt it, though. A regular demon trap—the ones that merely power magical bombs—usually can't be felt more than a foot or two away."

"A foot or two?" Lord Peter shook his head. "'Close beside the Thorn' you must be indeed. Even at thirty feet, you'd hardly be able to search the whole city."

"Indeed," I said. "Hence my request that my fellow practitioners to be on the alert for it, and report it if they find it. I told them that there'd been a report of someone smuggling a demon trap—the regular kind—into the city. We should probably be on the alert for them, anyhow; I've run into Germans using them twice before, and the first time, the device killed thirty people."

"And the second time?"

"I defused it," I said. It had been quite possibly the most harrowing thing I'd ever done, and I hoped never to have to do it again.

"Would whatever spell you used then be able to stop the device from transmitting?" Lord Peter asked.

I considered this. "Possibly," I said, "but I would have to be fairly close and also prepared ahead of time to do it. If I understand Mellenby's theory correctly, merely disrupting the resonance between the device here and its mate in Germany should be enough to make it useless."

"'A hush of peace—a soundless calm descends'! That's good news. Would the spy then know his device was not transmitting properly?"

"I've no idea," I said.

We discussed the practicalities of the search, before returning to a few questions Lord Peter still had about how the whole thing worked. I wished I had brought David with me, because I couldn't answer all of them.

"And is it something we could duplicate? Make our own magic spy radios?"

I stiffened. "No," I said, voice as stern as I could make it. "I do not believe I have explained how exactly a demon trap is made, my Lord."

Lord Peter raised his eyebrows. "I take it from the name and your reaction that it is … questionable?"

"No, my Lord," I said. "It is not 'questionable.' It is the blackest of the black arts. It requires that a man be tortured to death and his spirit trapped in the device to power it with all his pain and rage and fear at what was done to him. And it is my sworn duty, as a Fellow of the Society of the Wise and an agent of his Majesty, to ferret out all who practice such arts and execute them for their crimes."

Lord Peter's face had grown grim. "And quite rightly, too; I am pleased to hear of your devotion to that duty. But are there no white arts which might power such a device instead?"

"Yes," I said. "The Sons of Weyland use expert smithcraft and mastery of spellwork to imbue items with magical power. However, it takes time and a great deal of magic. In many cases, especially if one wants a device in large numbers, it is quicker and easier to make a purely mundane device. They would be the ones to answer if such a thing would be possible and practical, perhaps in conjunction with Mellenby's research."

"A device that the average German soldier wouldn't recognize as a radio could be worth quite a lot, to our intelligence networks," Lord Peter pointed out.

"True," I said. "But it's Mellenby's opinion—which I share—that the device will broadcast quite loudly when it is in use. One's enemies might not be able to decode what you were saying, but they could hardly fail to not that you have said something. Which is hardly good spycraft, and will probably be what leads us to our man, if anything can."

"That's what I don't understand," Lord Peter said. "If it's so dashed conspicuous, why try in the first place?"

I shrugged. "That I couldn't tell you without rather more intelligence on the practitioners making them and the spymaster sending them out." I paused, but Lord Peter didn't offer any; I hadn't much expected it. If they were trying to get someone close enough to Schmidt and von Hake to learn more about their experiments, they wouldn't wish to share the information too freely or it might endanger the spy. "But having tangled with German practitioners a few times in the last seven years or so, I have a guess. Part of Hitler's popularity is based on his blaming of Jews and others for 'stabbing Germany in the back' and causing them to lose the last war. Well, practitioners on both sides had a gentlemen's agreement not to contribute to the war effort through magical means. Which leaves many of them … eager to prove their loyalty to Germany now by providing what they did not then. The practicality of their efforts can almost be a secondary concern, at times."

2016.

I'd collected a lot of information by the time I came back to the Folly for my last interview of the day, but none of it seemed relevant. I was used to that; the beginning phase of any investigation is about hoovering up as much data as you can in the hopes that somewhere in that haystack will be a needle that will point you in the right direction.

Still, it was a bit discouraging. And none of the sleepers had awakened.

Molly was waiting for me at the Folly's back entrance, hands clasped in her apron, Foxglove hovering behind her.

"There's been no change," I said.

She flinched.

"Nightingale isn't the only one affected," I said. "Ten other people in the demi-monde won't wake up, either. I've spent the day interviewing the people close to them to try and figure out what they've got in common and see if we can trace things back to whatever caused this."

Molly nodded.

"We think it might have been something that happened here in London, possibly quite some time ago—the youngest sleeper is eighty-six. Now, for things that have happened to Nightingale in the last four years or so, I know as much as anybody. But if it happened longer ago than that, you're our best witness."

Molly hesitated, then nodded again.

"Could you write down—or type—anything you remember that could be relevant? Any unexplained magical mishap, or attack, or anything odd? I'll give you a list of questions and the names of the other sleepers, and I also need any connections you know of between them."

Molly stared at me. I don't know why she so rarely used the written word to communicate; in her shoes, I'd be desperate for some way to talk to people, and over the years I'd suggested things like sign language or some other form of alternative communication. But Molly had always resisted any such suggestions, and avoided writing things down if she could possibly help it. And, whatever her reasons, it was her choice.

But her loyalty to Nightingale won out. She turned and led the way out towards the coach house.

1940.

I spend the next week carefully combing through various secured locations, hoping for any significant vestigia and coming up empty. (Though I did find two ghosts, and wrote them up out of nostalgia for my schoolboy days.) I had other duties, of course, and given the odds of finding anything it was hardly my most pressing concern. After all, we weren't even sure the damn thing was in London. It was the most likely place for it if all our intelligence were correct, and I had been on the wrong end of too many intelligence mistakes to be quite as certain as Lewis and Lord Peter were.

But then my doubts were rather forcibly purged.

I was meeting a friend, John Chadburn, for dinner at a small pub near Baker Street; he had arranged for me to tour the inside of the SOE main headquarters after the day shift was gone, with the proviso that he made sure I saw no classified information, and that I understood just how dire the consequences would be if I breathed a hint of anything I saw.

John had just arrived and we were exchanging the usual pleasantries when I was hit with a hammer-blow of vestigia so powerful that it almost drove me to my knees. A woman screamed, though I recognized dimly that I was not hearing it with my ears, and there was the smell of burnt flesh, and rotting fish. For a moment, I half-believed that I was being killed by a demon trap, for it felt a little like what I had felt when the two I had encountered before had gone off, if that had been multiplied by a thousand. For a moment, I could see the woman, as clear as if she were standing beside me. Her hair was dirty and bedraggled, and her face was twisted in agony as she howled. And then she was gone. But no, I realized, my body was fine; I was still standing, though slightly hunched, and John was staring at me; it was only my mind that was buffeted. I stared at the place she had been, half-convinced she would materialize again.

"Tom, are you alright? Should we call for a doctor?"

"No," I said, straightening, conscious of other eyes besides John's. "Our business tonight will have to be put off, as will dinner, I'm afraid." I strode towards the door.

"What? Why?" John said, scrambling to follow.

"The device has been used," I said, stepping out of the doorway and closing my eyes to orient myself on the vestigium I'd felt. "If I follow it now, I may be able to track it, or at least where it was used."

"Um. Alright," he said. "Should I … should I call for a car?" Petrol was closely rationed, but this was a war use, and thus acceptable. Both the Folly and the SOE would have cars available.

"I've no idea," I said. "I've no clue how far away it was."

"Do you have a direction, at least …?"

"Oh, yes," I said, turning down the street. I pointed south-west. "That way."

John sucked in his breath. From here, that included Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, Parliament, and a good share of the London Docks. "We should call it in," he said. "Let people know—"

"No need," I said grimly. "Everyone with any training at all within a five mile radius will have felt that, and possibly further out." But a few minutes to confer with them and possibly co-ordinate a search might be useful.

The nearest phone we could use privately was in the SOE headquarters, so I did end up there after all, albeit merely to an office close to the front doors.

"This is Nightingale," I said once the porter on duty had picked up. "I've information about the … the magical explosion that just happened."

"Good God, that was vile, sir," said the porter on duty. Like many of the Folly servants, he had picked up a knack for sensing vestigia, after long exposure to it.

"Indeed," I said. "And nothing of ours, I can tell you that; we'll need to track it down. Is Master Pontleby in?"

"No, sir, he isn't," the porter said. "But Doctor Chadburn is."

"Good," I said, though really it wasn't. Chadburn was old and set in his ways, and far more likely to be offended by one of the younger men—even an experienced agent of His Majesty's government such as myself—suggesting a course of action instead of waiting for his wisdom. Still, once he was convinced, he had the authority to turn out the entire Folly to the task at hand. "Would you please see if he is available?"

"Certainly, sir," the porter said.

But I was wrong about Chadburn; the blast had him hopping mad. "First the Hun drop bombs on London, and then our brethren—" the word dripped with scorn "—do this in our own back gardens! It's indecent!"

In the end, instead of having to convince him to turn out the Folly members in residence, I had instead to convince him not to call in every CP, rusticated practitioner, and hedge wizard in our books to scour London. With the vestigium this clear, we should have no trouble finding it, and it was already starting to fade. We couldn't afford to wait.

2016.

Eighty-six years was a long time to cover, and it took Molly some time to write it all up. While she was doing that, I checked in with Abigail.

"Haven't found much," she said. "Nothing that seems useful, anyway." But digging her way through the County Practitioner reports took time, and she'd only just scratched the surface. I told her to keep at it, and she nodded.

Molly's report was interesting, and she'd finished it in far less time than I'd expected; she knew how to type, not just hunt-and-peck like I did. I wondered if she'd learned some things from the Folly's typing pool back when it had one.

If I'd been looking through it as a historical report, there were many details I'd have lingered over and asked questions about. But as none of them seemed relevant, I skimmed them and moved on.

To the best of Molly's knowledge, Nightingale had come into contact with several of the other sleepers at one time or another over the last century, but not in ways that seemed likely to be our culprit. It was hard to see, for example, how Oberon's painting class could have resulted in catatonia some fifty years later. And while Nightingale had many encounters with magic in general, most of it was quite well-documented as to the results. It was only in the last few years, with the Folly expanding and getting more involved in the affairs of the demimonde, that he'd started coming into contact with things like fae magic and other universes … and if that were the trouble, surely I'd be the one affected. I had more exposure, after all.

But there was one incident that involved a novel magical effect felt across London, Nightingale at the center of things, and at least one of the other sleepers as well: a Nazi magical transmitter from World War II.

1940.

"The problem is," David said as we scoured central London, "that now we've gone from famine to feast."

And he was right; the remaining vestigia, while fading quickly, was covering many smaller signs. It made the blast location fairly easy to narrow down, but also meant we were in grave danger of missing anything else of note.

"We'll just have to hope we don't overlook anything important," I said, and sent him off to search while I stayed to co-ordinate the searchers.

We'd narrowed things down quite a bit from the original area of effect and determined that it had been triggered somewhere along the riverfront, when someone unexpected turned up: a Negro I'd seen before at the sort of parties in Bloomsbury where artists hung out and everyone talked about the latest avant-garde poet. His name was Oberon, and I was fairly sure he was connected with the demi-monde in some way. Instead of the sober suits I had seen him in before, he was wearing a dockworker's coveralls.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"I take it from the number of your boys crashing around the area that the Isaacs are not responsible for whatever abomination was set off here tonight?" he said.

"Certainly not," I said. "Do you have any information to share that might help us in finding the culprit?"

He had no useful information, but I took it down anyway, along with his address and employment details. I handed him my card with an admonishment to contact me if he found anything or sensed anything unusual.

He took it and raised his eyebrows. "You think this is likely to happen again."

"Not if we catch the culprit," I said.

"Was it the Germans?"

"I really couldn't say," I said.

Oberon gave me a disbelieving look. "I see." But he chose to pursue a different line of thought. "Whoever it was, they can only have done it through some horror," Oberon said. "Did you see the woman?"

"I did."

"What will you do with them if you capture them?" Oberon's voice was challenging.

"Interrogate them to find out what exactly they did and how they did it," I said. "Then execute them for their crimes." Unless, of course, Lewis and his people wanted to try to run some sort of double-agent game, but I would be strongly arguing against it.

"I'm not happy with anyone knowing how to do that," Oberon said. "German or English. They should simply be put down, like the animal they are."

"We at least need to know if they were acting alone," I said. "The person who constructed the device and the person who used it might not be the same person." I should have watched my mouth more closely; now Oberon knew that a device had been used. "If you find anything, let me know immediately."

I was just turning to continue the search when young Higginbottom came puffing up.

"Sir!" he said, "they think they've found something!"

"Lead the way," I said, and followed him.

The spot they'd found wasn't terribly far, but the area had been hit by several German bombs recently, and there was a great deal of rubble still strewn around that we had to pick our way around and sometimes through.

It was an inconspicuous niche formed by an odd junction and shielded by crumbling brickwork. Anybody could walk down the street, duck in for a short while, and be completely concealed while setting off the device. Then simply walk out and down the street with no one the wiser.

I looked around. The whole area was deserted. While untutored people might not be able to identify vestigia, the stench of this one would certainly be enough to notice at close range. But without knowing what you were feeling, the chances of anyone noticing the person who set it off were slim even if we could find witnesses.

"Thank you, gentlemen," I said to the practitioners gathered around, "your help has been invaluable. I shall call in someone to dust for fingerprints and the like. We'll need to thoroughly sweep the area to ensure we haven't missed anything."

"You there, old fellow! What d'you think you're doing, hanging around here?"

I turned. Oberon had followed us to the site. "It's a public street," he said mildly to Smalley, the practitioner who had challenged him.

"He sensed the blast earlier and was looking for its source," I said. "I've already interviewed him. Thank you for your time, Oberon."

Oberon looked between me and Smalley, snorted, and walked off.

2016.

"There's good news and bad news," I told Abdul and Jennifer the next morning. "The good news is, Molly's helped me identify an event in 1940 which involved an unknown magical device of Nazi manufacture that could be sensed over the whole of London, and Oberon at least was involved in some way. And the Folly has a whole library of reports on Nazi experiments."

"Sounds like a good shot for our culprit," Abdul said. "What's the problem?"

"The problem is, that library's sealed away," I said, "and I don't know how to get into it. If I did manage to get in, I wouldn't know how to find anything useful in it; I'm pretty sure it's not been looked at since it was brought back as spoils of war. And even if I did find what we're looking for, I don't speak German … and this isn't exactly the sort of thing I'd want to bring in strangers to translate."

"Isn't there anyone in Germany who might have records?" Jennifer asked. "Because I'm telling you now, we haven't found anything on our end."

"Lady Helena keeps saying it will be something simple and easy," Abdul said. "But if she's got any theories on what it might be or how to counter it, she hasn't shared."

"How simple can it be?" I asked. "Something that affects the human body like that—gets past the natural defenses?" It was actually very difficult to use magic to directly affect a living body or brain.

"Sometimes simple is best, for that," Abdul said. "A battering ram, with all your force behind it, rather than something complicated with more moving parts to go wrong."

"If this is the delayed result of a Nazi bomb or what have you," Jennifer said. "Surely there are people in Germany who might also have records?"

"Probably," I said, "but I haven't a clue who to even contact. Nightingale sat alone in the Folly for decades and didn't talk to anybody, near as I can tell. He doesn't even know what practitioners there might be in Germany these days, let alone what would have been done with any records of Nazi magic that didn't get swept up by the Folly." I thought about it for a few minutes. "But if anybody would know, or know how to find out, it would be Lady Ty." I hated to ask her for help, but with her own brother-in-law on the line, the price of the favor she'd ask in return might not be too steep. I added that to my list of things to do.

1940. Nothing of significance happened for another two weeks. Finding the spot where the device had been triggered led us no closer to who had done it or what they had sent; Lewis' men found no evidence that I had not, and no witnesses could be found who had noticed anything. Every member of the Folly knew what to look for, and word had spread among the demi-monde as well; nobody liked the idea of something like that happening again. I received a steady stream of tips, none of which amounted to anything.

"Perhaps the device broke in some way," David said thoughtfully.

"More likely, the spy is trying to operate it as seldom as possible," I said. "I can't imagine what it would be like to be next to that thing when it went off. In which case, they'd want to wait and collect as much information as possible before sending off the next batch, especially for things that weren't time-critical."

"I can't imagine what it would be like to sleep next to it," David said. "Surely it would be detectable at close range, even when it wasn't activated."

"Perhaps not on a conscious level, if the spy is not a practitioner," I said. "Which might be even more disturbing, of course, if you felt that all the time but didn't know why."

David shuddered.

But our wait continued until one day at breakfast that awful screaming came again, filled with burnt meat and rotten fish. I was in the Folly dining room, and when the wave passed it was succeeded by the smell of vomit; young Brown had lost his kippers.

"That's dashed unpleasant," someone muttered. "Couldn't he have waited until after breakfast?"

There was a general hubbub as we made our way out in the hopes that this time we should catch our man. I nodded to Molly on my way out; she was hovering, with a rag and a slop bucket, probably waiting until we were gone to clean up Brown's mess.

Sadly, our prompt response availed us nothing. After about half an hour, we found the spot; as with the last time, it was a concealed area that one could quickly and unobtrusively duck into for a few moments before heading on one's way.

Unlike the last time, someone got there before us.

"Oberon," I said. "How did you find this place so quickly?"

"I was closer," he said. "Clocking in at work." He jerked his head in the direction of the St. Katherine Docks, half a mile or so east of us.

I nodded, making a mental note to check that he had been. I didn't think he was the spy, but better safe than sorry, and he had been in the area both times the spy had called home.

"I knew I was closer this time, thought if I was fast enough I might be able to catch him," Oberon continued. "No luck."

"Too bad," I said.

"And now I've got to go see if I've still got a job," he said with a sigh.

I nodded to him, and began organizing my men to see if there was something to find, but I had a terrible feeling it would come to nothing.

As it happened, I was right.

2016. A quick call to Beverly established that Lady Ty was at Effra's, so I got in the ASBO and headed to Brixton. Effra lived in a Victorian terrace on a quiet residential street, with brown brick and white door and windows. I'd been here yesterday to pay my respects and dig into Oberon's past, so I was not surprised to find Mama Thames and her court ensconced in the living room. Bev wasn't there—since she couldn't do anything that her sisters couldn't, she'd opted to go to uni today.

"Ah, Peter!" Mama Thames said. "Have you found anything?"

"Not yet, Mama," I said. "Have your people?"

Her lips pursed, which meant no.

"I do have a possible lead," I said, "but I need Lady Ty's help."

Mama Thames nodded. "She is upstairs, with Effra."

Given the number of nurses and doctors who worshipped Mama Thames, Effra had opted to keep Oberon at home. The master bedroom now boasted a whole host of portable monitors, and Oberon's still form had an IV port for liquids and nutrition. Like Nightingale, he looked as if he could wake up at any moment.

Effra was seated on the bed, holding his hand. She looked up at me, eyes pleading for help. Tyburn was ensconced in a chair in the corner, working on a tablet.

"Nothing yet, I'm afraid," I said. "How are you holding up?"

Effra gave a bitter laugh. "How do you think?" She patted his hand. "Marrying an Old Soldier was supposed to mean I wouldn't have to worry about him dying."

There was nothing I could say to that. Bev and I weren't married, but with the twins on the way we might as well be.

"Is there anything we can do for you, Peter?" Lady Ty asked, her tone inviting me to leave if there wasn't.

"Actually, yeah," I said. "Can I talk to you, Ty?"

Ty nodded and stood up. I backed out of the bedroom to let her past.

"Well?" she said once we were out in the hall and the bedroom door was closed.

"We've got what may be a lead. It's not much, but it's the best anyone's found so far," I said. "Molly tells me that in 1940, Nightingale was investigating some sort of German spy ring, which had a device that periodically put out blasts of a pretty nasty vestigium that covered the whole city. She's not sure what the device was, but she does know that Oberon was involved in the investigation somehow. Nightingale broke up the ring, but he was knocked unconscious and was in hospital for two days before he woke up."

"Sounds promising," Ty said. "What do you need me for?"

"We can't find Nightingale's case reports," I said, "or any other reference to the incident in the Folly's library. I'm hoping some of the German records survived. Even just knowing what the device was supposed to do would help."

"Sounds like a question for the research department of the Abteilung KDA," Ty said. "Why don't you ask them?"

"Because I don't have any contact information for them," I said, filing away the name.

"You don't—" Ty stared at me. "What the hell has Nightingale been doing for the past seventy years?" she hissed. "No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. The Abteilung Komplexe und Diffuse Angelegenheiten, the Department for Complex and Unspecific Matters, are the people who handle both magical law enforcement and cleaning up after Nazi messes in Germany. They are vastly better run than that dinosaur you call the Folly. I'll get you their contact information. I'm sure you can learn many things from them." She whirled and stalked back into the bedroom.

1940.

"So," Lewis said. "Our German spy has made three reports in as many months, and we are no closer to catching him than we were when we started."

We were gathered in Lord Peter's library again. The spy had to know that the Folly was looking for him, and if he knew anything about us he had to know that I was one of the most likely people to be heading the investigation. Having our meeting in a place the spy was unlikely to be was only prudent.

"I'm afraid that's correct," I said. "It only takes a short while for the spy to send his report, and by the time we've found the location he's long gone. To find him, we'd need to be closer when he triggers it … and he's been smart enough never to send his reports from the same neighborhood twice."

"But always within a few miles of Whitehall," Lewis noted. He studied the map with incident locations on it; there were far too many tempting targets for a spy withing easy walking distance of them all.

"And to find him when he is not calling his handlers back in Germany, you would need to be in the same room as him," Lord Peter said.

"To find the device," I said. "If he hasn't got it on him, I could walk right past him and never know, if it was more than a day or two after the last time he made his report. Human bodies don't absorb vestigia at all well. It could linger in brick or stone for years … but will dissipate from the human body in hours or days."

"So if he's smart enough to leave it at home while he's snooping, there's little point in having you sit at the entrance to, say, the War Office for a week." Lewis sat back in his chair, frowning.

"What effect will the vestigium of the device have on the places he's used it?" Lord Peter asked.

"It's hard to say," I said. "Nothing good, as unpleasant as it is, but … vestigia is rarely strong enough to influence people deeply. It will have little more effect than if those smells and sounds were truly present in a physical way."

"Violence, rot, and burning," Lord Peter said. "I've been to all three of the sites, and I think I've figured out how to feel the vestigium. Terribly unpleasant, what? I'd not want to live or work near it. Though of course I could be imagining it."

"You probably were sensing it correctly, Lord Peter," I said. "One of the most important factors in distinguishing vestigia from one's own fancies is a precise attention to what is, and not what one assumes should be there. Anyone with as long a list of successful cases as you should be quite practiced at that."

Lord Peter nodded.

"Can anyone learn to sense vestigia?" Lewis asked.

"Oh, yes," I said. "Some are better at it than others, of course, but anyone can learn. It merely takes time, exposure to a wide variety of it, and a master to help you distinguish between the real thing and your own imagination."

"How much time?"

"I've no idea." I shrugged. "I learned it as a boy at school—it was one of our first subjects, magically—and I've never had to teach it."

"Find out," Lewis said. "We cannot have a spy running loose in Whitehall. The situation is bad enough as it is, without Hitler having a mole in the government somewhere."

I nodded. "Yes, of course."

2016.

A woman was screaming. A wail of terror and rage, and I could feel her pain. But I couldn't find her—the sound came from everywhere, and any time I thought I knew what direction it was coming from, I fell into a bomb crater. Hands grasped at me, as others tried and failed to climb out of the crater.

There were fish and eels everywhere, lying dead or dying in the rubble, and it took me forever to climb out of each crater because I kept slipping on the fish.

The hands weren't holding me down—they were lifting me up, helping me climb.

If I could only find the woman, I could escape.

Her screams grew louder, mixing with the bomb blasts, and I felt myself shaken by the concussion.

Except it wasn't bomb blasts shaking me, I realized muzzily, it was Bev.

"Peter! Peter, wake up, I swear on Mum that if you don't wake up I will kill you and flood all of London—" There was real fear in her voice, and it was that which brought me up to full waking more than anything else.

"I'm awake," I said.

"Don't scare me like that, babes," Bev said, flopping back down in bed.

"Sorry." I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to drown out the way the woman's cries were still echoing in my head. "Just a check. Can you hear a woman screaming?"

"No," Bev said, eyeing me. "Are you hearing something?"

"Maybe," I said. "Might just be remnants of my dream. If it was a dream."

"What do you mean, 'if it was a dream'?"

"It didn't feel like a dream." I considered. "Parts of it didn't, anyway. They felt like the times the boundaries between realities have been thin, and I've slipped into the past or some other place."

"Do you think that's where Oberon and Nightingale and the others are?" Bev asked. "Trapped in some other reality?"

"Maybe," I said.

1940.

Charlatans and stage magicians and spiritualists often bragged about their supposed abilities to see or sense things from afar. As far as Nightingale knew, there was no formae that would allow a human practitioner to do such a thing.

However, that did not mean that other people—such as the fae—might not have other abilities.

And there was a fae living in the Folly right now. Molly the scullery maid.

He'd never paid much attention to her; one didn't, to maids, and then there was the way she lurked. Some of the members complained loudly about her, while others—including Nightingale—took it as a point of pride to be unmoved by her.

Still, there had always been rumors of what she could do, and he knew enough about fae to know that some of them, at least, might have a kernel of fact in them.

The study on the first floor was empty, so I invited David to join me, and sent for Molly.

Molly entered, hands clasped behind her back, and stood respectfully before them. She was the very picture of an efficient servant from the days of his youth, except for the hair, which was neither pinned neatly up nor curled fashionably. And of course, the uniform was at least ten years out of date; none of the other maids still wore floor-length skirts.

"Thank you for joining us, Molly." I knew she wouldn't sit while either of us were in the room, and as I was asking something entirely outside of what one might normally ask of a servant, and something which might bring up bad memories of the charlatan she'd been rescued from, I remained standing as well.

Molly bobbed a bit of a curtsey.

"You know, I trust, that someone has been doing … rather unsavory things here in London? And that we here at the Folly have been searching for him?"

Molly nodded.

"We haven't been able to trace him," I said. "By the time we reach his location, he's long gone. I understand that fae can sometimes—see things at a distance, or things that mundane eyes cannot."

A furrow developed between her eyes, but she nodded again.

"Can you do that?"

The furrow deepened, and her nod was slower.

"Could you give a vision to another person?"

She looked down, but nodded.

"You're obviously reluctant," I said. "Would it be painful?"

Another nod.

"To you, or to the person you were giving the vision to?"

She pointed at me, which was fair enough; obviously, I was the one doing the investigation, I would be the one who needed the vision.

"Would it be dangerous?"

Nod, eyes still firmly fixed on the floor between us.

"To you, or to me?"

She pointed at me again.

"Would it be less dangerous if you did the scrying yourself?" David asked.

Molly scrunched up her face.

"Could you do the scrying yourself?"

She shook her head vigorously.

"How dangerous do you think it would be?" I asked. "Would it kill me?" If there was a good chance of it, then of course we wouldn't; the situation was not that dire. If nothing else, perfectly mundane security methods might catch the spy, or prevent them from learning anything important.

Molly gave a series of fidgets, the upshot of which was that it would probably not be fatal, but she couldn't be sure, which I confirmed. Further questioning revealed that it should not leave me permanently debilitated, and that a short period of recovery would be quite sufficient to resuming my normal activities.

"I don't see that it's any more dangerous than learning and practicing magic," I said at last. "That, too, can be quite fatal."

"Yes, but by all means, let us manage the risk properly," David said. He turned back to Molly. "How, exactly, would you do it?"

Molly bared her teeth at us, which I took as a threat against prying too deeply into her arcane nature, and David took as something else.

"Oh? Oh! Haemomancy! I've always been curious, this should be quite edifying!"

Molly and I both frowned at him.

"Haemomancy!" he said impatiently.

"Blood magic?" I asked, figuring it out from its roots.

"More specifically, scrying using blood," David said. "Well, that makes everything quite simple. Have someone around who can see when too much blood has been lost, so that Molly doesn't have to worry about accidentally taking too much, and a nurse on hand to stitch up the wound. Simple."

Of course nothing was ever quite that simple in practice, but David wasn't wrong; and the idea of simple blood loss—even if it came from teeth as sharp as Molly's—quieted the half-formed fears I'd had of what, exactly I was getting myself into. It couldn't possibly hurt as much as being shot had, and unlike my last mission overseas this one would be in a safe, clean environment with a proper nurse standing by.

The hardest part, of course, was not getting the nurse; the hardest part was finding a place to do it. The nurse could not come into the Folly proper, being a woman, and Molly would not leave the Folly, leaving us with a pretty puzzle. (Master Pontleby refused to relax the prohibition on women even for war work, arguments that the nurse was working in the same way as the maids and secretaries of the typing pool did and should be allowed the same access falling on deaf ears.)

The Visitor's Lounge was too public, so that was out. Finally David suggested the coach house attic. Molly cleaned it thoroughly, and at the appointed day the nurse Lewis had found showed up exactly on time, despite heavier than usual bombing the night before.

2016.

Since they'd run out of medical leads and were just spinning their wheels at the hospital, I invited Abdul, Jennifer, and Lady Helena to tea at the Folly, and when Molly served I invited her and Foxglove to join us. "You're the only eyewitness we've got to things that happened before my time," I said.

So we sat in the Visitor's Lounge with tea and an assortment of pastries, and I told them about my dream.

Well, first I explained to Lady Helena about fae being actually from parallel dimensions, and that I'd been to one, and that we were pretty sure there were other dimensions out there too, and the odd things that happened when boundaries between them were crossed. That took a while, because she had a lot of questions, most of which I couldn't answer.

Then I told her about the fact that I occasionally had visions under extenuating circumstances, and the strong evidence that whatever else happened in them I was at least able to speak to and interact with ghosts and revenants.

Once she had the proper background, then I told them about my dream.

"You should have come in for a checkup, Peter," Abdul chided me.

He wasn't wrong, but I'd been trying to downplay it for Bev's sake, and also, I'd needed time to think through my dream and figure out what I thought about it.

"I'll come in when we're done here," I said. "But the thing is, I'm not sure that what I experienced actually was a dream. It felt being in faerie, or the visions I've had, or brushing up against another allokosmoi. And what's more, waking up felt more like surfacing from a vision than just waking up out of sleep. I've had a lot of practice at that over the years, more than I want, but I know how to handle myself, and I know what to do when I find myself in that situation. What if the problem is that Nightingale and the others are in that state, and they don't know how to get out of it?"

"There are a lot of assumptions in that," Jennifer pointed out. "None of which can be tested."

"True," I said.

"It would fit with what I've found, though," Lady Helena said. "Their bodies are almost completely unaffected by whatever is doing this to them. I don't know I could say the same about their minds."

I turned to Molly. "You're very convinced that it's a magical thing, not a medical problem, and you were from the start. You would have told us if you knew anything specific, so it must be something about how it … feels to you. Would you know if their minds were trapped in your home dimension?"

Molly nodded vigorously.

"Would you know if they were trapped somewhere else?"

That got a more ambiguous response.

"Alright," Jennifer said, "so what are you proposing?"

"In 1940, Nightingale found what he was looking for using Molly's haemomancy," I said. "I think we can at least figure out if I'm right with it."

1940.

Haemomancy was surprisingly easy; it required no further preparation than finding a place to do it and a nurse to oversee it. I took off my jacket, tie, and shirt, and nodded to Molly.

She stepped close to me, her movements graceful and delicate as always. Like a snake. It was harder to suppress the usual frisson of danger, because this time I could not tell myself it was irrational.

I stared fixedly at the window across the room. We hadn't thought to put up curtains; I didn't think anyone could look in and see, but the last thing we needed was any rumor to spring from this, either of Molly attacking me or the two of us in some sort of tawdry affair.

She bent her head down to my neck. I did not turn or flinch.

She struck.

The world dissolved into a confusing jumble of sights and sounds, buildings I didn't recognize mixed in with ones I did, people wearing funny clothes, people wearing clothes I recognized. Some of them could have been walking around London right now, others in styles I hadn't seen since my childhood. Still others were entirely foreign: women with their hair down, but left as straight as Molly's, people with wide-legged trousers and women in trousers, or in skirts so short as to be indecent. Oberon was there, in a morning suit.

Above it all, a haze of vestigia that felt all too familiar: rotting fish and burning meat, and screaming.

Many voices screamed, this time, not just the woman.

I turned towards the sound, and headed towards it, ignoring everything in pursuit of my quarry.

"Sir?"

An unfamiliar voice called.

"Inspector Nightingale, is that you?"

I turned at my name. A Negro in a cheap suit stood before me.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"What?" he said. "It's me, Peter. Peter Grant. Your apprentice."

"I have no apprentice," I said, and turned back to the chase.

"Inspector, what are you doing?" he asked.

I gave no answer, for I knew not what or who he was. Certainly he was not authorized to know about the spy I was chasing.

"Inspector, it would really help if you would just tell me—" he grabbed my arm, and I shook him off and knocked him down. Stories of fae tricksters danced through my head, along with more prosaic training in counterintelligence. I turned back to follow the sound, and he troubled me no more.

I've no earthly—or unearthly—idea how long it took to track the sound, nor any clear memory of it, but as I ran the world warped and melted all around me, and the reek of rot increased. At last I stood before a building and knew my quarry was inside it, knew where I was and where it was, and opened my eyes to see the coach house ceiling, a woman—the nurse—hovering over me.

The pain hit; I'd never had a serious throat injury before, and I would have cried out if I could make noise.

Off to the side was a commotion, and I turned my head to see—

"No," the nurse said. "No, keep looking at me, sir, that's very good, you have lost some blood but nothing dangerous, I am dealing with your wound now, you will be right as rain very shortly."

I stared fixedly at the ceiling, trying to ignore the smell of copper in the air—at least it was a change from rotting fish, I thought.

The commotion ceased, and I wondered what had happened.

It hadn't been too bad, I told myself. A little pain, a little blood—I'd had that before. I'd gotten what I needed. And now, once the nurse was done patching me up, I'd be right as rain, and fit to take on our spy.

David came and stood over me. A low keening came … from Molly, I realized, the first sound I'd ever heard her make.

"How are you?" David asked.

"He'll be fine, Doctor Mellenby," the nurse said. Whittier, that was her name. Nurse Whittier.

Whittier finished and sat back. "There, sir, we're done. How do you feel?"

"I've felt better," I croaked. "But not bad. How's Molly?"

"Molly?" David collected himself. "She's fine. Did you get it?"

"I did," I said.

Once Nurse Whittier had satisfied herself that I was fit to be on my feet, I called Lewis, and informed him I was about to have the location, and would call to let him know once I had it. Then David and I drove off in the Folly's Morris Eight.

"If you know where we're going, why can't you just give me the address? Or the neighborhood, at least?" David complained good-naturedly.

"I don't know it," I said. "But we need to go west for a ways."

"How do you know?"

"I can feel it," I said. "It's like there's a bright string tying me to it. And I can smell it, the vestigium is … strong." I was having trouble telling it from a normal sensation, which was a problem I didn't usually have.

"I can't sense anything," David said. "Fascinating. I wish we had time to go over all your experiences in detail, before you forget anything."

"If we knew how long this connection would last, I'd be happy to postpone the dénouement," I said. "It's taken us this long to find him, an hour or so more would hardly make a difference. But to have done this and then failed to catch him—"

"No, you're right," David said, soberly.

2016.

The smell of rot filled my nostrils, and the people and buildings around me whirled in a kaleidoscope of every time period from the Edwardian age to my own. Every period, in short, that Nightingale had lived through.

I turned, trying to orient myself, but there was something in my way. Some sort of … haze, or film, or gauze, between me and the world.

I reached out to touch it, but met nothing substantial—but as if I was the insubstantial one, as if I wasn't truly there to touch it.

I turned to the figures, to see if they could help me, and saw a familiar face. "Sir?" I said. "Inspector Nightingale, is that you?"

He turned and frowned at me. "Who are you?"

"What?" I said. "It's me, Peter. Peter Grant. Your apprentice."

"I have no apprentice," he said, and turned away.

"Inspector, what are you doing?" I asked. If this really was Nightingale, perhaps he had could tell me something useful.

He ignored me, and started walking away.

Two long strides caught me up to him, and I grabbed his arm. "Inspector, it would really help if you would just tell me—"

He knocked me down. I opened my eyes, back in the Visitor's Lounge, where the medical professionals were discussing the procedure.

Molly and Foxglove were staring at me, twin stares of shock.

Abdul was the first to notice. He followed their gaze. "Peter, lad, are you alright?"

"Yes," I said. "Only, I just had a vision. I was … I was trying to clear my head a bit, get ready, because once you're in that place, your wits are the only thing you've got. Thinking through my times in those other worlds. And I just … I found myself in one. Everything smelled of rotting fish, and there was some sort of … veil or shade over everything that I could almost touch, but not quite. Nightingale was there, and he wouldn't listen to me, and when I tried to get him to stop and talk to me, he hit me. Then I woke up again."

Abdul was shaking his head. "I don't think we can do this, ethically," he said. "We already have ten people who can't wake up. If you're slipping in and out without even falling asleep, there's too great a chance you won't wake up."

"If that's the case, I can't go to sleep, either," I said. "Bev already had trouble waking me up this morning. What if, tomorrow morning, she can't?"

"What if injecting you forcefully into that allokosmoi is the difference between you being able to fight yourself awake, and you not being able to wake up?" Abdul countered.

"What if we don't ever find a way to wake the sleepers up without him practicing haemomancy?" Lady Helena said. "What if it gets harder for him to awaken the longer we wait? Even with the best medical care, the longer the sleepers are asleep, the more problems they'll have. And there's no one with half as much experience of other worlds as Peter has."

Lady Helena was an accomplished witch—to use her own preferred term—but I don't know that her medical ethics were really the ones I wanted to emulate. But this was me. If I wanted to take the risk, surely it was my choice.

"Jennifer, what do you think?" I asked.

Jennifer shook her head. "There are too many intangibles. Too many factors we simply can't know one way or the other. Too many risks we know nothing about. Your plan could be genius and solve the whole thing, it could make things worse, it could be barking up the wrong tree completely. We don't know, and we can't know, which is the case. So there's no point arguing as if we do know what the risks and rewards are." She rubbed the side of her head. "Peter, what exactly do you think you'll be able to do in that allokosmoi? And if you're slipping in and out without Molly, why do you need the risk of blood loss and all the germs a mouth contains?"

I took a moment to collect my thoughts. "There's something there," I said. "I don't know what it is or where it comes from, but it's forming a barrier. I think it's what's keeping Nightingale and the others trapped. If I can tear it away, I think they'll wake up. But I couldn't get a good enough grip on it—not because it was insubstantial, but because I was. I think haemomancy will push me through solidly enough to grab it … and I think I've got a better chance of knowing what to do and how to do it if I go in awake, than if I slip in while I'm dreaming."

"How so?" Lady Helena asked. "You've described it as similar to a dream state."

"It's like dreams in that it's not physically real," I said. "Things can be metaphors, things can be symbolic more than literal. But you're not sleeping, and it's not your own subconscious making it up out of bits of things you've seen that day. It's got its own substance. If you know what you're doing, you can manipulate it. You can do things there that have real, tangible results in the real world. But if you're sleeping, if you think it's just a dream…." I shook my head. "You can't do anything if you don't know it's possible, can you? If they just think this is a regular old dream, how would they know to escape? I want to make sure that I go in knowing it's an allokosmoi and not a dream. That'll give me the best shot of breaking it."

"All right, then, Peter," Jennifer said. "We're flying blind. You're the one with the experience."

1940.

It was good we hadn't waited for David's questions, I reflected, because the thread connecting me and my target was thinning palpably by the time we parked outside a lodging house in a run-down neighborhood.

I wrote down Lewis' number and handed it to David. "Please go ring this number and let them know the address so they can send someone to pick it up. I'm going in to make sure I can tell which room is the right one before it fades."

"Alone?" David said. "What about backup?"

I stared at him. "David, this isn't the movies, or a detective novel. Spies are not generally prone to violent heroics. Their entire modus operandii depends on going unnoticed. And if they get caught, what do you think one person by themselves could do? Could he fight his way out of England and across the Channel single-handedly? No. Chances are, he'll come quietly. And if he fights, I've spent quite a lot of the last several years in sticky situations of one sort or another, I'm quite certain I could take him. Meanwhile, it's the middle of the day, he's probably not even in, and the sooner you go away and make that phone call, the sooner I will have backup." David didn't count; he hadn't even boxed since leaving Casterbrook.

"Right," David said.

I got out of the car and walked up to the building. It was the sort of building I was more likely to step foot in overseas than here in London: shabby, neglected, the furnishings either cheap or old or both. I paused just outside the door, and closed my eyes; even without Molly's haemomancy, I thought the vestigium would have been noticeable to someone with training. But it wasn't the sort of neighborhood any of the chaps from the Folly would have any reason to visit. No wonder we hadn't found it.

I entered, and paused inside to get my bearings. It was coming from above. As I climbed the stairs, I found the reek of the vestigium growing again. I was tempted to cover my ears or my nose or both, but for the certain knowledge that it wouldn't do any good.

I stopped outside the room it was emanating from, but I couldn't feel anything over the devices. There was no light on in the room, which on such a dark day likely meant nobody was in. I started a formae for a basic shield, just in case, and tried the door handle slowly.

It was locked. I popped it, and swung it open.

Oberon was sitting on the bed.

"This is not your address," I said, because it wasn't. I'd checked and he did indeed live at the address he'd given me. "And you can't be the spy, your alibi for the second incident checked out."

Oberon raised his eyebrows. "So it's a spy, eh? I'd have thought saboteur, all the reek and mess he leaves around. Not very discreet, for a spy."

"How did you find his room?" I walked in and shut the door quietly behind me, and began a cursory search of the room.

"Even a person with all the sensitivity of a turnip would find this place hard to be around." Oberon watched me rifle through the bureau drawers. "People have been complaining about it. The landlady's scoured this whole building top to bottom three times, and nothing worked. I heard about it, and decided to check it out."

"You didn't call me to report what you'd found." The drawers being filled with nothing but clothes, I moved to the washstand, and opened its drawer.

That had to be them. Four stone discs, perhaps four inches across and half an inch thick.

I closed the drawer. It did very little to ameliorate the vestigium. But even the little it did do was welcome.

"Having seen—and, more to the point, felt—those things, I didn't want them in anybody's hands." Oberon said. "Not the Germans, not the Isaacs, not the Army. He's murdered at least four people, and turned them into weapons. I want to destroy them and put those poor souls to rest. And then I want to have a little chat with our friend the spy, to see if he's told anyone else, and lay him to rest. And possibly the people he's told."

"He didn't make the devices," I said. "I'm afraid there's no containing the information."

"Damn." Oberon shook his head.

"You might as well leave the whole thing to me," I said. "He'll be handed over to the proper authorities."

"And the stones? Will they be destroyed, or will they be studied?"

I hesitated.

"You know they're abominations," Oberon said.

David was dying to know how it had been done, and Lewis would want it examined to see if a countermeasure could be determined. I couldn't say they were wrong. But … neither was Oberon.

The door opened.

A non-descript white man in coveralls stood in the doorway, staring at us.

"You'd better come in," I said.

"Who're you?" he asked, walking in and shutting the door behind him.

"I'm Thomas Nightingale, with the Home Office," I said, that being the relevant information.

"And I'm Oberon, here on behalf of the neighbors you've been dripping your filthy magic residue all over."

Something hardened in the man's face. "So you know," he said.

"We do," I said. "There's no hope of escape. Even if you could overpower the two of us, my superiors know all about you and the police should be here shortly." I wasn't sure it would be the police; it might be the SOE, or military intelligence. But that didn't matter now.

His face hardened. "You're right. There's no hope."

He charged me, drawing a knife. I knocked him down with impello, but we were so close his momentum bowled me over.

The knife went flying, and Oberon lunged for it.

The man grabbed the washstand and yanked open the drawer with the stones. I kicked him, but he managed to grab the stones anyway.

Something magical was happening—I wasn't sure whether it was him or the stones, but either way it couldn't be good. I reached for sīphonem, trying to drain power from the stones before he could use them.

Oberon stabbed him.

A pulse of power went out from the stones, all of them at once, quicker than sīphonem could compensate for.

The world went black.

2016.

I was back in that weird, shifting London, but this time I could make out peoples' faces. This time, nobody was screaming, and there was no smell of burned meat. But the rotting fish smell was much stronger.

I recognized some of the people walking by—that blonde woman who looked like she should be in a costume drama on the BBC was Emma Montmorency, one of the sleepers. She was walking and holding a basket, and talking to thin air.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said, stepping in front of her. "I'm looking for Nightingale. Do you know where he is?"

She sniffed. "I don't go hanging about with the Isaacs, young man, and if you're smart you won't either."

"What about Oberon?" I persisted.

"Oh, Effra's young man!" she said. "He's over that way, I believe. Do give him my greetings."

"Actually, why don't we go say hello together?" I said. I didn't know that people being close to me in the dreamscape would make a difference to whether they woke up when I was done or not, but … I didn't know it wouldn't, either.

"All right," she said, and off we went. Along the way, we collected anybody I recognized as a sleeper, and I realized they felt differently than the rest of the people I saw. They were more real, more present, than the rest. One or two I didn't recognize felt real as well, and I gathered them along with us. I was half expecting the ghosts of old rivers to show up, but they didn't. Neither did Punch.

Oberon and Nightingale were together when we found them, fighting a shade. No magic, just pure brawling—I think I saw Nightingale bite him, though I wouldn't swear to it.

Emma tisked disapprovingly. "And them supposed to be gentlemen!"

"I don't think he's real," I told them.

They didn't listen.

"Nightingale, stop!" I called.

"Peter, I'm a bit busy!" he replied.

"He's not real," I said. "You're dreaming."

I walked up to them—cautiously, I've broken up my fair share of brawls in my time as a copper—and grabbed the man they were fighting. Sure enough, he dissolved into mist.

"Oh," said Nightingale.

"We're dreaming?" Oberon said. "That explains …" he trailed off.

"You and all the rest of these people have been asleep for four days," I said. "I've come to get you out."

There was a general commotion as people tried to ask questions all at once.

"Something's made a hole between our world and some other world, and you all fell through it," I said. "This is the other side, or at least partway between. If I can tear it apart, we can all go back and we'll all wake up." That was the theory anyway, but I wanted to keep things simple. There was never as much time as you needed before it got dangerous to be away from your body for too long.

The shroud was indeed more tangible this time. Everything was filmy, as if I was watching through a veil. It reeked of rotten fish, slimy and slippery. I grabbed at it, and tried to tear it.

As I pulled, the smell got worse, and Nightingale dropped to the ground.

I stopped.

"I don't think we want to tear it," Oberon said. "We want the barrier to be strong. We just want to be on the other side of it, right?"

"Right," I said, feeling a bit stupid. I thought for a second. "Maybe if I hold it up, you can slip under it?"

Oberon shrugged. "Worth a shot."

"You okay, sir?" I asked Nightingale.

"I am functional," he said, which wasn't the same thing. "Do we know for sure we're the only ones affected?"

"No," I said, "But all the ones we know are asleep are here."

"You might call out, see if any others come."

"Right," I said. "Anybody out there?" I shouted. My voice echoed louder than I could ever have made it in the real world. "If you want to get out of this nightmare, now's your chance, we're making an exit right here!"

We waited, but there was no sign of life outside our little group. All the shades had disappeared, and we were alone.

I could feel the weakness that meant I didn't have much time. They were all asleep, but I wasn't—I was in a trance caused partly by blood loss.

I grabbed the shroud again, and this time I tried lifting it up. Emma helped, as did Oberon and two of the others, and between us we got an opening sufficient for someone to crawl under.

"Oy, don't just stand there," I said.

One by one, the sleepers crawled out and away. Nightingale tried to go last, but Oberon wasn't having it. "And just how will you manage to hold the barrier up, you're weaker than a kitten!" he said. "You were the one at the center of that blast, not me."

Nightingale went, then Emma and Oberon crawled half-way under and stopped, holding the way open for me with their bodies. I ducked under with them, and out we went.

I opened my eyes to see the coach house ceiling. Abdul was tending my wound, and Bev was holding my hand so tightly I could swear I felt the bones twist. Beyond her, Lady Helena was watching.

"You did great, babes, you did so good," Bev said. "I don't know if it worked, but if it didn't, I saw what you did, I think I can do it without Molly's help."

Lady Helena pursed her lips, which I took to mean that she hadn't sensed enough to say the same. I wondered if she'd be asking Molly for her own experience with haemomancy.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Stay quiet, Peter, and let me finish," Abdul said.

Bev's phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket one-handed. "What's the news?"

"It worked, Bev, it worked! Oberon's awake!" Effra shouted through the phone. "Tell your baby-daddy I owe him."

I almost laughed in relief.

Abdul's phone dinged with a text. He finished his sutures, wiped his hands off, and reached for it. "Jennifer says they're waking up at the hospital, too."

1940.

I woke up in a strange place, the private dining room on the ground floor of the Folly. The table and chairs had been shoved to the side, and a bed brought in.

"What?" I tried to say, but all that came out was a croak.

"Oh, good, you're awake, we were beginning to worry." It was Brown, sitting in a chair by the window with a book. "It's been almost three days since—well, since whatever hush-hush thing happened that knocked you out. Though we all felt it, it was worse than the other three put together, so I don't see why they're trying to keep it quiet. Scary Mary has been hovering over you like you're the last cut of meat at the butcher shop—are you having it on with her? Brave man, if so."

I tried to deny it, but my voice still wasn't working.

He poured me a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to me. "I'll just go announce that you're awake, shall I?"

I took a sip, and it was balm to my parched throat. I wanted nothing more than to drink the whole glass at once. Still, if it had really been three days, it would make me sick, even if they'd been giving me things to drink.

(You can get a little bit of liquid down an unconscious person's throat, if you're careful about it and take your time; I know, because I've had to do it, out in the field. But you can't get much down them.)

"Thomas, you frightened us all!" David said, bursting through the door. "We weren't sure you were ever going to wake up. Your backup got there just as … whatever it was kicked off. They got into the room, and found the spy dead, and you and the Negro unconscious. The hospital couldn't find anything wrong with either of you, and sent you home."

"Oberon?" I asked.

"He woke up overnight," David said. "But his friend who was taking care of him was ferociously protective of him, wouldn't let me in to examine him. He only agreed to let us know when Oberon awoke if we agreed to do the same with you."

"Ah," I said. "The stones?"

"The devices, you mean?" David shook his head. "I'm not sure what all you did to them—or them to you, for that matter—but they're not enchanted any longer, I can tell you that. They're just so much gravel, now; all of them broken, with no more vestigia than grass. Your man Lewis wasn't pleased, but on the other hand, he said it was unlikely the Jerries would try this again; only three reports, each of them putting a target on their man's back, and then we found him? Not good odds, they'd do better parachuting a man in with a radio."

I was curious about what the spy's job had been, what sort of information he had access to, but while Lewis would undoubtedly know, he wouldn't have told David.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" David called.

It was Molly, with a tray and a bowl of soup. Between the two of them, she and David helped me sit up and propped pillows behind me.

"Why am I in here?" I asked.

"What, you think we should have carried you up two flights of stairs to your bedroom, and then down three flights of stairs to the cellar if there was an air raid? No, thank you," David said. "It didn't hurt anybody to have to use the breakfast room or the small dining room instead, and this way if there was an air raid you were right by the stairs to the cellar."

Molly handed me the bowl and spoon. She was tense, hunched over.

I took a spoonful. Beef broth, just the thing for someone who hadn't eaten in a few days.

"Nothing that happened to me was your fault," I told her. "You did exactly as I asked you. You were honest about the risks. The haemomancy worked perfectly and caused no lasting harm. What happened to me when I found the devices was because of the Germans who designed and used them, not you."

She relaxed a little bit, and nodded.

I took another spoonful of broth.

Molly curtseyed, and left.

"I'd better go ring Lewis, and Oberon, as I promised to do," David said. "Will you be alright if I just step out to the telephone?"

"Of course," I said.

I slowly ate my soup as the other chaps came in to congratulate me on awakening, and pump me—with varying degrees of subtlety—for the story.

Young Higginbottom, in particular, was incensed. "You won't tell us anything?"

"Careless talk costs lives," I said.

"Yes, but we're trustworthy," he said. "And we certainly deserve it after having endured all those blasts!"

"No, Higginbottom," I said. "The affair is over, and you need think of it no more. I certainly intend to forget all about it."

Notes:

Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme is a 16th Century German hymn, later turned into a chorale cantata by Bach. It can be literally translated "Awake, the voice is calling us," but the cantata is usually called "Sleepers Awake" in English, and the most common English translation of the hymn in current use has the first line as "Wake, Awake, for Night Is Flying"

Thank you to walldecor for britpicking and Lavender Threads for betaing

Lord Peter quotes "The Thorn" by William Wordsworth and "The Prisoner" by Emily Brontë

The hospital near Limburg where the German practitioner works is, of course, the Hadamar Clinic (aka "Hadamar Killing Center"), main site of the Nazi eugenics program Aktion T4.

#rivers of london #fanfic #fanfiction #case fic

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beatrice-otter · 2 years ago

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Fic: Goodfellow (Rivers of London)

Title: Goodfellow Author: Beatrice Otter Fandom: Rivers of London Characters: Peter Grant & Thomas Nightingale Additional tags: casefic, organized crime Written for: Galadriel1010 in Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2022 (fffx ) Betaed by: mysteryfail Length: 13,211 words Summary: There had been thefts at three successive Goblin Markets, and one incident of serious vandalism, before Robin Goodfellow had deigned to call in the munificent arm of the law. Authors Note: Yes, the title of the fic is a play on Goodfellas. No, this story has nothing to do with that movie, but I couldn't resist. On AO3. On Dreamwidth. On Pillowfort. There had been thefts at three successive Goblin Markets, and one incident of serious vandalism, before Robin Goodfellow had deigned to call in the munificent arm of the law—in this case, the Special Assessment Unit, colloquially known as the Folly, and disparagingly called the Isaacs by the demi-monde. Which just goes to show that after over a century of alternating condescension, neglect, and active persecution, it takes more than a few years of community-focused policing to change community perception. Even when that policing is being done by a handsome and charismatic DC such as myself.

When Goodfellow had called us in, I took Constable Danni Wickford with me. She'd been a great help to Nightingale and Sahra when I'd been out on paternity leave but was quite happy to be demoted back to Falcon Four.

"So … you don't have any CCTV at all?" she asked Robin Goodfellow in some disbelief. "Not even over the entrances and exits?"

He shrugged. "Besides the practical challenges of setting a system up and tearing it down every time we move, our clientele—both the stallholders and the shoppers—are a bit more protective of their privacy than the average punter at a Marks and Spencer. We're a tight-knit bunch; we keep an eye on things, and that's always been sufficient."

"But not this time," I said. Most of police work is asking variations on the same obvious questions over and over again until you're sure—really sure—that you've gotten every last bit of information out of whoever you're talking to.

Robin Goodfellow shook his head. "It's not any of the usual troublemakers. And believe me, we've checked."

"Can you give us the list of usual troublemakers, so we can double-check?" I asked.

Robin Goodfellow hesitated. "It's not that I don't trust you, Grant," he said. "But my clientele are not very trusting people. And they wouldn't like knowing I'd given the Isaacs a list of names—even of the sort of shits nobody likes—and told them they were trouble."

We went around on that for a bit, but he didn't budge and I didn't like to push him too hard. Not when it was still so rare for anyone in the demimonde to voluntarily ask for our help. Besides, the demimonde was used to handling things internally—Goodfellow hadn't gotten to be where he was without knowing how to handle the usual troublemakers. Chances were, he was right and this wasn't anybody on his list. "How about a list of stallholders we can talk with, to see if they spotted anything?"

"I can do that," he said. "Not all of them will talk to you, though."

"We'll be polite," I assured him.

"Do you have any special anti-theft measures in place, either on the market as a whole or on specific booths?" Danni asked.

"Couple of booths have glass cases for the special stuff," Robin Goodfellow said.

"But no magical defenses?" Danni persisted. "Nothing that might provide any evidence for our investigation?"

"I've given you all I know," he said. Which wasn't an answer, but that was all we were going to get out of him.

…

"Not much to go on, is it?" Danni said as we drove back to the Folly to start our investigations. She was studying the list of names Robin Goodfellow had given us as I drove. "A list of what was stolen, and from whom, and when. A list of stallholders, some of whom won't talk to us. A list of damage done to the stalls—no forensics for that—and to the building. Which at least got reported."

I had never enquired too deeply into whether or not the market had official permission to use the buildings it popped up in, because if the answer was 'no' there wasn't much I or the Folly could do about it. They didn't exactly let us know in advance where they were going to be, and until very recently we hadn't even known for sure the name of the person running them. But after every one I knew the location of, I'd checked with the local nick to see if any damage had been reported, and none had until the last one. At which time, they'd cleaned up all their stuff and removed it, and the contractors working on the building had called it in the next day.

Apparently, it was the custom of the market to set up the stalls and make any needed site modifications the night before, so that all that needed to be done the morning of would be to cart in the merchandise before opening. While a number of stalls had been demolished, and some random damage done to the building and the scaffolding around it, no merchandise had been stolen at that time.

Danni continued. "But forensics didn't find anything. No CCTV, no fingerprints or mysterious fibres or blood spatter, nothing."

And, since it was an active construction site and we hadn't gotten called in until almost a week later, the chances of there being any useful vestigium left was very small. I sighed. "Maybe we'll get lucky," I said. "We'll both be at the next one, and hopefully we'll catch whoever it is in the act."

"If they don't get spooked off at the sight of a couple of coppers," Danni pointed out.

"That's still a win," I said. "And maybe we'll get really lucky and the thief'll be stupid enough to try and sell some of it to the wrong person in the Hanging Tree or one of the other demi-monde hangouts."

The demi-monde wasn't that big, and the thefts were hot gossip, which was part of why Robin Goodfellow had called us in—he needed to be seen to be doing something. While some of the stolen items were valuable, that was only true if the thief could offload them onto someone who knew and cared what they were. For example, the costume jewelry imbued with vestigia would look like ordinary stuff you could get cheap in any department store. If you didn't know what vestigia was, you wouldn't attribute your sense of peace and stillness to the jewelry, and so you wouldn't be interested in paying a premium price for it. There were only so many places you could reliably find people who would know that … and everybody in those places would not only know you were trying to flog stolen goods, they'd know who those goods had been stolen from.

"You think someone'll call us to report someone selling stolen goods?" Danni asked, skeptically. "Is the demi-monde so much more law-abiding than everyone else?"

"I think there are just as many people willing to buy things that fell off the back of a lorry in the demi-monde as there are anywhere else," I said. "But it makes a difference when that lorry is filled with stuff owned by people you know, instead of some faceless international corporation. And no, I doubt they'll call us. But they might call Robin Goodfellow, and he'll pass it on to us."

"He didn't seem to want to involve the police, he might not," Danni said. "He could try to handle things himself."

I shook my head. "I doubt it. He wants to establish a permanent, larger site for the Goblin Fair of London, remember, and that would be much harder without the Folly's good will."

…

Back at the Folly's coach house/tech cave, we fed the information into HOLMES, got an operation formally started, and (pending Nightingale's approval) I actioned Danni to interview the stallholders from the market. It was lovely to have someone junior to me to fob some of the drudgery off on. Then we headed into the Folly itself to brief Nightingale over tea.

"Do you think they do have any sort of magic defenses?" I asked Nightingale. "He didn't answer that question."

"It's possible, but I doubt it," Nightingale said. "Though he might like to imply they exist, when he can."

"If they'd had something like the Folly's wards, they would have tripped when Lesley and I and Varvara were throwing around spells that one time," I said. "But what about anti-theft systems specifically?"

Nightingale took a bite out of an avocado-and-egg sandwich and chewed contemplatively. "I shouldn't think so," he said. "Or rather, anything you could do magically in that area would be easier to do technologically. I understand that putting tags on merchandise that will sound an alarm if they leave the store is quite simple, whereas achieving the same effect with a spell would be … rather complicated, if it were possible at all. Particularly given that one would wish to ensure that the merchandise, and only the merchandise, was affected, and that it was easily reversible when an item was purchased. And several of the stolen items—the jewelry, for example—might be negatively affected by the added vestigia."

"Electronic anti-theft measures work as long as nobody sands the chips," Danni pointed out. "Somebody does a big spell, and they're just so much expensive junk."

"It would tip everyone off that something was going down," I pointed out. "Even if you didn't have anything monitoring the security system set to alert you if it went down, and if the spell had a small enough physical effect to go unnoticed by the average person, most people in the demi-monde know the feel of magic being done. Goblin market's always crowded. Somebody would notice and spread the alarm. It'd be easier not to bother disabling it, just grab the stuff and run."

Nightingale nodded. "Very true, Peter. And, of course, there might be other effects achievable by the Genius Loci and any fae who might be among the stallholders, but I confess I can't think of anything plausible."

"I can't see Mama Thames or her daughters wanting to work anti-shrinkage for anybody," I said, "and I can't see Robin Goodfellow allowing it—it'd turn his fair into a River thing too quickly."

We talked the situation over a bit more, but no further insights sprang up between us. Danni went off to interview the stallholders, I added the dates for the next several markets on the Folly calendar and actioned myself to get the layouts from Robin Goodfellow so we could figure out where to station Danni and me for maximum effectiveness. (Nightingale, as someone with a reputation sufficient to merit a definite article in conversation when referred to in the third person, was a bit overkill and wouldn't be joining us).

Then I got in a couple of hours' practice on the current formae I was working on, and after that I spent a few hours slogging through the paperwork.

I once naively believed that when the briefing documents and Basic Falcon Management Course were written and comments from the various stakeholders had been addressed, that would be the end of it and I could go back to only the ordinary mountain of paperwork required of the average Detective Constable. But it had only been the beginning; and while Nightingale did as much of it as he could, his facility with Modern Metropolitan Police Bureaucratese was far worse than his Latin, and honestly it was easier for the two of us to brainstorm and plan together and me to write it up than it was for him to write it up and me to add the Bureaucratese later.

"Besides," he said with a smile when officially delegating such things to me, "it will be very good experience for you, preparation for when you are the official head of the Special Assessment Unit."

All things considered, I probably would have ended up doing less paperwork if I'd gone to the Case Progression Unit after my probation.

But it would have been far less interesting paperwork.

…

The next day, while Danni was working on the Goblin Market case, I got a call from the Right Honourable Caroline Linden-Limmer, on behalf of her girlfriend Grand Master Grace Yutani of the Sons (and, apparently, Daughters) of Wayland.

"Grace wants to talk with you," Caroline said. "Directly."

"She is welcome to come visit any time," I said, which was true both socially and professionally. Grace and Caroline had come to Bev and my place to meet the twins, and to give me a magic-proof phone case. I'd had a lot of fun testing that; it wasn't 100% fool-proof, but it could handle most spells even at close range, which was a definite improvement.

On the professional level, we were in the delicate process of re-building the organizational ties destroyed by (on the one side) the mass death and retirement of the Folly's membership after the War, and (on the other side) the resentment and suspicion caused by the destruction of the Sons of Wayland's headquarters. The Sons of Wayland were Newtonian practitioners, and some of their sons had gone to Casterbrook. After the war, they'd trained their own people their own way. If we were expanding the Folly and reopening Casterbrook as a training center, it would be much more efficient to work together.

"We're a bit busy right now," Caroline said. "Besides, for this we need you here. We had a break-in."

"Another one?" I said. "Not Lesley again, I hope?"

"No," Caroline said. "This wasn't out at the house you visited, which holds the Archives and the Grand Master's residence. The main headquarters, with the public forges and classrooms and offices and meeting space, is in the Northern Quarter. And the thief didn't get into the forges themselves, which have tighter security. But they got all the computer equipment and projectors from the office and classrooms, and some of the student projects that were lying around."

If they had computers in their classrooms, their ability to shield technology from magic must be a lot better than what was in the phone case. It probably had something to do with not needing to size it down to fit in your pocket. Not for the first time I wondered how they did it; Nightingale and I had spent a lot of time studying it, and the most we'd figured out was that it didn't have any relation to Foxglove's magic dampening field.

"So, will you come?" Caroline asked.

"It sounds like a mundane break-in, to me," I said. "Have you reported it to your local police?"

"Yes," Caroline said. "But they aren't hopeful we'll get any of it back."

"Was there any magical component to the theft?" I asked. "Did they use any spells, or target anything obviously magical?"

"No," Caroline said. There was a pause, and I guessed she was communicating with Grace. "They did try and force the door to the forges, both the outside door to the loading dock, and the inner door from the reception area. Just with a crowbar, nothing fancy."

"What's the cover story?" I asked. "I assume they don't have a fancy plaque saying 'Sons of Wayland, magical smiths, call us for all your enchanted metalwork needs.'" I'd looked them up in HOLMES, of course, as well as on Google and Facebook, but they didn't do business as the Sons of Wayland, and neither Grace Yutani nor Caroline Linden-Limmer had official ownership of or control over any metal-related businesses, at least on paper.

"You can look up Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy online," Caroline said. "They do custom blacksmithing, whitesmithing, and other metal work. In addition to teaching their own apprentices they have a partnership with the Wilkinson Welding Academy, and sometimes make specialized equipment for the University of Manchester."

I almost asked what her mum thought about her dating a woman who taught welding, but didn't. Besides, I bet I knew. Would the magic be enough to make up for the blue-collar work? My mum wouldn't think so, and she wasn't a Viscountess. Now, my mum didn't look down on working people, but she'd still rather I married up. She loved that Bev was not only a river goddess, but also a uni student (although Mum would have preferred her to study engineering, law, or medicine). Somehow I doubted Lady Helena Louise Linden-Limmer would be less snobby than my mum.

"So everyone in the neighborhood would know they have stores of metal and welding equipment and tools in the workshop area," I said, keeping myself on topic.

"Yes," Caroline said.

"And you've told all this to the Manchester police?"

"Yes."

"Was there anything sensitive on those computers beyond normal business data?"

There was another pause, while Caroline asked Grace, and I thought about how I could adjust my schedule to start learning British Sign Language. It should be easier than Latin or Greek, and also something I could have conversations in, not just read. Where I was going to get the time I didn't know.

"There's PowerPoints and other class materials for teaching the academic part of Newtonian magic," Caroline said at last. "But you still need a teacher to demonstrate the formae for you. The business data is more critical; besides things like banking information and client information, they've got the whole membership list for the Wayland Group, both active and retired."

Which meant that whoever had stolen those computers now knew more about the Sons of Wayland—or the Wayland Group, if that was what they were calling themselves now—than either Nightingale or I did. "You've contacted everyone on that list and told them what happened?"

"We have, and there haven't been any attacks on our members, or targeted thefts, that we know of," Caroline said. "Look, can you just come up here? We'd rather have your personal attention in person."

"Is there anything your local police haven't noticed or followed up on that they should?"

"No."

"Well, the first step for us will be to contact the Greater Manchester Police and get copies of their forensics reports," I said. "See if we can spot anything they missed. There almost certainly won't be; they're very good and they know their manor better than I do. But it'll stop us from duplicating their work."

"And then, when their reports tell you nothing?" Caroline said.

"I'll talk to Nightingale about coming up in person," I said, "but I doubt we'll be able to do anything more than your local police will. Less, probably, because if it was just a standard break-in by someone looking for computers or whatever, they're the ones who are going to know where to look for the goods when they get fenced."

"And if it is somehow targeted?" Caroline asked.

"If you give me the compromised information, I'll put flags out for Wayland's members and clients. If anything does happen, we'll find out when the other shoe drops," I said. "And then we'll have more to go on and a better chance at finding them. We are taking this seriously, Caroline," I assured her. "It's just that your bog-standard Breaking-and-Entering is the hardest crime to solve if the criminals are even halfway competent. If they wear gloves so they don't leave fingerprints and a hoodie to make them hard to identify on CCTV, chances are they're not going to get caught unless we catch them trying to flog their ill-gotten gains." This was something I hadn't had to explain since I was a lowly probationary PC, working the streets of London with Lesley, dealing with street crime and petty theft. Most crimes were solved because there was a connection between the victim and the perpetrator. When there wasn't a connection to find, and little physical evidence either, there was only so much to investigate.

I paused to see if Caroline had anything to say, but she didn't.

"You know your community better than I do," I said. "The Manchester police know the local fences and criminal habits better than I do. And you and Grace are top practitioners. Nightingale will probably want to go up and check things out, especially if Grace says she'll give him a tour of the forges while he's up there, either at the main offices or her personal setup. But the people on the spot are the ones most likely to notice a problem, and that's you guys."

"Let me talk to Grace," Caroline said.

While I waited for her to come back to the phone, I googled Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy and found a webpage that looked like it hadn't been redesigned in the last decade. There were examples of their work, and a page with the classes they offered (everything from basic welding to blacksmithing to jewelry making), but there wasn't an "about us" page.

But I thought I knew where they had gotten the name from anyway. Wayland was a mythological smith who popped up in stories from Finland to Germany to England; he learned his craft from dwarves and made weapons and armor for everyone from Beowulf to Charlemagne. Along the way, he wreaked bloody vengeance on everyone who tried to cheat him or control him. And Wade was his father. The perfect name to choose if you wanted to honor your heritage, but also not be noticed by people looking for your old name.

I should have been searching for groups with "Wade" in their name, not just Wayland, once we'd learned the Sons of Wayland had gone into hiding instead of disbanding after the war the way the Folly had. But I'd gone on paternity leave almost immediately, and hadn't been back from it that long. And maybe it was better that they'd come to us, and told us the name they were using these days, instead of me hunting them down.

Once Caroline had rung off, I called DC Eileen Monkfish from Manchester, who'd been the one escorting us about when we were investigating the case with Francisca the Angel of Death/Inquisition brainwashing victim.

"Hello, Peter," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"There was a break-in at Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy yesterday," I said. "It's probably just an ordinary break-in, but Wade's is a subsidiary of the IronFast Trust, who are part of our stakeholder community. They asked me to take a look at it."

"One of your lot?" Eileen said. "Any chance of magic rings or people appearing naked out of nowhere?"

"Shouldn't be," I said. "My contact said there was no sign of anything pointing to Falcon involvement, and she'd know."

"All right," Eileen said. "I can get you added to the case on HOLMES, if that's all you need. As long as you don't go around stepping on my peoples' toes, that is."

"My governor or I might pop up to Manchester to see the people at Wade's," I said, "but that'll be community engagement, not serious investigation. We'll let you know if we find anything."

"That's all right then," she said.

…

Nightingale, Danni, and I met together over tea in the lobby. We started with Danni filling us in about what she'd learned from the stallholders, which was nothing much.

"I did have a thought about the vandalism, though," Danni said when she finished her summary. "Are we sure it's connected to the market? People do sometimes vandalize construction zones and whatnot just for a lark. And once they were in, the easiest things to smash would be the stalls and things."

"I'd expect more graffiti, in that case," I said. "And theft of building materials and tools left lying around. There were some, I think."

"There were indeed," Nightingale said, proving he'd read the report. "While the thefts and the vandalism may be separate, we have very little evidence either way. Unless either of you has a suggestion, I would suggest leaving the issue to the Kingston CID."

That being settled, I shared what Caroline had told me about the theft at Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy, along with what I'd gotten from HOLMES.

"Well!" Nightingale said. "It would be rude to turn down an invitation, though I don't see that we could do anything they or their local constabulary could not."

"That's my thought, too," I said. "But if we swing it right, you'll get a tour of the forge, and maybe even a copy of their training materials along with the membership list."

"That would certainly make our trouble in traveling up there worthwhile," Nightingale allowed. "And I suppose that it would be worthwhile to show the flag and prove our attentiveness to their concerns, given … well." He stirred his tea and took a sip with great deliberation.

Nightingale had been hurt that the Sons of Wayland had mistrusted the Folly (and him, by extension) so little they'd let everyone think they were destroyed with their headquarters. He'd covered it with a Stiff Upper Lip and a few dryly put out words, but I could tell it bothered him. Between his hurt and Grace's mistrust, we hadn't actually been able to set up a formal meeting on terms that were acceptable to both parties, yet. There were too many implications to either of them hosting the other at a formal first meeting.

In the bad old days, the Grand Master had called upon the Master of the Folly at the Folly's convenience, and after he left, some corners of the Folly would occasionally ring with laughter at the Sons of Wayland's hubris in calling their leader the Grand Master. The true gentleman went to Oxford or London or became County Practitioners. The Sons of Wayland worked with their hands and the sweat of their brow, and (despite some of them having gone to Casterbrook alongside the future gentleman wizards) they were socially a cut below, and the Folly had made sure they knew it. The Grand Master had had little say in whether wizards would sit out the Second World War as they had the First, but his order had provided men and materiel regardless.

If they'd been listened to instead of condescended to, perhaps they wouldn't have been so quick to jump in a hole and pull it in after themselves when their headquarters were bombed out. And they'd certainly be less cautious about talking with us now.

Grace and Caroline had come down to visit when the babies were born, of course, but so far no amount of negotiation had resulted in an official first meeting for Grace and Nightingale that both parties found acceptable. When the Master of the Folly invited the Grand Master of the Sons of Wayland to visit the Folly, Grace hadn't exactly refused, but she had countered with an offer to come visit them on their manor, in Manchester, in such a way that it implied that Nightingale was the petitioner and she the superior. Which was just not on. Nightingale would be happy to accept her as an equal, but balked at being condescended to himself, particularly when (as he saw it) the Sons of Wayland's paranoia was what had broken the relationship to begin with.

Nightingale had thanked them for the invitation and expressed an interest in seeing the forge and possibly even Grace at work, having studied with the Sons of Wayland in his youth, but found various excuses for why he couldn't possibly accept the invitation.

I'd had thoughts about opening up Ambrose Hall at Casterbrook for a formal dinner as a compromise, but so far nothing had come of it. It wasn't quite as fraught as mediating the peace between Mama Thames and Father Thames had been, but that experience was proving useful.

This, on the other hand, was perfect. They had called us for help. Nightingale could go as part of his duties as a policeman, and the disadvantage of the formal meeting being on Wayland's turf was cancelled out by his being the expert called in to solve a problem they couldn't. And then once they'd formally met and sounded each other out, future meetings would hopefully be much less fraught.

"Do you want to go yourself?" I asked. "Or you could send me, or we could even go together."

"The two of you is a bit overkill, isn't it?" Danni asked. She was looking through her notes in between bites of a cucumber sandwich.

I shrugged. "Sending either of us is overkill, at the moment. Hell, sending you would be overkill, if the thefts were all we cared about. The relationship between us and them is still a bit delicate. It never hurts to build up good will."

"Besides," Nightingale told her, "While the Folly is, at present, almost totally ensconced inside the Metropolitan Police, that is historically an anomaly. There are many things that are Folly business that are not police business, just as there are many things that are police business but not Folly business." He turned to me. "I've nothing scheduled in the next day or so. I don't know that both of us need to go, but I've no objection to your company, if you feel it's worth leaving Beverly and the twins overnight."

"Or we could make a day trip of it," I said. "Go up in the morning, come back late afternoon." I made a face—that was a lot of time in a train for one day. But I'd rather that than be away from the girls for a night, and Bev would definitely prefer it. I was torn. I wanted to see their main facility, and see if I could get access to their training materials, or at least get it on the agenda for future meetings.

"That would be less disruptive for us," Nightingale said. "Danni's seminars would not need to be postponed."

"Fair enough," I said, though I'd just as soon postpone the training sessions; I knew the material, I just had never appreciated how much work it took to organize a class or tutoring session. At least Danni was better-behaved than I was, and didn't drag us off topic with interesting questions, the way I still tended to do with Nightingale.

"You said their business name is Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy?" Danni said. She was frowning at her notes.

"That's right," I said."

"One of the stallholders from the Goblin Market sells jewelry that he called 'Wade's Wear,'" she said. "Nice stuff, much more expensive than the costume pieces that got stolen. He had it in a case, so the thief couldn't just grab it when his back was turned. He'd have had to smash the case to get any of it, and then they could have caught him."

"Goblin markets are always packed," I said. "Nobody could make a quick exit without throwing around a few fireballs or something to clear the way."

"I had been wondering what the Sons of Wayland—or Wayland Group, if they prefer that—was doing with their wares," Nightingale said. "The Folly had been their only customer, and they didn't have the kind of property or investments to allow them to live on interest as the Folly has done. There is ordinary metalworking, of course, but where's the fun in that? If they've been selling jewelry and other trinkets to the demi-monde, that would give them a market for their particular skills."

"They can't have been selling directly to the markets and fairs for long, though," I protested. "Otherwise Robin Goodfellow would have known more about them. He knew occasional pieces were popping up, but someone with a regular supply to sell is more than that."

"It could be recent," Nightingale said. "Friendly contact with you encouraging friendly relations with others in the wider community. Or it could be that Goodfellow lied."

"Possible," I said. "And it's always possible that Wade's Wear stuff has been at previous markets, and people whisked it out of sight when the Isaacs showed up. I certainly wouldn't put it past, say, Artemis Vance, purveyor of genuine charms, cantrips, and spells, to have the good stuff but lie about it. But I wouldn't think Goodfellow would lie at the same time he was trying to negotiate an agreement he needed. If he or his family got a reputation for lying in the middle of a deal, it wouldn't be good for business."

"True," Nightingale said, "but one can't rule it out. That is something else we should inquire after: how long have they been selling their wares to people in the demimonde."

I thought about what sorts of things they'd be interested in making, and what would sell, and what items I'd seen at previous Goblin markets might have been of Wade manufacture. There wasn't much; from what I'd seen, the market tended more towards pottery and clothing and books than metal, things that were easier to make yourself without specialized equipment or a formal workshop.

Something else occurred to me. "Hold on, do you think there's a connection between the thefts in London and the break-in in Manchester? If the thief wanted Wade's wear, and couldn't steal it from the market, maybe he tried his luck from the source?"

"Awful lot of trouble," Danni said. "And the cost of the train ticket or petrol. It'd be much easier—and maybe even cheaper—to just buy it."

"Not when you take into account the other things stolen from Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy," I said. "That could offset the cost and hassle of the trip."

"Whoever it was didn't get into the forge," Nightingale pointed out, "and unless the student pieces Ms. Linden-Limmer mentioned were jewelry, he wasn't successful in his aims. If that was his aim, he didn't succeed, and may well try again."

"If the Wade's Wear jewelry was his aim, why come back to the market three times with the same strategy?" I asked. "Once he saw it wouldn't work, you'd think he'd have either tried to steal from the market a different way, or go directly to Manchester then, instead of waiting around repeating himself."

"He may not have known where the jewelry came from," Danni pointed out. "And had to come back and hang around the booth to find out, and just decided he might as well add to his haul."

"Chances are that all this is merely a coincidence," Nightingale said. "However, it should be investigated nonetheless. Danni, would you contact the jewelry merchant again and ask if they remember anyone hanging about their booth or particularly interested in the Wade's Wear?"

Danni made a note, and then shared the rest of the findings from her interviews. There wasn't much more than Goodfellow had given us to begin with, but the first rule of policing is to always double-check everything.

In the end Nightingale decided to make a day trip of it, and there really wasn't any need for both of us to come along. Which meant I had to give him a crash course in modern police procedures for handling a break-in like this. Even if Manchester had done the actual footwork, it would be good if he knew at least what not to do if he found any evidence to collect. "But you will ask about their training materials, right?" I asked, after the briefing was done.

"Yes," Nightingale said. "Actually, since they've clearly got a great deal more experience with training practitioners than I have—albeit to very different ends—I'll be sounding them out about the possibility of supplying instructors for Casterbrook, when we open up Ambrose Hall."

"That'd be good," I said. "Maximum collegiality, lots of different perspectives on magic and training … wonder if we could get the New York Library to send us someone, too?"

"I should think it quite unlikely, given their attitude towards our relations with the demi-monde," Nightingale said, "but there's no harm in asking."

"Future training plans aside," I said, dreading the amount of paperwork and administration that would be necessary to set up a new training center, "getting them to supply teaching staff is a long-term goal requiring a lot of negotiation. Getting a copy of the powerpoints they use should be fairly simple and easy."

"Why are you so interested in that?" Nightingale said. "I've heard you grumble about powerpoint use often enough."

Which was true, usually after having to sit through a particularly boring police refresher training course, or wrestle with the program myself to make up slides for Danni and whoever came after her. "They're going to be in English," I said. "I highly doubt they're making all their apprentices slog through learning Latin before they start serious training in enchanting items. If they use the Principia, it will be in translation—and who knows, they might just have written their own textbooks to replace it."

"While future students of Casterbrook would no doubt thank them for it," Nightingale said, "it would not remove the need for you to continue your Latin mastery. Still, I will make sure to ask."

…

Nightingale departed early in the morning before I'd even left Bev and the twins. This left Danni and myself to rattle around the Folly without him. No new information had come in on either the thefts or the vandalism, and so it started out as a quiet day. I gave her a lecture in the morning, then she studied the briefing material while I practiced the latest formae Nightingale had taught me. That afternoon, we got a call-out to check and see if some weird graffiti near the site of a gang fight was anything, and by this time Danni was proficient enough at sensing vestigia that she could handle it by herself.

Which mean that when the call came in from Woodwose Tavern, a drinking establishment frequented by the demi-monde where they asked even fewer questions than most, I was the only one at the Folly to take the call.

"Special Assessment Unit, this is Detective Constable Peter Grant," I said into the old bakelite phone. We kept them around because, being purely from several generations before the advent of computer chips, we didn't have to worry about them.

"Oooh, the Starling himself, what an honor," said the voice on the telephone. It was a throaty, husky voice that sounded like the speaker had been a chain smoker for fifty years, and could have belonged equally plausibly to a man or a woman. "You're looking for the scrote who stole shit from the market, yeah? He came in here bold as brass not an hour ago, trying to sell me some of it, as if I wouldn't notice it came from my mate's booth."

"Thank you for the tip," I said. "Is he still there?"

"Nah, he didn't stick around once I said I wasn't going to buy anything on the spot. But I did make out like I was interested, so he gave me his name and number if I changed my mind."

Got you, I thought, and asked for their name, address, and every detail they could remember. Pat Fernsby was a regular at Woodwose and friends with several of the stallholders who frequented the Goblin Fair. He happily told me all he knew about the boorish American calling himself Mike Santini—which wasn't much. But it did include a cell phone, which turned out to be a burner phone purchased with cash a week earlier from a store without a working CCTV.

"I understand Robin Goodfellow has a history of taking care of matters like these himself," I said, once I'd asked every question twice and was satisfied I'd gotten every bit of information possible. "Thank you for calling us."

"Yeah, well, Goodfellow is a fucking prick," Fernsby said. "Thinks the fact that he owns the fair means he should own everything else, too. Besides, he's the one called you in first. Look, do you have anything else you need? Things are going to start picking up in here, soon."

Once he'd rung off, I called Nightingale and filled him in.

"Do you want to handle the arrest yourself, or turn it over to the local constabulary?" Nightingale asked.

"Operational details are not supposed to be handled by the officer in charge of the intelligence in question," I said. "To prevent corruption on both sides. We don't usually follow that because we can't—we're not large enough—but I'd rather follow procedure when we can."

"Agreed," Nightingale said. "Besides, we'd have to turn him over to them anyway, unless we wanted to open up our own custody suites, and we have no indication he is a practitioner of any sort."

"Kingston nick will be happier with us if they're the ones to do the collar and it goes on their books as a case closed," I said.

"I do want you to sit in on the interrogation, at least," Nightingale said. "See what brought him here, and how he chose to target the market. I don't like that Americans keep popping up."

"We do seem to be getting a lot of trouble from that part of the world lately," I said. When I stopped to think about it, Brian Packard may have been given his enchanted ring in Manchester, but he hadn't decided to hire Lesley to steal the rest of them (and the lamp) until he'd lived in America for years. Terrence Skinner wasn't American originally, either, but that's where his company and the work with the Rose jars had gotten their start, and the New York Librarians hadn't exactly been a model of helpfulness. Then there was the Virginia Company, who had interfered in our investigation of Martin Chorley. "It's all these foreigners stirring up trouble," I said, ironically. "I'll be sure to ask. And also see if he has any connection to the break-in at the Wayland headquarters."

…

The Goblin Market had been in Kingston when the vandalism had occurred, so they were the ones it had gotten reported to, and they were the ones who'd opened the investigation. Danni had come to us from Kingston CID, so she knew everyone there, including DC Kernshaw, who was handling the case. Danni had filled her in, and entered the list of stolen items into HOLMES, the computer system that correlated every bit of data from every police investigation in the country. She'd also noted the possible connection to the Manchester break-in. So Kernshaw already knew there was a Folly connection when I called her up and told her I'd gotten a lead from an informant.

"And you have no reason to believe the suspect is dangerous?" Kernshaw said with what I felt was unwarranted suspicion. "No flaming spear or anything? Can't melt your face off?"

"Nothing like that," I said. "As far as we know, he has no more powers or weapons than your average thief."

"How about the stolen goods?" Kernshaw persisted. "Anything there that could bring down a building or something?"

"Course not," I said. "It's just stuff he nicked from a market."

"A market run by and for the type of people who need your particular … policing skills," Kernshaw said. "And you're sure none of it is Falcon material?"

"Well, some of the jewelry is," I said, "but it's not dangerous. If you wore it, it would give you a mild feeling of peace and goodwill, or happiness, or enthusiasm, depending on which particular piece you were wearing. But they're not strong enough for most people to notice consciously if you're not paying attention, and certainly not strong enough to cause an altered state or anything."

"Do we need to take any special precautions when handling it?"

"Nah," I said. "Just standard procedures for handling stolen goods is fine."

"All right," she said, and I was a little hurt at how dubious she sounded. The Folly's cases weren't that bad, or, at least, not many of them were; but then again, the quiet, ordinary cases didn't often result in other nicks being called in to help, and also weren't as interesting to gossip about over a pint.

"We'll pick him up," she said. "Will you want to sit in on the interview?"

"I would, yeah," I said. "We want to know how he knew where the market was going to be, and also, he's a person of interest in another theft up in Manchester."

She sighed. "Do I want to know what sort of Harry Potter shit they have going on up in Manchester?"

"I'll send you the Manchester Police reports," I said. "No Falcon-related material got stolen, just a bunch of computers and things like that from a business that is part of our community. Could be totally a coincidence that they got robbed within a couple of weeks of when the goblin market here got targeted."

"Well, we'll check it out," Kernshaw said.

…

The operation itself was simple enough, though I wasn't involved in it. Kernshaw contacted Fernsby, and had him pass her name on to Mike Santini as a possible buyer. Kernshaw met Santini, verified he had the goods, and then arrested him.

He'd been in a holding cell at Kingston CID for a few hours by the time I arrived to discuss interrogation strategies with Kernshaw. "I've checked with my contact in America, and they've got no record of Santini in connection with any magical crime," I told her. Agent Reynolds of the FBI hadn't been able to dig anything substantial up on him. "But that's not saying much; their magical community is fragmented and very isolationist, and there are major players they barely know exist. What he does have is a string of arrests—and a few convictions—for minor crimes. Petty theft, vandalism, that sort of thing. He got out of prison after a short stint for possession of stolen goods, hopped a plane, and came here."

"So, he hasn't learned anything, and is trying to start fresh here as a young criminal on the make," Kernshaw said.

"Exactly," I said. "But if he's so new here, how did he know to target the goblin market, of all places? Most Londoners don't know about it, and not all of those who do have the connections to find out where it is and how to get in."

"Well, we'll see what we get out of him," Kernshaw said.

…

"We didn't get much out of him," I told Nightingale when he got home. "Not even where he stashed the rest of it. The problem with career criminals is that they know enough to keep their mouths shut, instead of telling us what we want to know. It's very inconsiderate of them."

"It couldn't have helped that you had very little leverage," Nightingale said. "His crime was not serious enough that he would feel the need to bargain it down with any information he might have had. Still, you should be satisfied that the case is closed."

"I know," I said. "I still think there has to be more to it. It just feels … incomplete. Too many loose ends."

"It's certainly possible that there is more to uncover," Nightingale said with an elegant shrug. "But all too often, police work is not like a novel—things do not wrap up neatly into a tidy conclusion. There are always loose ends. Talk to Agent Reynolds, and see if she can find any more background information on him, perhaps a connection to the American demimonde. And when you inform Goodfellow of the arrest, see if he's still willing to have you or Danni patrol the next market. Just don't be surprised if there's truly nothing more to uncover."

…

"Well, I haven't found any evidence of contact with magical groups on this side of the pond," Agent Reynolds told me. "But I contacted a friend in the New York office, and apparently Mike Santini spent some time trying to get in bed with the Luccheses."

"And who are they when they're at home?" I asked.

"They're one of the Five Families," Reynolds said, sounding surprised. "The biggest and longest-lasting Mafia families in New York. His older brother Chris was a member of the Tanglewood Boys in the 1990s, they were a feeder group for the Luccheses, but he never made it up into the main gang. Mike apparently idolized his older brother and watched The Godfather too many times, but by the time he got old enough things were coming apart at the seams. A lot of the Lucchese leadership got arrested and convicted and thrown in jail one after the other around the turn of the millennium, with several of them turning informant for lighter sentences. They had to keep restructuring things and were barely keeping their head above water and wondering who to trust. Not exactly a good time for someone new to join up. He hung around for a while with some of their lower-level associates. Nothing ever came of it."

"If he wants to join the mafia, why come here?" I asked. "We've got crime syndicates, of course, but nothing with the glamour of the mafia. He's got no connections here."

"Except whatever connections he has that got him the location of several successive goblin markets," Reynolds said.

"Except that."

"Have you considered asking the Librarians?" Reynolds asked. "They're based in New York, after all, and they definitely know the magical community there better than I would."

"I thought about it," I said. "But Mrs. Chin and I didn't exactly part on good terms. She's not going to tell me just because I ask. And given the Librarians' views on the demimonde, I doubt she'd approve of me investigating crimes against them. This isn't an important case, and there's probably nothing to find. I'd rather not rub her nose in our working relationships with the magical community if I don't have to—it'll just make it harder to work with her down the line if something important happens where I really need information from her. At this point, it's mostly just my curiosity."

"Fair enough," Reynolds said.

…

When I called Goodfellow and asked where we could meet, he directed me to Shurgard Self Storage in Wandsworth, where the Back of the Lorry Deliveries van was parked. I wasn't sure whether that meant he didn't trust me to know where his home base was or if he truly did work from the van even when the market wasn't operating. It was outfitted comfortably enough, but surely it would get cold and damp during the winter.

To get to the storage place, I drove the ASBO south on the A3205 until I turned off onto a narrow road with the back gardens of the working-class terraces of Wandsworth on one side and industrial buildings on the other. Then I crossed a bridge over the narrow course of the River Wandle, and wound through the alleys back to where Goodfellow's van was parked.

The transit's door was closed, but the mahogany steps were out and at my knock he called for me to come in. Goodfellow was sitting at his desk with his left arm in a sling and bruises up the side of his face. "What happened?" I asked.

"Hit and run," he said. "I was walking on Middlesex Street near the Petticoat Lane Market, and next thing I know I'm in fucking agony, lying in the street with some kid in a hoodie telling me he got a picture of the car what done it."

"Did it show the number plate?" I asked, reaching for my notebook.

"Nah, that'd have been too easy," Goodfellow said. "I already reported it to the City of London Police, and they say there's no way to find whoever it is."

The City of London Police and the Met didn't always work together very well, or very quickly, and I didn't have the sort of contacts there that I had in my fellow Met nicks. But the details would still be on HOLMES for me to check. "Unfortunately, they're probably right," I said. "If it wasn't caught on CCTV, and nobody at the scene got the plate number…" I shook my head. "Well. Sometimes something will come up, but not often."

"What good are you, then?" he asked. He leaned back in his chair, and though he winced at the pain, his gaze was direct.

I shifted under the weight of it. "We did catch the guy who robbed the market," I said. "He tried to sell it on to the wrong person."

"Yeah?" Goodfellow looked off to the side. "What's his name?"

"Mike Santini," I said. "An American. He's got a long list of convictions and suspected crimes—robbery, assault, things like that. Does the name ring a bell?"

"No," Goodfellow said. He swiveled his chair and reached for a ledger from the shelves. It was a modern one, not so fancy as the ledgers on the top shelves, but still very good quality. "How long's he been in the country?"

"Not long. A few months, that's all."

Goodfellow nodded as he flipped through the ledger, stopping occasionally to run his finger down a column of names. "If I've encountered him, he was using a different name," he said. "And I think I'd remember an American. He stayed out of my way. Was he working with anyone?"

"If he is, he hasn't said." I shrugged. "He hasn't told us anything, really. I don't know how he found out what the Goblin Market even is, much less where it would be. Or where the rest of the stuff he took is."

"That is the question, isn't it," Goodfellow said. He shifted in his chair. "What's going to happen to him?"

"He'll be tried for theft," I said. "There's not much chance he'll get out of it, unless he's got a really good lawyer and an even better story for how he got ahold of stolen property. There's no evidence linking him to the vandalism, and the total monetary value of the thefts was low, so it won't be a long sentence. Then he'll get put on a plane back to the States and we never see him again."

"Never see him again," Goodfellow repeated. "That sounds lovely. I am beyond ready for this whole thing to be over."

There was something in his tone that caught my ear. He knew something he hadn't told me.

Goodfellow reached in his back pocket and pulled out a phone, unlocking it with a PIN. No protective Wayland case, no aftermarket hard off/on switch modded in, just your bog standard smartphone. Either he didn't use magic and didn't spend enough time around practitioners to care, or he had magic the way the Rivers had magic and didn't need to worry because he wouldn't blow out the chips.

"A few hours after I got out of hospital after I got run over, I got a message on my voicemail." Goodfellow hit play, and a tinny voice with an American accent filled the van.

"Mister Goodfellow, my name is Drew Johnson, and my phone number is 020 7946 0867. I called you a week ago and you didn't respond. Maybe you didn't get the message. I have an import-export business and a security contracting business. I'm sorry to hear about your recent injury and the problems you've been having at your fairs. Now that you're preparing to take the next step to a larger and more permanent establishment, I think you might be happier and safer with someone to take care of your security needs. Your business is so important to the community. It would be a shame if your problems got worse. Call me. 020 7946 0867."

"He sounds like someone from a gangster film," I said, incredulously. And what did he think was going to happen when London's underworld got word there was an American trying to run a protection racket on their turf? If Goodfellow had called the Brindles or the Walkers or the Hunt Crime Syndicate for protection against the interloper, Johnson would have been found floating face down in the Thames in short order, unless he had either a lot more magical powers or a lot more muscle than he had shown so far.

"I know," Goodfellow said. "He doesn't actually say anything overtly threatening or illegal in this one, or the first one—I deleted that one, didn't think anything about it at the time."

"No, but if you play that to a jury, all of them have seen gangster films, too," I said. "If there's even a shred of hard evidence, they hear that voicemail, and the Crown Prosecutor isn't going to have to paint them a picture of what it means."

"What happens now?" Goodfellow said.

"Now, I call in my governor, and DC Kernshaw out at Kingston," I said. "We'll want to move quickly, in case he doesn't know we've already nicked Santini. We'll track down whatever properties he has and get warrants to search them, and if there's any evidence at all, Johnson will be arrested and charged with theft at least. Possibly assault, as well, if we can track down the car; that'll be much easier with a name to start with." And I'd have to call Agent Reynolds again, and definitely the Librarians, to dig up what they could on Johnson.

"You're not going to ask me to wear a wire?" Goodfellow said.

I stopped going over my internal list of all the things to do next, and smiled at him. "No, Mister Goodfellow, if you record someone without telling them in advance, it's usually not admissible in court. You don't have to worry, we'll take care of him without needing you to do anything except testify when the time comes."

"And will it go to court? Most crimes involving the demimonde don't." He sounded neutral, and his face was carefully blank. I couldn't tell if he wanted it to be kept quiet, or not.

"At this point, none of the crimes he's committed have been caused by magic, none of the evidence requires knowledge of magic to interpret, and all of the victims can pass for an ordinary human," I said. "So there's no problem trying the case in public." I sighed. "But you're right, a lot of crimes by or against people in the demimonde can't go to court without … a lot of things being public. There's no way you could keep a jury quiet, if there was real, verifiable magic involved."

"A lot of people would get hurt, if everyone knew about people like us," Goodfellow said. "We couldn't just live our lives like we've been doing all this time. I can imagine what the Daily Mail would have to say."

I winced. "So can I," I said. It was something I'd never really thought about, before the twins were born. If magic became public, if people knew about river spirits and fae and all the rest, things would change. And the Folly had the weight of a government institution headed by a white man to protect it. The Folly's problem would be all the people who thought magic was cool and wanted in, just like I had.

But the rest. Black goddesses? People who'd lived underground for over a century? All the others? The gutter press would have a field day, and there would be everything from racist hate to hysteria about the glamour to voyeuristic interest, as if they were zoo animals. Bev was a goddess; she could handle herself. Taiwo and Kehinde were just kids. And most members of the demimonde were just ordinary people, when it came right down to it, but that wouldn't matter to the paparazzi.

"On the other hand," Goodfellow said, "the old way of handling things—where the Folly ignored the small problems and killed the big ones—that was a terrible way of doing business. Lot of good people were hurt."

"We don't do that anymore," I said.

"I know," Goodfellow said. "Would've been much easier (and safer) to kill that Angel of the Inquisition than capture her."

I wondered exactly what the demimonde knew about that case, and whether their source was Bev or Molly or someone else.

"I'm just saying," Goodfellow continued, "that we need a proper way of handling things when there's a crime where you can't hide the magic, or the nature of the people involved."

"I know, and we're working on it," I said. Slowly. Step one had been figuring out how to hold magical people and practitioners who didn't want to be held. Figuring out what to do when someone we arrested refused a plea bargain and wanted things to go to trial … nobody had any workable ideas for that, yet. "If you have any suggestions, we'll take them under advisement."

"Fair enough," he said.

…

My first call was to Nightingale, who'd arrived back at the Folly. He listened quietly. "Well, that's unexpected," he said when I had finished. "But it is gratifying to have our suspicions confirmed. I shall set Danni to tracing this Johnson fellow, and call Kingston to coordinate the investigation."

My second call was to Agent Reynolds, who assured me that she'd see what she could find about Drew Johnson and let me know.

My third call was to Mrs. Patricia Higgins of the militant magical wing of the New York Public Library. I was pretty sure that whatever she thought about "shades," she wouldn't approve of a protection racket, either. And she was a librarian: she probably liked sharing information.

I was mistaken on both counts. "What will you give me in return for the information you want?" she asked.

"I already sent you everything we found out about that magic lamp and those rings," I said. Which wasn't quite true—I hadn't told them the Wayland Group was still active—but then, that wasn't my secret to share, and it wasn't as if their survival was pertinent to the enchanted objects in question.

"It was very interesting, but hardly makes up for your treatment of us and your lies when we were trying to obtain the Mary Engine," she replied tartly.

I sighed. "What do you want?"

"Information," she said, and we set to haggling, eventually settling on a future gift of information of similar value and type.

"The only good thing the Five Families ever did was work to keep the shades in line," she said. "Angry spirits being bad for business. Quiet watering holes for people like that keeps them away from places they might harm the general public. It significantly lightens the load on the Librarians, having a large segment of the shades of New York City under the Five Families' protection—and thus control. Part of the reason we've been spread so thin in the last two decades is the decline of the Mafia thanks to FBI diligence."

"I see," I said. We didn't have time to unpack all the problems I had with that attitude, and it wouldn't help me get the information I needed, anyway. "Do the Mafia have a magical wing, too?"

"Not really," Mrs. Chin said. "Some of them have folk rituals from Sicily, that sort of thing; nothing fancy, but enough to harden them against the glamour or let them know when an intruder has been in their places. And making saints' medals into enchanted amulets for protection is quite common."

"Do they work?" I asked.

"Sometimes," she said.

Neither of the names I had rang a bell, and she didn't want to look them up for me, but the background was useful.

My fourth call was to Caroline Linden-Limmer. "Have you found anything?"

"Maybe," I said. "That is, we've found something, I'm just not sure it's connected with your thefts." I explained about Santini's arrest, and the threatening voicemail Johnson had left for Goodfellow.

"A protection racket?" she said, bewildered. "Like in a crime movie?"

"He literally used the phrase 'it would be a shame if something happened to you,'" I said. "If the break-in was him or Santini—or both—then he's going to try to set himself up as protection for the Wayland Group. And the first thing to do is make you feel like you need protection."

"And he has the Wayland and Ironfast Trust member rolls, from the computers," she said grimly.

"Exactly," I said. "Now, he may have other things besides assaulting people in mind; be on the lookout for sabotage and vandalism, too."

"Of course," Caroline said. "Thank you for the warning, I'll pass it along to Grace and her people."

…

It had been decided that investigating Drew Johnson was not important enough to justify overtime; if he got spooked by Santini's arrest and left the country, he would be out of our hair. If he went to ground, he wouldn't be a direct threat any longer, and as an American he would stand out. People would remember him, and he probably wouldn't have enough working knowledge of the UK and Europe to slip through the cracks.

So Danni and I headed for Kingston bright and early the next morning.

"Ah, Grant!" DC Kernshaw said as we entered the bullpen. "A second case practically gift-wrapped to help my clear-up rate. People tell filthy lies about you, you know. Is there any weird shit we need to know about?"

"Not that I know of," I said. It was still the middle of the night for Kim Reynolds, and she hadn't sent me anything overnight. "But there is a chance Johnson also has connections to the American Mafia." I explained what Mrs. Chin had told me last night.

"Funny," Kernshaw said. "I'd have thought a Mafia protection racket would be bloodier to start up. Either that or The Godfather lied to me. Or maybe the Italian-American mob is just less bloodthirsty than the gangs here in London."

I shrugged. "Maybe they're starting small. No point in killing someone to intimidate the rest if the rest don't know you yet."

"True," Kernshaw said. "And guns are harder to get here—that hit-and-run could've killed someone, if Goodfellow had hit his head wrong or something."

The voicemail by itself wasn't enough to make an arrest on, and given the relatively low level of injury, property damage, and theft so far, the case wasn't important enough to spend a lot of man-hours on. So Danni started tracking down any vehicles Johnson or Santini might have had access to, and Kernshaw and I looked for property records. It was the sort of low-level background work that the Murder Squad had lowly PCs to handle. But on a case this small, it was just the three of us.

If Johnson had been here long enough to establish significant aliases or contacts in the criminal underworld, any warehouses full of stolen goods would be tied up in shell companies and fake owners and people paid cash under the table to rent out space and look the other way. But he'd only arrived in the UK this year.

"He's got a whole industrial building rented in his own name off the A40 near Park Royal," Kernshaw said. "Probably for his official business."

"Maybe not," I said. "Looks like he's still in the process of getting permits and things like that. Why bother with the expense and trouble of renting space if he's not using it yet?"

"True," Kernshaw said. "Doubt the recording will be enough for a warrant to search it, though, unless we turn up something else."

"How long do you think it will take to get the warrant, once we find something?" I asked. I hadn't ever actually investigated this sort of case before. I'd done my fair share of nicking people for pickpocketing and the like when I was on probation, and then with the Folly we were either working big murder investigations with Belgravia or our own cases.

"About three weeks, or thereabouts," she said absently, taking a sip of her coffee. "Maybe four."

"Three weeks?" I said incredulously.

She looked up at me, both eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

"Things work a little quicker on a murder case," I said.

"Wouldn't know," she said. "Haven't gotten to work on anything that big yet, have I. But surely you do stuff besides murder cases."

"Yeah," I said. "But if there's enough Falcon-related material involved, we have an agreement—it doesn't go through the main court system with the rest of the warrant requests."

"Must be nice," she said. "If we get enough evidence for a search warrant, is this case Falcon enough to go through that route?"

"Probably," I said, and we got back to the paperwork.

…

That evening, Reynolds called over Skype. "How's your investigation going?"

I shrugged. "Nothing much so far. He hasn't been here long enough to get into trouble, or make contacts. On the one hand, there's not much to sort through, which is nice. On the other, there's not as much time for him to have slipped up. And it's possible there's nothing there, and the threatening voicemail isn't actually him trying to set up a protection racket."

"I don't have a smoking gun for you, either," Reynolds said. "He was an associate of the Luccheses for a while, in the Bronx faction. Came up through the Tanglewood Boys, and according to my friend in the New York office of the FBI, there was some sort of rumor that he had some special skill, and resented the fact that he was never going to be made."

"Made?" I asked. At her surprised look, I shrugged. "Hey, I haven't watched The Godfather in years."

"The Mafia has a strict hierarchy," Reynolds said. "At the bottom level are associates, the grunts. Above that are the soldiers, the made men—the ones who are trusted to be reliable and loyal. Above that you have the bosses. Associates are the ones who get the worst jobs, and if they get caught the family really isn't going to care because they're disposable. The soldiers, though, the made men—they're still not the ones making the decisions, but they've got job security and influence within the family, and the chance of advancement, and the family takes care of them in a way they don't take care of associates. There's a lot of prestige to it. And in the Italian gangs like the Luccheses, you have to be Italian to be made."

"And Johnson isn't Italian," I said. "So it didn't matter what skills he had."

"Pretty much," she said. "Wanna bet those special skills are some sort of magic use?"

"No bet," I said. I shared what Mrs. Chin had told me, and we speculated about Johnson's history and plans for a bit, and then I signed off.

…

The next day, I drove out the A40 to the Victoria Industrial Estate instead of to Kingston. It was a row of industrial buildings, modern, with brown brick up to eye level and gray siding above, and just a bit of a peak to the roof of each section to break up the lines. None of the buildings were particularly large, and the parking lots in front of them had rows of trees to delineate the space. It was surprisingly pleasing to look at for an industrial park.

Johnson's warehouse was flanked on one side by an audio-visual supply company, and on the other by an airline catering company. The caterers didn't have a working CCTV, but the AV place had quite good coverage, and they cheerfully handed over a thumb drive with the last month's worth of recordings.

I took the thumb drive back to the tech cave at the Folly and settled in to see if I could spot Santini in them, either bringing stuff in or taking it out. The angle wasn't good enough to cover the door to Johnson's building, but it got a large chunk of his parking lot. I thought about turning the footage over to Danni, but she was still looking for the car, and thought she might have a lead. I couldn't even split the footage with Kernshaw, because she had other cases to work on.

I sighed and dove in.

There wasn't much activity in the corner of the screen that showed Johnson's parking lot, so I could fast forward through most of it. There was still a lot. Johnson showed up a couple of times, which wasn't surprising; he was the one who'd rented it. He was driving his own car, a white Volkswagon Golf, and not the black Vauxhall Corsa that had been used to assault Goodfellow with. Still, I made a note of every time he appeared.

Given how little activity there was, and the fact that only one camera was actually relevant, it didn't take that long to find what I was looking for: a basic white panel van, driven by Mark Santini, parked in front of Johnson's building the day after Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy was robbed.

"That should be enough for a warrant," Nightingale said when I showed it to him.

"Yeah," I said. "We should use the Folly's contacts to get it, though; DC Kernshaw says it'll be at least three weeks to get it if it has to go through normal channels."

"I'll see to it," Nightingale said.

Which is how, two days later, I went back to the Victoria Industrial Estate with Danni and a small forensics team out of Kingston CID.

The space was mostly empty, but there were two tables along the wall piled with items matching the description of things stolen from the Goblin Market, and in a box under them were two desktop towers, without monitors or keyboards—those would probably have been easier to sell. "We suspect Johnson and Santini were involved in a theft of computers up in Manchester," I told the forensics techs. "You'll want to see if those are from Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy."

"Right," one of them nodded.

"Definitely the things we're looking for," Danni said, holding a gloved hand over one of the ceramic masks to feel the vestigia from it.

"I'm calling Nightingale," I said, pulling out my phone in the magic-resistant case that still made me smile to look at. I hit the speed dial for Nightingale.

"Nightingale," he answered.

"Yeah, it's me," I said. "There's a pile of stuff here that matches the description of stolen goods from the Goblin Fair, and two computers that might be from the Manchester break-in."

"Excellent," Nightingale said. "The next step should be to arrest Johnson, yes?"

"Yeah," I said. "I'll call Kernshaw, have her pick him up."

…

Johnson proved to be no more talkative than Santini had been, but it didn't matter. He owned the building the stolen goods were found in, some of the stolen jewelry pieces were found in his apartment when we searched it, along with a burner phone with a number of calls and texts to Santini on them. The computers were indeed from Wade's Custom Metalworking and Smithy, so that got added to the list of charges. We never did find the car that hit Goodfellow, or any evidence tying either American to the hit and run, but the evidence on the thefts was enough for a conviction on that count.

Besides my testimony, the Folly also contributed magic-proof cuffs so that the Americans could be transported without risk of Johnson using magic to escape. If he had any; that was just a guess, because we'd still never seen him use it.

"I don't understand why they were so obvious about it," I said to Nightingale as the case wended its way slowly through the courts. "Surely they could have found some place less noticeable to stash the stuff than a building with Johnson's name on it. A storage locker takes a lot less paperwork, too."

Nightingale shrugged. "Perhaps it was taking longer to get their front business set up than they thought, and they were short of cash. And I doubt they were expecting the thefts to get reported to the police at all, much less for us to care. The demi-monde has historically taken care of such matters themselves, and given what we know of the situation in America that is even more likely to be the case there."

"Yeah, but they're both career criminals," I said. "Part of the mafia! They have experience."

"Neither were high-level enough to plan crimes in America, from what Reynolds has told us," Nightingale pointed out. "And they're used to corruption on the part of the police, and the magical law enforcement tacitly approving of them."

I shook my head. "It just seems ironic. Johnson gets fed up because he thinks his skills as a practitioner—"

"We still don't know for sure he is a practitioner of any sort," Nightingale pointed out.

"—his skills at whatever aren't getting enough power in America, so he comes here to try and build an operation here," I said. "Only, he doesn't cover his tracks at all, so he gets caught right away. He doesn't even get a chance to use his special skills."

"How embarrassing for him," Nightingale said with a wry grin. "If only all our cases were as easily solved."

"Yeah, I like the stupid criminals best," I said.

"Indeed," Nightingale said. "Have the loose ends been tied up to your satisfaction?"

I sighed and sat back in my chair. "I suppose. It still feels … unsatisfying. Most of it wasn't anything I did; I didn't crack the case or outsmart them or anything. I just got lucky. Santini tried to sell the stuff on to the wrong person, and Johnson was so thick he stored the stolen goods in a building he rented in his own name."

"I believe most policing is like that," Nightingale said. "And besides, you underestimate your contributions in the long run. Without your community policing and the trust you have built with the demimonde, we would never have known that the thefts occurred in the first place. Even if we had been notified of the theft, we certainly would not have been the first choice to handle things when the thief tried to sell his ill-gotten gains to someone who didn't approve of the thefts."

"Yeah, but Fernsby only called me instead of Goodfellow because he's got some sort of beef with Goodfellow," I pointed out.

"That still doesn't mean he would have called me about it," Nightingale said. "He could have ignored the whole thing, or spread Santini's name around the demimonde as a known thief to be wary of. He could have handled it in any number of ways that did not involve the Folly or the Metropolitan Police. I know, because that's what the demimonde has done up until now. Santini and Johnson have been arrested and will be tried, instead of being beat to a pulp and dropped in an alley. And it is your work up to this point that allowed for that."

"That's kind of you to say," I said.

"It's the truth," Nightingale said. "If it were on my account, it would have happened long since. You've done good work, Peter, on this case in particular and in all the things you have done since joining the Folly that laid the groundwork for it."

"Thank you," I said. "I hope all our cases are this easy."

"I quite agree." Nightingale smiled. "But please don't jinx us, Peter."

#fanfiction #fanfic #rivers of london #case fic

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